“I’m a little surprised to be here,” I admit, remembering truth is one of Damien’s three commandments and trying not to trip on the first step. “I thought the arrangement would be more coming and going.”
“This is quieter,” she says simply. “Quieter is safer.”
I let that sit. Quieter is also harder to explain to a sister who thinks I’m applying for a bank loan.
She shows me the library—a large space with a cathedral ceiling, comfy leather chairs, a fireplace, and shelves of books that have one of those cool ladders attached to reach the top.
The kitchen is next—all stainless steel and granite, professional-grade—softened by bowls of citrus and small counter appliances that actually look used.
Mrs. Koval leads me down a long hallway, pausing at carved double doors, her hand resting on the knob as if weighing whether or not to let me in. Finally, she slowly opens it.
“This,” she says, her voice soft, “is the Blue Salon.”
The room is immense, cloaked in midnight and cobalt, walls rich as velvet, rugs plush enough to drink up any sound, couches that look too elegant to touch but are too inviting not to. A four-poster California king bed sits in the middle, an oversized centerpiece. An ensuite bathroom is off to the left. The windows are tall but shuttered with heavy slats. Privacy is built into every inch, as if daylight itself has to ask permission to enter.
The room serves as both a lounge and a bedroom and is strangely inviting.
Mrs. Koval gives me a coy smile. “It is a private room. Only used as needed.” No further explanation is given, nor is it necessary.
I stand in the doorway, my pulse quickening. The air smells faintly of cleaning products and smoke, and something else that I don’t want to think about. Sex clings to the walls, lingering like a memory. My skin prickles at the thought of what will happen to me in this room over the next month—what I’ll agree to, what I’ll discover.
I press my palms together and place them beneath my chin, wondering how much of me will be left when I walk out of here.
“It’s nice,” I mumble as she shuts the doors to the Blue Salon.I mean, what else is there to say?
“Mr. Kozlov prefers order,” she says as we begin to walk again. “He does not like fuss. He does, however, like things that are done well.”
“I gathered.” I think of the room back at his penthouse, lavish but tasteful.
We reach the east hallway. Mrs. Koval stops at a tall door and opens it with a little flourish, revealing a section of the house that looks like a good-sized apartment.
“This is yours,” she says.
The suite feels like stepping into someone else’s fantasy. There’s an entryway, a long hallway, and three rooms, each one indulgent in its own way: a sitting area with a cozy sofa and a small desk, sunlight sliding across polished wood and a view of the pool; a bedroom with a bed so big it could fit five of me, a cashmere throw the color of ash folded at its foot; and a bathroom made of marble with a tub deep enough to totallysubmerge myself, shelves stocked with glass jars of bath salts, bottles of scented oils, and lotions.
On a tray by the sink, a card written in precise, neat handwriting awaits: WELCOME, MISS HEWITT.
“The wardrobe is through there.” Mrs. Koval nods toward a door. “There are items within you may use, with more deliveries to come.”
“Deliveries,” I repeat, unable to wrap my head around my new reality for the next month.
“Clothing,” she clarifies. “Sizes have been provided by Miss Bennett, the woman you met the night of the interview. If something does not fit exactly, you will tell me.”
“Of course.”
“In the kitchen,” she continues, “there is always food prepared for reheating, but if you require something in particular, you may ask. Mr. Kozlov insists his guests eat properly.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “I’ve been told.”
Her eyes flick to me, mildly curious. If she knows anything about the terms, she intends to let me drown in ambiguity, rather than throw me a lifeline.
“There is a schedule on the desk,” she adds. “It is not complicated.”
That means it’s complicated. I step to the desk and look. Tomorrow says there will be a fitting at four, dinner at seven.
Today reads simply: ORIENT. REST. EAT.
“Today he is out until evening,” she says. “He does not like to be disturbed when he returns from the city.”
