Chapter 7

Anna POV

I woke to Mrs. Thompson's gentle knock on my bedroom door, her familiar rhythm pulling me from a dreamless sleep. My body ached in places I didn't want to think about, reminders of last night with Edward.

"Mrs. Frost?" Mrs. Thompson's voice carried through the door. "Sorry to wake you, but Mr. Frost called to remind you about going to the Frost Family Mansion today."

I groaned into my pillow before forcing myself up. "Come in, Mrs. Thompson."

She entered with fresh towels draped over her arm, her expression carefully neutral, though I caught the slight downward turn of her lips and the way her eyes flickered with something that looked like disapproval. "Miss Vera has been up since dawn," she said, arranging the towels in my bathroom with precise, almost aggressive movements. "She's been in the kitchen making breakfast for Mr. Forst.

"Mmm," I mumbled noncommittally, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and letting my bare feet touch the cool hardwood floor.

Mrs. Thompson hesitated at the door, her hand on the frame, and for a moment I thought she might say something more. But she just nodded and left, closing the door with a soft click that somehow felt like a reprimand.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, before finally pushing myself up and heading to the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with brutal honesty—my hair was a tangled mess, my eyes slightly puffy from exhaustion, and my skin looked pale in the harsh morning light. But it was my neck that made me freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

Dark purple marks bloomed along the side of my throat, trailing down toward my collarbone—Edward's handiwork from last night. I touched one gently, remembering the exact moment he'd made it, the way his teeth had grazed my skin while the shower water pounded down on us, the sound I'd made that had driven him to mark me harder.

Heat flooded my face, spreading from my cheeks down to my chest. The marks were possessive, territorial, the kind of thing that screamed "taken" to anyone who looked. I grabbed my concealer and foundation, working methodically to cover each mark, layering the makeup until the bruises disappeared beneath flesh-toned camouflage. My hands shook slightly as I worked, whether from anger or something else, I couldn't tell.

When I finally made my way downstairs, the smell of butter and seafood hit me immediately. The kitchen was warm, almost stifling, and Vera stood at the counter in her perfect cornflower blue dress, wrapping something in foil with movements that were precise and practiced, like she'd done this a thousand times before.

She looked up as I entered, her smile bright and artificial, stretching across her face without reaching those big green eyes. "Anna! Finally awake." Her gaze swept over me, taking in my outfit, my hair, probably searching for any sign of what had happened last night.

"Morning," I replied, moving past her to pour myself coffee from the pot Mrs. Thompson had left warming. The ceramic mug felt solid in my hands, grounding.

Vera frowned slightly at my brevity, her lips turning down at the corners.

"You know, Anna, it must be nice sleeping in every morning while some of us actually take care of things." She picked up the foil package, cradling it like it was precious. "Edward mentioned his stomach's been bothering him lately—probably from skipping breakfast so often. I guess when you're living the life of luxury, you forget that men actually need to eat."

The implication was clear: I was a lazy, useless wife who couldn't even be bothered to feed her own husband. Heat prickled at the back of my neck, but I kept my voice level, taking a slow sip of coffee before responding.

"I'm the lady of this house, Vera, not a hired cook." I set my mug down with deliberate care, meeting her gaze directly. "But you seem to really enjoy playing that role. Maybe you should consider making it official—I'm sure there are plenty of positions available for personal chefs in Manhattan."

Vera's face flushed, her cheeks turning an unflattering shade of pink that clashed with her carefully chosen dress. She let out a sharp huff, her nostrils flaring, but said nothing more, just turned back to her precious crab cakes with jerky movements that betrayed her anger.

I nodded and looked out the window, letting the silence stretch between us.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Vera asked after a moment, her voice tight with barely suppressed irritation, her concern performative at best.

"I'll grab something on the way," I answered, still watching the gathering storm clouds.

"We should leave soon," she said, checking her watch. "I told Margaret we'd be there by eleven."

I turned from the window. "Fine. Let's go."

The drive to Long Island's Gold Coast was quiet, the silence broken only by Vera's occasional comments about the weather or Margaret's health. I kept my responses brief, focusing on the road as rain began to spatter against the windshield.

The Frost Family Mansion loomed ahead of us, its gray stone facade blending with the stormy sky. The place had always reminded me of an English manor dropped incongruously onto American soil—beautiful but somehow not belonging, just like me.

Martha, the Frost's longtime housekeeper, greeted us at the door, her lined face lighting up at the sight of Vera.

"Miss Parker! What a pleasure to see you again." Her gaze shifted to me, her smile dimming slightly. "Mrs. Frost."

She led us to the main sitting room where Margaret Frost sat like a queen holding court, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, fingers adorned with heirloom rings that caught the light from the massive fireplace.

"Vera, darling!" Margaret's face transformed with genuine joy as she extended her hands. "Come give me a hug."

Vera rushed forward, embracing the older woman with practiced affection. "Margaret, you look wonderful! I've brought you something special—New England crab cakes, made from scratch this morning."

"How thoughtful! You always remember my favorites." Margaret beamed, accepting the package with appreciation before turning to me. Her smile cooled several degrees. "Anna."

"Grandma," I replied with polite formality, refusing to pretend at the warmth that wasn't there.

A movement on the grand staircase caught my attention, drawing my gaze away from Margaret's thinly veiled disapproval. A tall, elegant woman descended, her posture regal, her expression unreadable. Elara Frost, Edward's mother.

"Mrs. Frost," I said quietly, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

"Elara," Vera greeted her with a slight bow of her head, her posture suddenly submissive.

Elara acknowledged us both with a measured nod, her eyes—the exact same piercing blue as Edward's—sweeping over us analytically. "Anna," she said, her voice cool but not unkind. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Vera."

If Vera noticed the dismissive tone, she didn't show it. Instead, she gestured toward the package in Margaret's hands. "I brought crab cakes, Margaret's favorite."

Elara glanced at the package, then at Margaret, her expression unchanged. "Martha," she called to the housekeeper. "Please take Miss Parker's... contribution to the kitchen. I'm afraid Margaret's doctor has put her on a strict low-cholesterol diet." She never once looked at Vera directly. "Seafood is particularly high in cholesterol."

Martha stepped forward and took the package, shooting an apologetic look at Vera, whose smile had frozen in place.

"I—I didn't know," Vera stammered, color rising in her cheeks. "Margaret never mentioned—"

"Yes, well," Elara interrupted smoothly, "Margaret often forgets what's good for her."

I suppressed a smile. For all Vera's careful research into Edward's favorites, she'd failed to recognize a crucial fact: while Margaret might adore her, Elara Frost had never warmed to her. Despite Vera's talent for charming almost everyone she met, Elara remained immune to her practiced sweetness.

It wasn't surprising. Elara had been the one who'd insisted on honoring Edward's father's will to the letter—which meant he needed to marry me, not Vera, to secure his position. She'd stood firm even when Edward himself had tried to find loopholes.

Vera had never forgiven her for that, though she'd never dare show it openly.

Elara turned to me, her expression subtly shifting. "Anna, I'd like to speak with you privately. Come upstairs to my sitting room."

It wasn't a request. I nodded, feeling Vera's eyes burning into my back as I followed Elara toward the grand staircase, leaving the others behind.