“Bossy.”
“Caring,” she retorts.
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “That too.”
Snow begins to fall outside.
In the hallway, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number.
Today. Noon. The car will be waiting. Be there.
I slide the phone back into my coat without responding.
Ten days.
Christmas is barreling toward me like a runaway train.
The promise I made, sitting on my sister’s hospital bed, her hand in mine…
I will fulfill it. No matter what.
CHAPTER 4
CASSANDRA
The gate to Damien’s place is intimidating, to say the least.
A camera’s red blinking eye studies the car. The gate slides open after the driver speaks my name into a small black speaker box.We enter. The drive curves through winter bare trees, the car stopping before a modern villa of glass and stone.
The driver steps out and opens my door. The air has that knife-edge cold that burns your lungs and catches every exhale.
Day One. One month. No refusals. Total submission.
My stomach does a slow roll as I think about the assignment I agreed to.
Damien does not stand at the door in anticipation, which somehow makes his presence even more prominent.
Instead, a woman I would cast instantly as the head of staff steps out. Late fifties, silver hair in a French twist, black dress, a strand of pearls around her neck. Her posture is professional but not stiff.
“Miss Hewitt.” Her voice is kind, with a bit of Slavic tucked into it. “Welcome.” She smiles with a touch of warmth. “I am Mrs. Koval. I run the house here.”
“Hello,” I say, trying to upgrade to poised and probably landing on nervous. “Thank you for the welcome.”
“Mr. Kozlov is not at home at the moment. He asked that I show you the rooms and go over the household practices.”
Practices, not rules. Even the words wear gloves here.
She takes my overnight bag from the driver before I can and gestures me inside. Warm air meets my face like hands cupping my cheeks. There’s a faint smell of cedar, clean linen, and something darker—Damien, maybe?
The foyer belongs in a magazine filled with photos of spaces you fantasize about but could never afford. Slate floors. High ceilings. A center table with an abstract sculpture that looks like a wave.
We move into a long corridor, its walls heavily filled with art—abstract pieces that look like fragments of dreams with bruised blues and crimson red. All of it muted and precise.
“You will be staying in the eastern suite,” Mrs. Koval says, walking with purpose and not wasting a single movement. “Everything you need will be provided for you, for your comfort.”
Comfort. The word lands strangely, as if it’s a word my body knows but has not often experienced. “Thank you.”
“Staff is on the property from six a.m. until eleven p.m. After that, we are on call.” We pass a large glass door that overlooks a slate terrace and an ink-dark pool thinly skinned with ice.“Security is twenty-four hours.” She doesn’t point out the cameras; she doesn’t need to—I can practicallyfeelthem on me.
