Chapter 1
Episode 1: Forbidden fruit of a gardener
"How reckless can you be, Juliette? Do you even realize what could have happened to you last night?" my mother's shrill voice cuts through my throbbing skull like a dagger.
I wince, cradling my pounding head in my hands as I sink into one of the plush armchairs in the sitting room. The remnants of last night's whisky still swirl in my stomach, making me want to retch. The last thing I need is another reprimand from my overbearing parents.
"You could have been killed, driving home in that state! Honestly, Juliette, what were you thinking?" my father chimes in, his usually stoic features twisted in a rare display of anger.
I drove home drunk and my parents found out. That is what this whole scolding session is about.
I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my dry throat. What can I say? That I've been trying to numb the relentless ache of loneliness that gnaws at me, even in the midst of the glittering social scene I'm expected to navigate? That the cold, stifling confines of high society suffocate me, leaving me desperate for even the briefest moments of reckless abandon? That being reckless is what makes me feel alive and uncontrolled?
No, they wouldn't understand. They never do.
"I'm sorry, alright?" I murmur, the words laced with a fatigue that goes far deeper than mere physical exhaustion. "It won't happen again."
My parents exchange a skeptical glance, clearly unconvinced by my halfhearted assurance. But I've long ago perfected the art of tuning out their disapproving lectures. As they continue to berate me, I let my gaze wander, seeking solace in the meticulously maintained gardens that stretch out beyond the bay windows.
If only I could escape to this place, away from the stifling judgment of my parents and the suffocating confines of this gilded cage they call a home. But for now, I have no choice but to endure their tirade, my head pounding in time with the guilt that gnaws at my conscience.
My parents exchange a skeptical glance, clearly unconvinced by my halfhearted assurance. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Juliette," my father says sternly. "This has gone on for far too long."
"We've given you chance after chance, and yet you continue to throw caution to the wind," my mother chimes in, her brow furrowed in a disapproving scowl. "If we catch wind of even one more incident like this, we won't hesitate to take away your car and your credit card. Do you understand?"
I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to lash out in frustration. As if losing my precious independence would somehow make me see the error of my ways. They just don't get it - this suffocating life they've created for me is what's driving me to these reckless acts in the first place.
"Yes, I understand," I mutter, my fingers digging into the plush armrests as I force myself to maintain an air of contrition. The last thing I need is to provoke them further.
"Good. Then we're done here." My father's tone brooks no room for argument as he turns and strides out of the room, my mother close behind him.
But before he reaches the door, he whirls back around, his face flushed with a mix of anger and disappointment. "Do you know how much I had to pay some paparazzi who caught you on camera drinking, partying and acting like wild animals with your friends? Do you know how that would have affected the family image if those photos of you got leaked online?"
I shrink back into the chair, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. Of course I know - the very thought of such a scandal makes my stomach churn. Not that I wouldn't do what I did yesterday again, though. Oh, I am planning to.
"You are 19 years old now, Juliette. You are 19!" my father continues, his voice rising. "We have let you be a child for as long as you wished but now it is time to grow up. You have to live up to our family's legacy and succeed your mother and me. You should be out here taking acting classes and landing roles in movies and TV shows instead of drinking and partying all night. What the heck is wrong with you? We didn't raise you like this! Why can't you be more like your older sister, Madeline? She just finished shooting a blockbuster movie last week and is making us proud."
My parents are both renowned actors, their trophy cases overflowing with accolades. I know the immense pressure they feel to pass the torch, to ensure their family name remains synonymous with Hollywood royalty. But the thought of stepping into their footsteps fills me with dread, not excitement.
I hate being compared to my sister. If she is so good, then why can't see be the one who keeps the family legacy? Why try to force me to do it when she is already doing it so perfectly?
Before I can formulate a response, the worker pokes his head back in the room. "Pardon the interruption, sir, but the gardener is here to discuss the job position."
My father fixes me with a stern glare, his lips pressed into a thin line. "We'll continue this discussion later. In the meantime, I suggest you clean yourself up and start considering your priorities."
With that, he turns and sweeps out of the room, leaving me to stew in a cocktail of guilt, frustration, and the pounding ache in my head. Deciding I've had enough of their scrutiny for the moment, I push myself up from the chair. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go lie down for a bit. This headache is simply dreadful," I murmur, not waiting for a response from my mom before slipping out of the room and making a beeline for the kitchen and the medicine cabinet.
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I spend the whole day sleeping off the hangover, letting the pounding in my head gradually subside as I drift in and out of a restless slumber. By the time I finally pry my eyes open, the sun is high in the sky, signaling the next day has arrived. With a groan, I push myself up, my muscles protesting the movement.
Deciding I need to escape the stifling confines of this house, I make my way to the bathroom, the tile cool against my bare feet. I turn on the shower, letting the steam fill the air as I peel off my rumpled clothes from the day before. The hot water feels heavenly as it cascades over my aching body, washing away the remnants of my party night. I scrub my hair vigorously, making sure to remove any lingering trace of alcohol.
