The first rule was: never enter the master’s bedroom unless summoned.
Elena had read it in the thick house manual the day she arrived — right between the rule about knocking before entering any room and the one that said “personal space is sacred.”
But the room had been quiet all morning. The sheets were messy. The trash bin full. And Mr. Blackwell hadn’t come home last night, at least according to Marta, the cook.
So when Elena stood in the doorway of his bedroom — vacuum in one hand, duster in the other — she took a deep breath and stepped in.
The space was masculine and cold: gray sheets, dark oak furniture, the faint scent of spice and leather in the air. She’d cleaned nearly every room in the house, but this one made her skin flush and her stomach flip.
Because it smelled like hi
