Yumi arrived ten minutes early on the day Lady Ozie’s car was supposed to pick them up. The Boston winter was living up to its reputation—crisp and piercingly cold.
Yumi sported a long black coat, over-the-knee boots, a huge pink scarf, and a matching pair of big fuzzy earmuffs. Aida had always admired her friend’s ability to appear both elegant and adorable at the same time. She waved her phone at Aida. “I connected my sister to my GPS app so she’ll know where we are. If I haven’t called her by midafternoon, she’ll send out the troops to look for us.”
“I did the same for Graham and Erin.”
A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation. A man in his mid-forties in an immaculate chauffeur’s suit and hat appeared as if he’d walked straight out of a classic film. Aida had been chauffeured before, but never by someone so impeccably dressed. Behind him, a gleaming black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat double-parked. Aida’s heart lifted. Perhaps Felix was right, and this job would pay well, after all.
“Miss Aida Reale?” He arched an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between Aida and Yumi.
“I’m Aida,” she confirmed, slinging her purse over her shoulder and wrapping a scarf around her neck. “My colleague Yumi will be joining me.”
The chauffeur shook his head. “Lady Ozie’s invitation is for you alone.”
Aida drew a breath and stood taller, a trick she had learned to steel herself against the condescending scholars she often encountered during her research. “Please forgive me if I refuse to get into a car with an unknown person to go to an undisclosed location alone.”
The chauffeur paused, considering her, gave a curt nod, then headed down the path toward the car, where he stood near the rear door to let them in. He swung it open, revealing the car’s luxurious interior, which screamed opulence—from the blue leather seats and blue-furred floor mats to the ceiling speckled with tiny twinkling stars.
It had just begun to snow, the pretty, fluffy kind that was unlikely to stick. The air felt charged with possibility. Aida climbed into the waiting Rolls-Royce, buoyed by a mix of hope and anticipation.
Once she and Yumi were inside and seated, the chauffeur returned to the driver’s seat and activated a console on the back of each seat in front of them.
“If you desire, choose the massage you would like, then press the button.”
Yumi looked at Aida, eyes wide.
“Has anyone ever declined a massage?” Aida asked as she fiddled with the settings.
His eyes smiled in the rearview mirror. “No, Miss Reale, not yet.”
“Where are you taking us, anyway?” Yumi asked.
“The Boston Harbor Hotel on Rowes Wharf.”
Aida’s fingers were already flying across her phone’s screen, texting Graham.
Within twenty minutes, they were pulling up to the hotel, its grandeur marked by a massive flag that billowed from the center of the wide arches defining the seaside structure. Beyond the arches lay the hotel’s dock, a haven for luxury yachts adorned with helicopters and swimming pools. Nearby, a covered floating ballroom boasted a checkered floor that seemed to dance on the water’s surface. Aida recalled the days of her early childhood spent there, long before her parents became ill. She’d been too young for cocktails but delighted in sipping ginger ale as if it were a grown-up drink, her eyes wide with wonder as she watched the swing dancers whirl and dip. Those were magical times, filled with laughter and the gentle sway of the floating dock, a stark contrast to the more complicated years that would follow.
A white-gloved bellhop swung open the car door and paused as if he were unsure he had opened the right door. “This is Aida Reale and friend,” the driver told him. Masking his puzzlement, the bellhop warmly greeted them before escorting the two women into the hotel’s lobby, where a woman stood by a window overlooking the seaport. Her ink-black hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, offering a striking contrast to her ivory skin and impeccably white pantsuit.
“Aida Reale and friend,” announced the bellhop before promptly disappearing.
The woman eyed Yumi with a furrowed brow. “You are Yumi Tanaka.”
“How did you know that?” Yumi bristled and crossed her arms.
The woman did not respond. “The invitation was only for you,” she said, addressing Aida.
“Please forgive me, Miss...” Aida paused for the woman’s name. After an uncomfortable moment when it became clear the woman was not going to indulge her, Aida repeated the rationale she’d given the driver earlier, insisting on the presence of a companion for her own safety.
The woman’s dark eyes narrowed, and Aida thought she caught the flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips. “Fine.” The woman flicked her hand at the two of them to follow, then led them to a private elevator, where she inserted a key card and selected the penthouse.
A thrum of unease coursed through Aida as she stepped into the elevator, her mind racing with questions. How—andwhy—did this woman know who Yumi was? What else did she know about them? The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them in a silent ascent. Aida wanted to speak, to demand answers, but the woman’s icy demeanor stifled any attempts at conversation. The illuminated numbers above the door ticked higher with each floor they passed, ratcheting up Aida’s tension.
As the elevator neared the penthouse, the woman finally broke the silence. “Miss Tanaka, you will be escorted to our theater room, where you’ll be made comfortable. Both of you are required to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“I need to sign an NDA even if I’m not part of the conversation?” Yumi asked. “You know so much about me. I hardly find it fair.”
The woman only raised an eyebrow at her. “Lady Ozie requires the utmost privacy for her affairs,” she explained. “I’m sure you’ve worked with clients that require the same.”
