I’ve been drawn to the security feed more often than I should be. That precious half hour when I know she’ll be home, perched behind her desk like a solitary queen in her tower. My underground club demands attention, butincreasingly, I catch myself watching Ruby instead. There’s nothing dramatic to see; she simply works, occasionally stands to pace. Yet something about her solitude calls to me. The way she holds herself, straight-backed and controlled, as if relaxing might let something dangerous slip through. Like someone who’s forgotten how to exist without purpose.
Water streams down my skin as I rise from the pool, the desert air already warming despite the early hour. I catch my reflection in the glass walls of the pool house—olive skin wrapped in a white swimsuit, dark hair slicked back, the significant scar on my shoulder from a childhood fall in Santorini. Pappoús always said I was too wild, too determined to keep up with the boys diving from the cliffs.
Wrapping a fluffy white robe around my damp skin, I head barefoot across the travertine tiles toward the kitchen. The space is all clean lines, white marble countertops and professional-grade stainless steel appliances.
Zeus, my Savannah cat, follows me, his spotted coat gleaming as he winds around my legs, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints on the floor. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve worried about him becoming prey to the desert’s coyotes, but I couldn’t bear to keep him confined indoors. Luckily, he’s proven himself surprisingly content to stay within the estate’s boundaries, spending his days hunting birds in the yard and lounging in sunny spots by the pool.
I scoop Zeus into my arms with a small grunt—all twenty pounds of him, solid muscle beneath that luxurious coat. He’s far larger than a typical house cat and could easily be mistaken for a leopard. Despite his size, I cradle him like a kitten, ignoring his initial squirm of protest. He settles against my chest after a moment, a deep purr rumbling through his powerful body. Such a proud creature, refusing attention from anyone else—my staff have learned thehard way not to attempt to pet him. Even Asha, my housekeeper, who feeds him every morning, receives nothing more than an imperious stare when she sets down his bowl.
“You’ve been hunting again, haven’t you?” I murmur, noticing a smudge of blood on his paw. His ears twitch at my voice, but his eyes remain half-closed in contentment. My arms start to tire, but I hold him anyway. Like me, he walks a line between civilization and wildness, and I see myself in his refusal to be tamed, his selective affections, his ruthless efficiency when hunting.
Zeus stretches in my arms, his considerable weight shifting as his claws extend briefly before retracting—a gentle reminder of the weapons he carries. Then he headbutts my chin, a rare display of affection that makes my heart swell.
“All right, little kitty-cat,” I say, releasing him as he begins to squirm again. He lands gracefully on the floor despite his size, immediately restoring his dignity with a thorough grooming session. The moment of tenderness is over—we both have reputations to maintain, after all.
Asha looks up from the poached eggs she’s placing atop artisanal sourdough toast. “Good morning, Ms. Stavros.” The scent of freshly ground coffee fills the air as the espresso machine hisses. She’s been with me since I moved in, arriving each morning like clockwork to prepare breakfast and maintain the upstairs portion of the house. She’s efficient, professional, and most importantly, uninterested in anything beyond her designated domain. I watch as she slices an avocado, arranging it in a fan pattern beside the toast. The woman has an artist’s eye for presentation.
“Good morning, Asha,” I say, settling at the kitchen island. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. It’s a beautiful day.” Her reply, like every morning, is polite and minimal. Our exchanges rarely extend beyond these few pleasantries, and that suits us both.
I appreciate the simple luxury of a quiet Sunday morning. It’s the one day I allow myself to move slower, to savor the ritual of breakfast rather than consuming it while in a meeting. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits beside my plate, topped with fresh berries and honey, and next to it is a newspaper.
Zeus jumps onto the counter, earning a disapproving look from Asha that he completely ignores. He’s convinced that the rules of mere mortals don’t apply to him. I scratch behind his ears as he investigates my breakfast, his tail twitching with interest at the eggs. “Not for you, little prince,” I murmur in Greek, the endearment feeling more natural in my mother tongue.
My phone buzzes with the morning report—a simple summary from my “basement manager” as I call him. Thirty guests, no incidents, all departures completed by four a.m. I wasn’t there to oversee things myself last night—a high roller at the Olympus had required my personal attention, dropping close to eight figures at the baccarat tables. These whales expect the owner to wine and dine them, to make them feel special. It’s all part of the game.
I trust my basement team implicitly. The drivers, waiters, bartenders, fixers, and cleaning staff are handpicked not just for their skills but for their ability to be invisible, to see everything and remember nothing. I pay them a ridiculous fee, ensuring their loyalty.
I finish half of my breakfast, more interested in the coffee than the food. “Thank you, Asha,” I say, standing. “I’ll take my coffee outside.”
Zeusfollows me to the poolside and I see Ruby is now sitting on her balcony, coffee cup in hand. She quickly looks away when she notices me watching, pretending to be absorbed in something on her phone. A smile tugs at my lips.
“Good morning, neighbor!” I call out, raising my coffee cup in greeting. The formality of our last interaction has left a strange taste in my mouth, and something compels me to break it.
Ruby chuckles, lifting her own cup in response. “Good morning.”
I’m not sure what possesses me to say the next words—perhaps it’s simply curiosity about this woman, or perhaps it’s the little voice in the back of my mind, reminding me to keep potential enemies close. “Care to join me for a coffee by the pool?”
Even from this distance, I can see how the invitation startles her. She shifts uncomfortably, gripping the balcony railing. “Oh, I actually have to head to the office…”
“On a Sunday?” I challenge. “Come on, it’s just a coffee. Twenty minutes won’t make a difference.”
Ruby raises herself and stares down at me for a moment. Finally, her shoulders relax slightly. “Okay,” she calls back, still with a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I could use another cup before I head out.”
FIVE
RUBY
The guarded gates swing open at my approach, revealing a winding driveway bordered by date palms. Water dances in a travertine fountain, its soft music mingling with birdsong, while desert gardens bloom in defiance of the harsh climate—purple sage, golden lantana, and blood-red bougainvillea cascading over stone walls. The estate speaks of quiet wealth. It’s not flashy, simply beautiful in every detail.
I sit in my Tesla for a moment and stare at the line of black limousines. My practical black car looks plebeian next to them, and the absurdity of driving here isn’t lost on me. It can’t be more than two hundred yards between our front doors, but walking in heels under the desert sun and arriving at my neighbor’s disheveled before heading to the office sweaty is not an option.
Athena meets me at the door, and I’m struck by the casualness of her appearance up close—white robe, damp hair, bare feet. The robe gapes as she moves, revealing a white swimsuit underneath. The white’s fitting—there’s something almost mythological about her. It also makes me feel terribly overdressed.
“Thank you for the invitation, Ms. Stavros,” I say. “That’s very kind of you.”
She laughs and steps back to let me in. “Please, call me Athena. And you’re Ruby, right?”
