CERCI LANNISTER: THE INVITE
“You’re captivating–not that I’m not,” she said with a theatrical wink, “but if I arrive with a stunning new friend no one knows and we share conspiratorial laughs, they’ll see I’ve moved on completely. Please tell me you speak French
“I do,” I admitted.
Her eyes widened with delight as she gripped my shoulders, practically dancing. “This is fate!”
If fate was a dancer named Dominique who’d taught me between sets, then perhaps. I’d always been hungry for knowledge–my way of compensating for the education I never received. Dominique spoke French constantly, and I noticed how clients responded. A few whispered words in that elegant language doubled my tips. Simple mathematics: learning French equaled financial survival.
“Cerci?”
“What?”
“You’re going to be my exotic French friend. We need a suitable name
“Cerci,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze.
She frowned. “What?”
“I don’t change my name for anyone. Cerci. Besides, wouldn’t you rather avoid being caught in a lie later?”
“You really aren’t any fun.”
“Great, you can take someone else.” I moved toward the door, but her fingers wrapped
around my wrist, surprisingly strong for someone so delicate.
“Fine,” she conceded, “but at least speak French for me, please?”
How do I consistently find myself in these impossible situations?
“Okay.”
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“You might want to shower first,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like cleaning products.” She backed away with an elegant step.
Apparently, I possessed two talents: languages and an uncanny ability to be swept into the most unpredictable scenarios imaginable.
“How is it possible you outshine me?” she asked when I entered her room, her tone hovering between genuine admiration and carefully masked jealousy.
I turned to the mirror, momentarily startled by my reflection. The woman staring back was polished in a way I’d never been. My makeup remained subtle, but Irene had added smoky shadow that transformed my eyes into something mysterious and alluring. My auburn hair fell in soft waves, parted to expose the curve of my neck. The dress–a midnight blue that made my pale skin seem luminous–featured a sweetheart neckline that accentuated curves I usually kept hidden beneath practical clothing.
Irene had offered a diamond bracelet I couldn’t accept–partly from fear of losing something so valuable, partly because it felt like crossing some invisible boundary. Instead, I wore diamond earrings that caught the light with every movement of my head.
But the true transformation came from the shoes–silver Christian Louboutin pumps that somehow fit perfectly. Wait.
“What size shoe do you wear?” I asked suddenly.
She stood beside me, arranging her hair. “Eight and a half. Why?”
“I’m a seven.” Our eyes met in the mirror. “How do these shoes fit me?”
She froze.
I glanced down at the dress again, noticing how it accommodated my curves despite our different figures.
“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” I backed away, reassessing everything. She was far more calculating than I’d realized. She’d orchestrated this entire scenario through Sandra, ensuring I couldn’t refuse.
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“If you haven’t noticed,” she replied with a small, unapologetic smile, “I’m slightly desperate.
“You spent thousands of dollars just to have a companion? You could have hired someone.”
She shrugged, picking up her clutch. “Nothing to be done about it now. We’re already. late.”
Part of me was impressed by her audacity, another part unnerved. Still, I followed her
downstairs where Foster waited.
His eyebrow arched appreciatively. “Lady Lannister.”
“Don’t start,” I warned. “You could have given me fair warning.”
“You’ll learn. Ms. Monrova is remarkably persuasive.”
Leaning closer, I whispered, “She isn’t dangerous, is she?”
“Have a splendid evening, Lady Lannister,” he replied with a knowing smile that answered nothing.
“Cerci, hurry!” Irene called, tossing me a fur coat. I glanced at the clock–after nine. Just
three hours until midnight when I’d transform back into the housekeeper who spent her days scrubbing floors.
The coat felt impossibly soft against my skin as I followed her to the waiting Mercedes.
“Do I look acceptable?” she asked, suddenly vulnerable.
“You look exquisite, I answered truthfully. She was stunning in emerald green that
complemented her dark hair and olive skin.
“French, remember?”
With a sigh, I obliged: “Vous êtes belle. Très étonnante.”
“Merci, et toi.” She settled back against the leather seat, satisfied.
I turned to the window, surprised by the flutter of anticipation in my stomach. “If you
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CERCI LANNISTER: THE INVITE
planned this elaborate charade, why make me clean your house first?”
“Because it needed cleaning, obviously.”
“I cleaned on Friday,” I countered. “You deliberately created mess to ensure I’d stay.”
“You make me sound far more devious than I am,” she said, suddenly engrossed in her phone.
She was clearly calculated in her machinations, yet I found myself admiring her determination. One night pretending to be someone else couldn’t hurt, could it?
From Boston to Weston–the third wealthiest town in America–took only thirty minutes, but felt like crossing into another dimension. The estates here dwarfed entire city blocks from my neighborhood. When we pulled up the long driveway, circling an illuminated fountain before stopping at a European–style mansion, my courage nearly failed.
“Welcome,” the doorman greeted us with practiced deference.
“Be mysterious,” Irene whispered in flawless French as we ascended the marble steps.
together.
“Names?” asked a man at the entrance, his tailored suit immaculate despite the cold night
air.
“Seriously?” Irene’s voice sharpened with indignation. “Irene Monrova, Elspeth Yates”
niece.”
The effect was immediate–his posture straightened, face suddenly deferential. “My apologies, ma’am. Please enjoy your evening.”
Elspeth Yates. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“May I take your coats?” A maid appeared, whisking away my borrowed fur before I could respond. Irene surrendered hers without acknowledgment.
She leaned close, her perfume–something exclusive and intoxicating–enveloping me. “Smile. The vultures are circling.”
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I didn’t understand until we stepped into the grand living room. The space resembled a museum more than a home, with paintings that belonged in galleries and furniture that told stories of generations of wealth. But what struck me most were the eyes–dozens of them–all turning toward us with calculated assessment.
Their gazes swept over Irene with thinly veiled hostility before shifting to me with naked curiosity. I felt her falter beside me, her confident facade momentarily cracking. She was
raid, frozen at the threshold of a world that had apparently judged her
Without thinking, I slipped my hand into hers, giving a reassuring squeeze. Her fingers. trembled slightly against mine before returning the pressure. The connection felt unexpectedly intimate–two women facing judgment together, one borrowed dress and
secret at a time.
“Remember,” I murmured in French, “we have nothing to prove to them.”
Something shifted in her expression–vulnerability transforming into determination. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped forward, still holding my hand.
*Shall we give them something to truly whisper about?” she asked in French, her eyes suddenly alight with mischief.
For the first time that evening, my smile was entirely genuine. Whatever awaited us in that room of wealth and judgment, we would face it together–the housekeeper and the socialite, bound by an unexpected alliance neither of us had anticipated when the night began.
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Sex With The Maid: Two Men and A Lady
CERCI and Bernard Stark at the ce
