Chapter 7

Stella's POV

Rain hammered the guest room window. I lay still, adjusting to the unfamiliar ceiling. Three days of waiting since the interview; the offer came yesterday, and I moved in that evening. Today was my first official day as the Mellon family's live-in nutritionist.

I checked my phone. I had about forty-five minutes before I needed to be in the kitchen. Enough time to make progress on the real work.

The listening devices were already in place—three of them, installed during my late-night "familiarization tour" of the house. One tucked behind the living room sofa cushions. One inside the decorative vase in the dining room. One wedged behind the hallway sconce near Chloe's bedroom. I'd tested them before bed. The audio feed was clean, routed through an encrypted app on my phone disguised as a meditation tracker.

I pulled up the recordings from last night, scrubbing through hours of silence and mundane conversation. Then, in the middle of the night, I heard it. Chloe's voice, muffled but audible, speaking on the phone.

"I don't care what he thinks. Chris barely looks at me anymore. If he's going to act like I don't exist, then what's the point of this whole charade?"

A pause. Someone responding on the other end.

"No, I'm not giving up. I just—God, why does he have to be so impossible?"

Another pause, longer this time.

"Fine. I'll try harder. But if this falls apart, it's not my fault."

I saved the clip, made a note. Chloe was insecure about the engagement. That was leverage.

I dressed quickly—a pale blue uniform dress that Lewis had left hanging in the closet, modest and professional. I pulled my hair into a low bun, applied minimal makeup, checked my reflection. The woman staring back looked soft, approachable, harmless. Perfect.

Downstairs, the kitchen was still dark. I flipped on the lights, started the coffee maker, began pulling ingredients from the fridge. Victor wanted the same energy balls from last night. Chloe would want something Instagram-worthy. Logan would need caffeine. Vivian would want something that screamed "I'm not aging."

I worked methodically, my hands moving through familiar motions while my mind stayed sharp, alert. This house was a minefield. Every conversation, every glance, every gesture could trigger suspicion. I had to stay two steps ahead.

Later that morning, Lewis appeared to collect the breakfast trays. He nodded approvingly at the spread I'd prepared, then disappeared upstairs. I stayed in the kitchen, wiping down counters, reorganizing spice jars, waiting.

Soon after, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Light, quick. Chloe.

She appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a cream cashmere sweater and tailored slacks, her blonde hair perfectly styled. She smiled when she saw me, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Stella! Good morning. The mousse was incredible."

I turned, offering a shy smile. "Thank you, Miss Chloe. I'm glad you enjoyed it."

She drifted closer, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. "You know, I was thinking. Since you work for Arthur sometimes, maybe you could help me with something."

My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "Of course. What do you need?"

Chloe leaned against the counter, studying me with that same probing intensity from last night. "Arthur's birthday is coming up. I want to get him something special, but I'm not sure what he likes. You spend time with him—what does he care about?"

It was a trap, thinly veiled. She wasn't asking about Arthur. She was asking about the Kensingtons. About Christian.

I hesitated, letting uncertainty flicker across my face. "Mr. Kensington is... very private. He doesn't talk much about personal things. But he values health and discipline. He's not really interested in expensive gifts."

Chloe's smile tightened. "What about Chris? Does he visit often?"

There it was. The real question.

I looked down, fiddling with the dish towel in my hands. "Mr. Kensington comes by sometimes, but he's usually very busy. He doesn't stay long."

"But you've met him."

It wasn't a question.

I nodded slowly. "A few times. In the hallways. He's always polite."

Chloe's eyes narrowed slightly. "Polite. That's one word for it." She laughed, but the sound was brittle. "He barely talks to me, you know. We're engaged, but half the time I feel like I don't exist to him."

I said nothing. Silence was safer than sympathy.

Chloe pushed off the counter, walking toward the window. "Do you think he's seeing someone else?"

The question landed like a stone. I looked up, widening my eyes just enough to seem shocked. "I—I wouldn't know, Miss Chloe. I really don't see him that often."

She turned back to me, her expression unreadable. "Of course. You're just the nutritionist." She smiled again, but this time it was sharp. "Anyway, if you do see him, maybe put in a good word for me? Tell him I'm not as shallow as he thinks."

I nodded quickly. "Of course."

Chloe studied me for another long moment, then turned and left without another word.

I exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter. That was close. Too close.

---

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. I prepared lunch, cleaned the kitchen, avoided everyone. That afternoon, Lewis appeared with a message.

"Mr. Logan requests that you bring him an energy drink. He's in the basement game room."

My stomach tightened. The basement. Logan's territory.

I grabbed a can of Red Bull from the fridge, placed it on a tray, and headed downstairs. The stairwell was narrow and dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a flickering bulb at the top. As I descended, I noticed the security camera mounted near the ceiling. It was covered with black electrical tape, deliberately obscured.

That was intentional. Logan had created a blind spot.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the heavy soundproof door. The room beyond was a sensory assault—neon lights flickering in shades of blue and green, massive curved monitors displaying some cyberpunk shooter game, the low hum of high-end gaming equipment. Logan sat in the center, wearing a VR headset, his back to me.

"Put it on the table," he said without turning around.

I set the tray down on the edge of the control panel, then turned to leave.

Behind me, the lock buzzed and clicked—electromagnetic, remote-controlled.

I froze.

Logan pulled off his headset, swiveled his chair around. He was wearing a black T-shirt, his arms bare, the defined muscles visible in the flickering light. His amber eyes locked onto mine, sharp and assessing.

"Come here," he said, gesturing with one finger. "I need your help with something."