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When the officers returned, their expressions were grim. They had
spoken with the owner of the guest house, who adamantly denied
that any break–in had occurred. He claimed there were no signs of
forced entry and dismissed Isla’s account, suggesting it was a
misunderstanding or, worse, an overreaction..
The officers noted the disarray in her room–clothes and belongings
strewn across the floor–but the owner shrugged it off as Isla’s own
messiness. “She’s just making a fuss,” he said dismissively. “There was
no one else here.”
The question hung in the cold night air, piercing Isla’s already fragile
composure.
“Are you sure it wasn’t just a bad dream?” one of the officers asked,
his tone laced with disbelief. Isla stared at him, stunned, the words
hitting her like a slap.
A bad dream?
She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, the other
officer added, “The owner said he already warned you to leave
because you hadn’t paid him last week’s rent. Are you sure you’re not
just trying to stir up trouble?”
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Her throat tightened, frustration and humiliation burning behind her eyes. Tears welled up, choking her words before they could form. They didn’t believe her. Not the officers, not the neighbors–no one. The realization made her want to scream, but all she could do was stand
there, silent and defeated.
Isla didn’t dare step foot inside that guest house again. The officers, with obvious irritation, went upstairs to retrieve her belongings.
Moments later, they handed her suitcase off to her on the side of the
road. “Here,” one of them muttered before the two of them
disappeared into their patrol car, their flashing lights fading into the
darkness.
And just like that, she was left standing alone on the deserted road at
2 a.m., barefoot and homeless.
Her fingers shook as she unzipped the hidden slit in her suitcase, the
place where she’d kept her emergency cash. But her worst fears were
confirmed–the money was gone. She didn’t even have to count; she
knew it had been stolen. She had nothing left.
Isla dragged her suitcase behind her, the small wheels bumping over
the uneven pavement as she wandered aimlessly through the silent
streets of Magnolia Ridge. Her breath fogged in the chilly night air, her thin pajamas offering little protection against the cold. She wished for a miracle, prayed for it, but none came.
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By the time she found herself at a small park, her legs were trembling
with exhaustion. She sank onto a weathered wooden bench, pulling
her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself for
warmth. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she stared into
the distance, too numb to wipe them away. She didn’t sleep that
night. She sat on that bench, awake and terrified, feeling the sharp
sting of rock bottom.
This was the lowest point of her life.
As the first light of dawn broke over the town, Isla stumbled into a
public restroom. She washed her face, changed into her only other set
of clothes, and stepped out onto the street with no plan, no money,
and no hope. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she ignored it as
she walked the neighborhood, stopping at every store and restaurant
she could find, begging for work.
“No vacancies,” they all said, some more politely than others.
But at one café, a kind worker pointed her toward Ms. Anne’s Bed and
Breakfast. “She’s looking for help,” the woman said with a
sympathetic smile.
Clutching her suitcase, Isla made her way there.
Ms. Anne was a no–nonsense woman with sharp eyes and an air of
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authority that brooked no argument. She barely glanced at Isla before laying out the terms.
“The pay is $25 a day,” Ms. Anne said curtly. “You’ll cook, clean, make the beds, scrub the bathrooms, and greet customers politely. I’ve already got another girl, Avery, who sleeps in the basement. You’ll share with her, but I’ll charge you $100 a month for rent. You’ll also need to provide your own food. If a single morsel goes missing from
my kitchen, you’re out. Understand?”
Isla nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. It wasn’t much, but it
was something. A basement was better than sleeping on the streets.
The work was grueling, far beyond anything Isla had ever done before.
She cooked meals for up to a dozen guests daily, often twice or three
times a day, and spent hours cleaning their rooms afterward. The
toilets were the worst. Isla, who had never so much as picked up a
cleaning rag back at Thornfield Manor, found herself kneeling in
front of filthy bathroom fixtures, scrubbing until her arms ached and
the acrid smell of bleach burned her nostrils.
Every moment was a reminder of how far she had fallen.
By the end of each day, her body felt broken. Her hands were red and raw from dishwashing, her back throbbed from bending over beds and floors, and her stomach growled with hunger because she couldn’t afford more than a piece of bread or a bowl of soup each day.
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Late one night, as she washed dishes in the dimly lit kitchen, Isla sighed heavily, her thoughts drifting back to Thornfield Manor. She had taken so much for granted–the safety, the comfort, the warmth.
She had left with nothing but her pride and a suitcase, and that pride
had landed her here, in this hellish existence.
It was ego, she realized. Ego had driven her to leave without a plan. Ego had made her believe she could survive on her own without any
help. And now, she was paying the price.
Surely Graham would have eventually asked her to leave Thornfield Manor, but he wouldn’t have let her end up like this. He wasn’t a
heartless man. If she swallowed her pride and went back, maybe he
would help her–offer her a loan or let her use the trust fund to get some training and build a new life for herself.
The thought lingered in her mind as she dried the last plate and set it on the rack. She couldn’t keep living like this. As soon as she got her first month’s pay, she would hitch a ride back to Thornfield.
She would beg Graham if she had to. She didn’t care about her pride
anymore. She just wanted a chance to start over.
Isla turned at the soft tap on her shoulder, startled from her
thoughts. Avery stood behind her, holding a damp dishcloth in one
hand.
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“Someone’s at the door,” Avery said, her voice low but firm. “I think
the guests are starting to return. You go greet them. I’ll finish up the
dishes.”
Isla hesitated, her hands still submerged in the cold, soapy water.
Greeting the guests was usually her least favorite task. Forcing a
smile and making polite conversation when she felt like her world
was crumbling was exhausting. But Avery was already taking over at
the sink, giving her no choice.
With a quiet nod, Isla dried her hands on the apron tied around her
waist and headed toward the door. She pulled it open, fully expecting
to see the family of four currently staying in the guesthouse. But when her eyes met the figure standing on the porch, her breath
caught in her throat.
It wasn’t the family.
It was Graham Lancaster.
His towering frame filled the doorway, and the dim light from the porch lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating every line of his clenched jaw. His dark eyes blazed with an intensity that made her step back instinctively, the anger radiating off him almost
palpable.
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He was furious.
Devastatingly furious.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
