The midday sun pours into the room, bathing everything in a warm, golden light. The sheets are freshly changed, and everything in the space is in perfect order, just the way he likes it.
I glance around, satisfied with my work. Now, there's nothing to do but wait. It's a bit weird, being alone in his room.
It's his personal space, but somehow, I've been granted the permission to be in it. Granted, it's to clean and ensure its in its perfect order, but hey, aside his close relatives, I'm the only one with the free access to his room.
I even have a spare key!
I've seen everything in here. I arrange his closet...and no, I don't sniff his underwear. I'm not a creep.
But that doesn't mean I don't know what they smell like.
Roses.
Everything about him smells like roses and I've come to understand why. It appears it's his favourite flower because all his body products have rose scents, and his candles are rose scented.
He's the first manly man I've seen that doesn't smell like musk, and that alone is mouth watering.
I'm perched by the window, nestled on the cushioned ledge, looking out at the estate below.
The view is stunning.
Rolling green lawns stretch as far as the eye can see, with patches of vibrant flowers swaying in the gentle breeze. It's peaceful—nothing like the chaos that usually defines my life.
My fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of the windowsill as I lose myself in thought. It's rare to have moments like this, where the world feels still.
The sudden trill of a ringtone snaps me out of my reverie. I turn, spotting the source of the noise on the desk.
It must be his phone. The sleek black device vibrates slightly, the screen lighting up with a number I don't recognize.
I've seen phones like these before, though I've never actually used one. The little logo on the back—a quarter-eaten apple—catches my eye, and I tilt my head curiously. It rings again, the number still flashing on the screen.
I hesitate, unsure of what to do. Am I supposed to answer it? He didn't exactly give me instructions for situations like this.
After a moment, the ringing stops, leaving the room in silence once more. I shrug, turning back to the window. Not my problem.
Minutes pass, or maybe longer—I lose track of time entirely—before the door swings open with a sharp thud.
Caspian strides in, his presence filling the room instantly. His movements are brisk, his expression hard.
He looks angry, though, to be fair, he always looks like that. I think it's just his default setting.
The door closes behind him with a little more force than necessary. "Why didn't you pick up the phone?" he asks, his tone clipped.
I blink, caught off guard. "What?"
"The phone," he repeats, gesturing toward the desk. "It was ringing. Why didn't you answer it?"
"I… didn't know I was supposed to," I say honestly.
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. "I told you this morning. I left it here so you could answer if anyone called while I was out."
Did he? I rack my brain, trying to remember. If he did, I must've been distracted. But I'm not about to admit that. "You weren't exactly clear," I argue instead, crossing my arms.
His glare deepens. "I was clear enough. You were just too busy daydreaming, weren't you?"
My cheeks heat at the accusation. He's not entirely wrong, but that doesn't mean he gets to call me out like that. "Well, maybe next time, you should make sure I'm paying attention before giving me orders," I snap back.
His lips twitch, like he's holding back a smirk or maybe a retort. Either way, he doesn't let me have the last word. "Forget it. Just get me my dinner," he says dismissively, walking toward the closet. "I won't be eating with my family tonight."
I don't bother responding. Instead, I turn on my heel and head for the door, slamming it shut behind me with just enough force to make my point.
Is it me, or does he let me get away with more sass than anyone else behind close doors?
Maybe I'm just overthinking it...maybe I'm giving too much thoughts into his actions because I spend too much time enveloped in his scent and aura to want to give them meaning.
The hallway feels quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound. I take in a deep breath, feeling a little relief to be out of his room and to perceive something other than those damn roses.
My footsteps echo softly as I make my way toward the kitchen. But then, I hear voices—loud and sharp, cutting through the stillness... again.
Why is it that anytime I deem an environment peaceful, something or someone must always meddle with that thought?
I don't need to see the source to know who it is. That voice is unmistakable.
Ugly and bitchy...the almighty Eden herself.
Her tone is shrill, each word laced with venom. She's arguing with someone—probably another poor soul who's had the misfortune of crossing her path.
My face is still sore from her slap from last night and though the swelling has reduced drastically, there's still a bruise.
I'm definitely going to get her back for that, and I've already made several mental notes on how.
I don't catch the details of the beef, nor do I care to. I've had enough of her drama to last a lifetime.
Changing my route, I take a different hallway, making a conscious effort to avoid her. The last thing I need right now is another confrontation.
As I pass by, her voice grows fainter, but I can still hear the edge in it, the way she demands attention with every syllable. It's almost impressive, how someone so empty can make so much noise.
Scoffing under my breath, I mutter to myself, "Always the empty ones with the loudest noise."