Taking care of some business in the city. Back by six.
—Cassandra
It’s ridiculous how formal my name looks floating there on the paper. I addThank youunderneath before I can stop myself.
I set the card on the desk and weight it down with the phone box, so it won’t wander.
The phone. Should I take it? I decide not to. It’s my first day, and I am supposed to rest. Besides, I can’t have him tracking me, finding out where I work.
I change into my work clothes, pull on my coat, slip my wallet and keys into my bag, then stand in the doorway for a second. I look back at the suite. It reminds me of a picture I could step out of.
On my way out of the mansion, I pass by the Blue Salon again. The door is open, the winter light making the room look like someone pressed pause on a film.
When I reach the front doors to exit, Mrs. Koval is there. She takes in my coat, my bag, my determined face.
“Miss Hewitt,” she says.
“Mrs. Koval.” I lift my chin. “I’m going to the city. I left a note.”
She says nothing about approval or disapproval. Instead, she asks, “Should I have a driver take you personally?”
“The train is faster,” I say. “Unless that’s not allowed.”
I don’t want a driver taking me and reporting back my comings and goings.
“What is allowed is what Mr. Kozlov has arranged,” she says. Then she says, “Today, he has arranged nothing other than for you to relax and orient yourself.”
A kindness disguised as protocol. “Train, then.”
She opens the door, cold air instantly finding my cheeks. “Please do not be later than six.”
I pat the pocket where the new phone would be if I’d brought it and feel a small thrill at not carrying his leash just yet. “I’ll be back by then.”
She nods once. “Don’t forget your gloves.”
I smile, surprised by how much the instruction warms me. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside, the world is the kind of cold that puts color in your cheeks and order to your thoughts. I tuck my chin into my scarf and move down the steps.
The villa sits low against the winter sky. The gate opens obediently when I approach, as if it’s already decided I belong. I walk through, the city waiting for me.
CHAPTER 5
CASSANDRA
Boutique Thierry sits on a quiet block in SoHo.
Inside are velvet stools, mirrors that flatter, and racks spaced just so. The air smells faintly of steam, silk, and just a touch of citrus.
I push through the glass door, clock in, and call out a hello to Marisa, the other clerk on duty today. She waves from behind the counter, already fussing with a pile of invoices.
Routine takes over. I zip a gown onto a hanger, steam the creases out of a sleeve, smooth a hem with the flat of my palm. At the villa, it’s all marble and rules, here it’s pins and receipts. The afternoon moves slowly.
A stylist comes in to borrow a few dresses for an event. A woman in a camel coat asks if her sequined column dress is “too much.” I tell her she looks like a dream, and she smiles like she believes me.
I keep checking the clock. I wrote on the note I left for Damien that I’d be back by six, promising Mrs. Koval the same. That means I’ll have to make an excuse to leave early. The new phonewaits at the villa, still in its box, the five-minute reply rule buzzing at the back of my mind even from across the city.
The bell over the door chimes at two o’clock. Raquel Chesterfield comes in like a draft of cold air. She’s a regular—one of those faces people recognize from old campaigns and glossy spreads, though the years haven’t left her untouched.
