“Nobody,” Gray replied, and a booming laugh followed, pulling me back into reality.

Beryl Crowne, grandfather and patriarch to the Crowne family, was just outside the room. Just his name made me freeze up. Beryl rarely came home, but today…today was the Swan Swell.

Shit.

The Swan Swell was famous in Crowne Point. It happened every year, usually a week before their famous Fourth of July party. It was a time when the native swans flooded the sandy white beaches. It also happened to be Abigail Crowne’s favorite time of year. She would never forgive me once today passed and I wasn’t back in time to help her get ready. So what did that mean for me? What happened when Gray was finished with me?

Would I still have a job here?

Unlikely, I thought glumly.

I stood up, trying to see where the voices were coming from. Grayson’s wing was huge. Abigail’s entire wing could fit in his bedroom. I mean, just his bedroom was two floors. I guess that’s what you get for being the favorite heir.

I peered over the iron balcony, down to the bottom floor. The double doors were open, and through them I could see Beryl Crowne in his iconic three-piece suit, glimpse flashes of his silvering hair.

“So long as the du Lac girl doesn’t see…” Beryl Crowne rubbed a hand through his moussed hair. “Your sister is a shitshow. We already have one marriage on the rocks; we don’t need yours.”

Marry? He was going to marry Charlotte? And Abigail was getting married? There was only one wedding I knew of, Gemma’s. She’d been engaged for as long as I’d been at Crowne Hall.

Beryl continued. “You know how they get about the mistresses. Delicate matters to be worked out with the prenup.”

He talked about mistresses like it was a fucking car or a house.

Beryl Crowne looked my way, and I ducked down. It was one thing for Beryl Crowne to see me when I was asleep, another to make eye contact. To the outside world, Beryl Crowne was famous for trying to cure diseases.

In here, we knew better. Beryl was the boogieman that went bump in the night, the reason people disappeared.

I slowly tiptoed down the spiral staircase, staying crouched.

“Right, yeah,” Grayson said.

I could see only one of his shoulders, but I still knew his face by his tone. He was famous for it. A deadly disinterest in his blue eyes and chiseled lips that made millions of girls do insane things in hopes of sparking some kind of attention.

“But I have to say, if you want to fuck a maid, fuck a maid, Grayson. A mistress is not an excuse to lower the bar; even your father knew that.”

“I won’t have a fucking mistress,” Grayson snapped.

I tripped, making a clang on the metal staircase, and grasped the railing.