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The Wilson Estate was more than a mansion; it was a declaration of power, all gothic spires and stern, grey stone set against a backdrop of ancient, brooding oaks. Emma’s beat-up sedan felt like a trespasser as she navigated the long, winding driveway. She had left Ryan with the sitter Henry had so helpfully arranged and paid for, the exorbitant salary for this job silencing her deep-seated misgivings.
Mrs. Chen, the head of household, was a petite woman whose efficient manner and sharp eyes missed nothing. She led Emma on a tour through opulent halls that echoed with the silence of immense wealth. “Mr. Wilson values his privacy and perfection above all else,” she warned, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. “He is very particular.”
The kitchen, however, was Emma’s personal heaven. It was a sprawling, state-of-the-art space of gleaming stainless steel and cool granite, equipped with everything from a sous-vide immersion circulator to a custom-built, wood-fired oven. A living wall of herbs filled the air with the fresh, fragrant scents of basil, rosemary, and thyme. Here, amidst the familiar tools of her trade, Emma’s anxiety finally began to ease. This was a language she understood.
Her first assignment was to prepare lunch for a business meeting Mr. Wilson was hosting. She threw herself into the work, her hands moving with the confident, practiced grace of a true professional. She chose to make a pan-seared salmon with a delicate lemon-dill sauce, scoring the skin until it was perfectly crisp. The sizzle of garlic and shallots in hot olive oil and the bright, aromatic perfume of the fresh herbs filled the kitchen, a comforting symphony of smells and sounds. She plated the dish with artistic care, garnishing it with vibrant roasted asparagus and a sprinkle of fleur de sel. She felt a surge of pride in her work. She could do this.
She was in the cavernous walk-in pantry, taking inventory of the impressive array of ingredients, when she heard voices approaching in the corridor. They were deep male voices, discussing business matters in tones that commanded attention.
“An excellent meal, James. Your new chef is clearly very talented.”
That voice, deep and resonant, sent a sudden, inexplicable chill down her spine. It was a voice she felt she knew, a voice that echoed in some deep, forgotten corner of her memory.
“I am glad to hear it,” another voice replied. A voice that stopped her heart. “I have been meaning to check in with Mrs. Chen about the new hire.”
Emma froze, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes clutched in her hand. James. It was a common name, it meant nothing. But her heart was suddenly pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs.
“What was her name again?” The voice was closer now, just outside the kitchen.
“A Ms. Lopez, sir. Emma Lopez.”
James froze mid-step, the name snagging his attention. Lopez. For a split second, a flicker of memory, of a desperate note and a smudged phone number, surfaced in his mind. But at that exact moment, his phone buzzed with an urgent security alert from one of his main shipping warehouses. He glanced down, his focus immediately shifting to the potential multi-million dollar problem. The name Lopez was too common to warrant his attention over a pressing business crisis. I will look into it later, he thought, his mind already calculating security protocols as his guests pulled his attention back to their conversation.
Emma emerged from the pantry on shaking legs just in time to see a tall, dark-haired figure in an impeccably tailored suit disappear around the corner. She only saw him from behind, but it was enough. The confident set of his broad shoulders, the air of effortless power in his stride. A wave of dizziness washed over her, a feeling of déjá vu so powerful she had to grip the cool steel of the counter to steady herself. She was being paranoid. This was a coincidence.
But as she drove home that evening, she could not shake the unsettling feeling of being watched, of a past she thought she had buried suddenly breathing down her neck. From a third-floor study window, James stood motionless, watching her small car disappear down the long driveway. The security alert had been a minor electrical fault, but the deep, primal restlessness it had interrupted now returned with a vengeance. He had been too distracted to inquire further about the new chef, but his wolf was now pacing relentlessly beneath his skin, agitated and certain. He did not know why, but he knew, with an instinct that defied logic, that he had to speak with her tomorrow.