Chapter 6: Layla POV
3 weeks later
I am standing in the courthouse ceremony room, dressed in a silky, midnight-blue dress, holding a small bouquet of yellow, orange, and red Calla lilies.
My mom is standing next to Michael in front of the officiant. Her white pants-suit is tailored to cling to her like a second skin – a little inappropriate for a wedding day, if you ask me.
Michael’s navy blue, three-piece suit is also tailored to fit his physique but is much classier and more business-like. His pocket square matches the color of the Calla lilies I’m holding.
Xavier, in true douche nozzle fashion, didn’t have the decency to show up for the ceremony. Most probably off somewhere screwing a new girl in another supply closet.
We go through the necessary motions of the ceremony, Michael and Mom both share a short version of their own personal vows, they sign the marriage registry, and I act as a witness.
We step out into the radiant sunshine and walk over to Michael’s Bently which is parked next to the sidewalk, his driver standing next to the passenger door, ready to usher them inside.
They both turn to me and there is an awkward silence between us. I can tell Mom wants to say something, but she can’t seem to find the words.
“Thanks for being here Layla, I know it meant a lot to your mom,” Michael says as he looks at me. He still looks at me in that subtle way that does not sit right with me. “As you know, we are leaving on our honeymoon from here, so we won’t be able to help you settle into your new room.”
That’s right, my hand has been forced, and I am moving into Michael’s house after we are done here.
“My housekeeper, Moira, knows to expect you and will show you to your room. Feel free to make yourself at home and ask her anything that you might want to know, or you might need.”
“Thank you, I hope you enjoy your honeymoon.” I cannot bring myself to be more enthusiastic about the situation I find myself in.
After another tense-filled moment of goodbyes, they slide into the car and slip into traffic. I saunter over to my car and breathe a sigh of relief when I’m settled behind my steering wheel.
My boxes and suitcases with all my worldly possessions are already crammed into the back of my car so I punch Michael’s address into my GPS and set off to discover what fresh new hell awaits me.
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I drive up to a double wrought-iron gate that slides open automatically as I approach it. I spot the CCTV cameras and assume the security team has instructions to look out for me and let me in on arrival.
The driveway is long and flanked by willow trees that create the most amazing sun-dappled effect as I pass underneath them.
At the top of the driveway, I come to a stop on the roundabout that is wrapped around a fountain. A trio of cherub babies spout water into the air, creating a serene and calm atmosphere as you step out of your car.
I peer up at the three-story mansion because this place cannot be classified as a house.
Cream marble pillars, a wraparound porch, glass windows, and a clay tile roof all meld together to form a beautiful house that looks like it was pulled from an Architectural Digest magazine.
Gravel crunches underfoot as I go up to the double-door entryway, but before I have time to knock, the one door is pulled open by a short, plump, older woman with the most motherly smile I’ve ever seen. I immediately like her and know we will get on swimmingly.
With outstretched arms she nears me and wraps me in her arms, her head only reaching my breasts. She smells of Snickerdoodle cookies and laundry detergent.
“My dear, I am Moira, you must be Layla,” she tells me as she pulls away, not releasing me completely, her hands clasped in mine.
I give her a genuine smile before nodding. “Let me just get my bags and then may I ask you to show me to my room?”
She beams at me, “Such pretty manners. Leave your bags. I’ll ask José to take them up for you while I get you something to drink, maybe a snack too?”
Moira doesn’t give me much of a choice, pulling me along behind her past a double staircase, a large living room, through a dining room, and into an expansive kitchen. Black marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and copper kitchen utensils all come together to create a welcoming and homely atmosphere.
Off to the side, underneath a bay window, sits an old rustic kitchen table with a booth-like bench seat covered in fluffy pillows. The window looks out over the gardens and the pool area. I can immediately tell that I will be spending a lot of time there, sipping on my coffee, and reading my smutty romances.
Moira bustles me onto a barstool next to the large island, asks me how I like my coffee, and then pulls a fresh batch of brownies out of the oven. She sits across from me with a cup of tea in hand, telling me about the house schedule: dinner is promptly at 6 o’clock every evening, and breakfast and lunch are your responsibility.
Laundry that is not in the basket by nine in the morning, does not get attended to until the next day. Your bathroom will be cleaned by her weekly, but she will not tolerate it looking like a pigsty daily.
Moira is straightforward and strict, but also friendly and welcoming. She reminds me of my Nan when I went to visit her during the summer holidays.
Once we have covered the basics, she leads me up the stairs to the second floor, turning down the corridor to the right and down to the last door on my left-hand side. It swings open to a beautiful room with a soft carpet underfoot, large double doors that lead onto a balcony that faces the backyard, a king-sized bed sits off to the side with light grey and plum bedding, a walk-in closet to the left of that, and an en-suite on the opposite side of the bed.
My boxes sit atop a desk that is across from the bed, my suitcases are on the floor by the bed and freshly washed towels are stacked on the duvet at the foot of the bed. I am in awe – this room is bigger than our whole kitchen-dining-living room area at our old house.
I turn towards Moira and lean down to thank her for her generosity and kindness so far. She hugs me back with gusto and as she goes to leave, she turns halfway towards me and says, “You are nothing like Ms. Allison.”