Chapter 16: The Morning Ritual
The first thing Catriona noticed was the light. It wasn’t the forgiving silver of moonlight, nor the dusky glow of the single candle they’d finally let die. It was the frank, gold-white light of morning, slicing around the edges of the blackout blinds she’d meticulously installed. It painted the room in shades of reality.
She was alone in the bed.
For a disorienting second, her heart seized—a phantom of guilt, or loss, or plain fear. Then she heard it: the soft, syncopated rhythm of breathing. She turned her head.
Aidan and Jenny lay on the floor, nestled in a nest of discarded duvet and pillows. Aidan was on his back, one arm flung out, his face relaxed in a depth of sleep she hadn’t seen in years. Jenny was curled into his side, her head on his chest, her dark hair a wild fan across his skin. One of his hands rested possessively on the curve of her bare hip.
Catriona watched them. She felt no rage. The sharp, thrilling knife of betrayal had been melted down last night, reforged into something else entirely. What rose in her now was a profound, quiet sense of ownership. They were hers. This tableau, this peace after the storm, was her creation.
She slipped from the sheets, her body protesting with a delicious, deep-seated ache. She padded naked to the window, peeked through the blind, and smiled at the serene, empty street. The world was just waking up, oblivious.
In the ensuite, she surveyed the damage in the mirror. Smudged mascara, lips slightly bruised, a faint red mark on her neck from where Aidan’s stubble had rubbed raw. She looked thoroughly, wonderfully used. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled on her silk robe, tying the belt tight.
Downstairs, the dining room was a silent museum of their indulgence. The shattered glass, the stained tablecloth, the two empty wine bottles lying on their sides. She stepped over the wreckage without a second glance. The kitchen was her sanctuary.
She moved methodically, grinding beans, filling the French press. The ritual was calming. The gurgle of the kettle, the rich bloom of coffee scent. She warmed milk, arranged croissants on a slate board, sliced strawberries. She set three places at the breakfast nook, her good china suddenly feeling absurdly formal for the circumstance. She used the mismatched plates instead—the colourful ones they’d bought on a trip to Lisbon. It felt right.
She was just setting the butter knife down when she heard the creak of the stairs.
Aidan appeared first, wearing only his trousers from last night, unsnapped and low on his hips. His salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, his eyes sleepy and wary. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.
“Coffee’s ready,” Catriona said, her voice pleasantly hoarse. She poured a mug, added a splash of warm milk, and pushed it across the island towards him.
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. “You’re… cooking.”
“I’m arranging. There’s a difference.” She smiled, a real one, reaching up to smooth a bit of his hair. “Sleep okay?”
“On the floor?” He took a sip, watching her over the rim. “Surprisingly, yeah. You?”
“Like the dead.” She turned as Jenny appeared, hovering just behind Aidan. She’d found her dress, but it was crumpled, and she held it closed at the front with one hand. Her eyes were wide, caught between the shy cleaner and the woman who’d been kissed senseless by her employer just hours ago. “Come in, Jenny. Sit. You must be starving.”
Jenny edged into the kitchen, the morning light making her look very young. She sat carefully on the stool Catriona indicated. “I can… I should clean the other room. The glass…”
“Later,” Catriona said dismissively, placing a croissant and a bowl of strawberries in front of her. “Eat. You need your strength.”
The next few minutes passed in a bubble of mundane surrealism. They ate. They drank coffee. Aidan fetched the butter from the fridge. Jenny mumbled a thanks. The only sounds were the crunch of flaky pastry, the clink of porcelain, the hum of the refrigerator. It was the aftermath of an earthquake, with everyone too polite to mention the cracks in the walls.
Catriona let the silence stretch, watching them. Then she put her mug down with a definitive click.
“So. I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone conversational, as if discussing a paint swatch. “This commuting back and forth to your flat, Jenny. It’s a waste of time. And money. And,” she added, her gaze drifting to Aidan, “terribly inefficient.”
Jenny froze, a strawberry halfway to her mouth. Aidan slowly lowered his croissant.
“I’m offering you a new position,” Catriona continued, leaning forward on her elbows. “Live-in cleaner. We’ll convert the guest suite. Full room and board, obviously. And a significant raise.”
“Catriona…” Aidan’s voice was low, a warning and a question.
She held up a hand, her eyes still on Jenny. “There’s a new clause in the contract, of course. Your duties will be… expanded. You’ll be available. For both of us. Whenever we require you.”
The words hung in the sunlit air, so clean and clinical, and yet they sucked the oxygen from the room.
Jenny’s dark eyes flickered from Catriona to Aidan and back. A flush crept up her neck. “You mean… like last night.”
“I mean like last night. And this morning. And next Tuesday afternoon.” Catriona’s smile was warm, but her green eyes were unblinking. “It’s a practical arrangement. We all get what we want. No more secrecy. No more scheduling around my business trips. No more,” she said, turning the full force of her look on Aidan, “guilt.”
Aidan felt the word hit him in the gut. She’d seen it, named it, and was now offering to surgically remove it. In its place, she was installing a permanent, on-call fantasy.
“And you’re… okay with this?” Jenny asked, her voice small. “With me… living here? With him?”
Catriona reached out, taking Jenny’s hand where it lay clenched on the counter. She pried the fingers open gently, stroking the palm. “Darling, after watching him fill you up on my dining room table? After tasting you both on my lips?” She let out a soft, genuine laugh. “I’m more than okay. I’m invested.”
She released Jenny’s hand and stood, taking her mug to the sink. She looked out the window at the pristine garden. “It’s simple. You move in today. We draft the new terms. We see how it goes.” She glanced back over her shoulder, her expression shifting to something lighter, almost mischievous. “Think of it as a trial period. With very thorough performance reviews.”
Aidan finally found his voice. It came out rough. “And if she says no?”
Catriona turned fully, leaning against the sink. She looked at him, then at Jenny, her confidence absolute. “She won’t.” Her gaze settled on Jenny. “Will you?”
Jenny didn’t look at Aidan. She stared at the remains of her croissant, at the delicate china plate, at the elegant woman waiting for her answer. She thought of her cramped student flat, the constant worry over rent, the secret, desperate hunger for this house, for this man, that had tormented her for a year. She thought of the searing fullness, the shattered glass, the commanding whisper in the dark.
She lifted her chin. The shyness was still there, but beneath it, something new was solidifying. “What’s the raise?”
Catriona’s smile was victorious. “We’ll negotiate. But I’m feeling generous.” She pushed off from the sink. “Finish your breakfast. Then we’ll go pick up your things.”
Aidan watched the exchange, the coffee turning acidic in his stomach. This was it. The fantasy had not only been caught; it had been bought, given a room, and put on a payroll. The line was not just blurred now; it had been deliberately, permanently erased. And as Jenny finally met his eyes, a flush of heat rising on her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment, he felt the last vestige of his old morality slip away, replaced by a thrilling, terrifying liberty.
Catriona picked up the butter knife, examining it as if it were a fascinating artifact. “Oh, and Jenny? Pack something nice for tonight. We’re breaking in the new arrangement. Properly.”