After thoroughly cleaning myself, I step out, wrapping a plush towel around my damp body. I brush my teeth, the minty taste helping to further revive me. Then, I apply a generous amount of fragrant lotion all over, the familiar floral scent calming my senses.
Wandering back to my room, I set about getting ready. I carefully style my hair, curling the ends to frame my face just so. With a practiced hand, I apply my makeup - eyeliner, mascara, a touch of blush. I want to look completely put-together, get myself all dolled up, every strand and every brushstroke precisely in place.
Finally, I spritz myself with a cloud of my favorite perfume, the intoxicating aroma mingling with the floral lotion. Satisfied with my appearance, I move to my expansive purse closet, scanning the rows of designer handbags. My gaze settles on a sleek black leather clutch, its gold hardware gleaming. It will pair perfectly with the black miniskirt and cropped top I have chosen, as well as my towering black heels. Grabbing the purse, I give myself one final once-over in the mirror, my lips curving into a coy smile. Time to go have some fun with the girls. All day, and all night.
I like hanging out with them because at least being with them is also like being alone in my room - a secluded oasis that shielded her from the cold, judgmental gaze of high society.
But on this crisp spring morning, as I move through the meticulously manicured pathways leading to the garage where my car is, my eyes are suddenly captivated by something too hot to look away.
A rugged, broad-shouldered figure moves purposefully among the vibrant flower beds, his tanned hands skillfully tending to the vibrant flowerbeds. I pause in my footsteps, captivated by the sheer physicality of the man - his sun-kissed skin glistening with sweat, his muscular frame straining against the worn fabric of his shirt.
I pause in my tracks, captivated by the sheer physicality of the man before me.
He is tall and imposing, his tanned skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. His muscular frame strains against the worn fabric of his shirt, the material clinging to the contours of his defined chest and arms. I can't help but let my gaze wander, appreciating the raw power and masculinity emanating from him.
"Excuse me," the stranger's deep, resonant voice calls out, pulling my attention to his face. "I didn't realize anyone else would be out here this morning."
His piercing eyes meet mine, and I feel a fluttering in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly self-conscious, I steel myself, unwilling to betray the surge of curiosity and attraction I'm feeling.
"I... I am on my way to get my car," I manage to say, my voice slightly unsteady as I bite down on my lower lip. There's something about this rugged, handsome stranger that has me utterly captivated. He looks so good, so tempting, that I find myself momentarily lost in the fantasy of what it would be like to have him.
The way he carries himself, the effortless grace with which he moves, has me practically aching to reach out and touch him, to run my hands along the contours of his body. He is everything I find irresistible - strong, confident, and undeniably attractive. In this moment, all I can think about is how much I want him already, how I want to know the feeling of his hands on me.
The man flashes me a disarming smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, then I suppose I've interrupted you. My apologies - I'm David Thorne, the new gardener. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss...?"
"Montgomery," I reply, extending my hand with practiced poise. "Juliette Montgomery."
My gaze lingers on him, taking in every alluring detail. The way his shirt strains against his broad shoulders, the light sheen of sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin - it's all I can do to resist the urge to reach out and run my fingers along the contours of his muscular frame. There's an undeniable magnetism about him, a rugged, primal appeal that has me aching to know the taste of his lips, the feel of his calloused hands on my body. I bite down on my lower lip, holding his intense gaze. I can feel the familiar flutter of desire begin to build within me, urging me to close the distance between us, to give in to the forbidden temptation that he represents. This man, with his sheer physicality and undeniable charm, has awakened a hunger in me that I know I must satiate, no matter the consequences. But I know better than to just throw myself at someone I met just now.
But that doesn't mean I can't take him in my room after a little conversation, does it?
However, the moment I utter my full name, I notice a subtle shift in his demeanor. His expression becomes more guarded, the warmth in his eyes tempering slightly as he realizes I am the daughter of his new employer.
"Montgomery," he repeats, a hint of caution creeping into his voice. "I see. It's nice to meet you, Miss Montgomery."
I can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the sudden change, the promise of forbidden intimacy now colored by the weight of our respective positions. Still, I refuse to let this deter me. There's an allure to this man that I find utterly irresistible, and I'm determined to find a way to break through this little professional barrier. I am not the one who employed him, so I don't see why this would be inappropriate.
Although I would like it to be.
But would he see it like that being his employers daughter. Doesn't matter. The more forbidden the sweeter.
My dad just doesn't have to know, I think to myself and almost giggle. I just met this guy, but I don't care. I want him already. And I don't do too well with waiting. If I want something, I go for it the moment I see it.
Mustering a coy smile, I tilt my head slightly, allowing my gaze to roam brazenly over his rugged form. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Thorne," I murmur, my voice lowering to a sultry, conspiratorial tone. "I do hope we'll have the chance to get to know each other better."
As our fingers brush, I feel a jolt of electricity race through me, setting my nerve endings alight. In this fleeting moment of contact, I know with absolute certainty - this man, this forbidden fruit of a gardener, should be in my bed soon.
