He doesn’t say anything, just watches me like I’m another puzzle to solve. I look down, my fork suddenly fascinating.
“There,” I whisper. “That’s my story.”
He leans back slightly, filing every word away.
He taps the edge of his plate once with his fork, then meets my eyes.
“Good,” he says. “That’s a history. I can work with history.”
Before the conversation can go any further, dessert arrives—rich chocolate cake with ganache. I open my mouth to protest, but Damien cuts me off.
“I insist.”
Something in his tone makes it impossible to argue. My lips twitch into a smile I can’t hide, and I take a bite. Sweet, dense, decadent. Heavenly.
When we’re done, he stands, satisfied, and says, “Your evening is yours. But you do not leave the house.” His hand brushes the ribbon as he passes, a quiet reminder, and then he’s gone.
My belly full, I retreat to my suite and sink into a bath that smells of lavender. I close my eyes, water lapping at my shoulders, and realize I feel something I haven’t felt in months: safe.
When I slip into bed, I fall asleep with a smile on my face, surprised by how easily I’m settling into this arrangement.
CHAPTER 9
CASSANDRA
When the morning light pours into the suite, I lie there, logging in my new reality. I’m on a ridiculously large and comfortable bed, pleasantly sore in muscles I forgot I own, and there’s a red ribbon still tied around my wrist.
My brain starts checking off the rules without asking—privacy, precision, truth.I feel my pulse start to surge, and I force myself to breathe slower. Breakfast, then work.
Work. What am I going to do about work? There’s no way I can juggle the boutique and Damien at the same time. His rules won’t bend, and Thierry won’t either. Christmas is the busiest season of the year; asking for leave now would be the same as quitting.
Two lives pulling in opposite directions, with me stuck in the middle, trying not to tear. I decide to at least get ready and get some food in me before stressing myself to pieces.
I shower quickly, tame my hair, and follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen. A plate is already waiting. Scrambled eggs, toast,and a quartered grapefruit that looks like it fell right off the tree. Mrs. Koval pours coffee with her typical poised air.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Good morning. And thank you.”
“Breakfast is part of the schedule,” she replies curtly. “No need to thank me.”
I take my plate to the terrace for privacy. A small heater keeps it comfortable, even with the winter chill. The trees are pencil-thin against a pale sky. I dial the boutique and wait for Sylvie to pick up.
“Thierry.”
“Hey, it’s Cassandra. About yesterday, leaving early. I need to explain?—”
“It’s handled,” she says, cutting me off but not unkindly. “Mr. Kozlov’s office called. Your availability is cleared for the month. We’ll hold your position; payroll will continue as scheduled. You’re expected back at the end of January. Focus on your internship.”
I go very still. The grapefruit bite turns to glass in my mouth. “My?—”
“Internship,” she repeats. “We’re proud of you. What an opportunity. And tell Mr. K that Thierry appreciates his… well, appreciation.”
“Right,” I say, after a beat. “Thank you.”
We hang up, my head spinning.
I should feel nothing but relief. My job is safe. Relief eventually does come but then gets knocked sideways by anger. He cleaned up my mess without asking me first.
