As the elevator descended, her mind drifted back to the break-in.The flowers, the rearranged items—violations she could still feel in her bones.And this morning, yet another detail had stopped her cold: her desk supplies had been changed.Every pen and pencil had been shifted slightly, and her charcoal pencils—all of them—were now sharpened to perfect, identical points.
That kind of precise, deliberate intrusion wasn’t random.
The kind designed to make hernotice.Someone wanted her to know that he or she had invaded her space.
Natalie’s shoulders tensed as the elevator reached the lobby.She crossed to her car, the chill in her gut deepening.Who would take the time to do something so specific?Who wanted her to feel this creeping awareness, both at home and at work?
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she gripped the wheel for a moment before starting the engine.The security cameras she’d ordered were due to arrive today, and she prayed they’d finally give her answers—answers she wasn’t sure she wanted.
But for now, she had a job to do.She forced herself to push the unease aside, pulling out of the parking lot and heading toward Heritage Square.Still, a part of her couldn’t shake the quiet certainty that the day’s surprises weren’t over yet.
Chapter 8
Twenty minutes later, Natalie stood outside the enormous house, her gaze traveling slowly up the magnificent façade.Three full stories of pale stone and intricate wrought iron balconies rose above her, the railings curling into delicate shapes that spoke of artisanship from another era.She suspected there was a hidden basement entry somewhere—an architectural quirk common in late 1800s homes, often used by servants.
Despite its grandeur, the place seemed too still.The kind of stillness that didn’t invite one inside to settle down for a spontaneous chat.
She had just lifted her hand to knock when the door swung open.
A tall, blonde woman in impossibly high heels filled the frame.For an instant, Natalie thought she was looking at a mannequin—impossibly thin, motionless—until the woman flipped her curtain of golden hair with a dramatic flourish, some strands catching in the wind.
Recognition clicked.Monica Levington.Super-model Monica Levington who had walked the runways of Milan, Paris and New York, not to mention several other high visibility shows over the past year.
“You’re here!”Monica’s voice was high-pitched enough to make Natalie’s ears flinch.She clapped her hands in delight, the movement making her skin-tight jeans creak faintly.Her sheer, diaphanous top fluttered with the motion, leaving little—too little—to the imagination.
Natalie’s eyes darted briefly to the neighboring windows, hoping no one was watching this peculiar welcome.She extended her hand with a polite, professional smile.“Ms.Mosey?”she asked, needing to confirm the name from her appointment booking.
Monica let out a tinkling laugh.“Oh, that’s just the name I use when I’m, you know, trying to be incognitient.”
“Incognito?”Natalie clarified, arching one brow.
“Yeah, that!”Monica laughed breezily, then seized Natalie’s hand and tugged her inside before she could say more, nearly pulling her off balance.They stopped in the middle of a wide, open… space.
“This,” Monica announced, sweeping her arms in a grand arc, “is what I need you to transform!”She twirled in place, wobbling on her heel and catching herself with a giggle that didn’t sound entirely natural.
Natalie’s gaze moved over the room.Sleek, minimalist lines.Stark furniture.Every surface pristine.The kind of deliberate, curated space that didn’t beg for filmy curtains and romantic clutter—the very style Natalie was known for.
“My fiancé owns the house,” Monica said suddenly, following her gaze.“But there’s no way I’m living in a bachelor pad like this.It’s so stark.So cold.”She shuddered theatrically, flipping her hair again.
Natalie’s pulse ticked upward.Fiancé?There was nothing in the appointment notes about a partner—let alone one who owned the property.
Keeping her tone even, she began to circle the space, taking in the layout, trying to picture the existing owner’s tastes.“What kind of décor would you prefer?”
Monica’s eyes lit up.“I want you to create the same kind of vibe you did at that other house.”She snapped her fingers as if to jar her memory but came up empty.“You know, that romantic vibe with the filmy curtains and candles everywhere!”She sighed, the sound overly dreamy.“It was so seductive.”
Natalie’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.So that’s what this was about—reducing her work to candles and gauze.Monica clearly didn’t understand the layering of textures, colors, and lighting that had transformed Maggie Humphries’ home into an elegant sanctuary.
Still, this woman was the client—at least for now.“I can help you make changes to this space,” Natalie said, keeping her voice smooth.
“Oh, goody!”Monica squealed, bouncing on her toes.“Let me show you the rest of the house.”
Natalie followed as Monica drifted from room to room, talking in vague circles about “softening everything” and “adding romance,” her tone dismissive toward the existing décor.
She waved a manicured hand at several modern paintings, including a striking Jackson Pollock.“That one,” she sniffed, “looks like something my niece scribbled on.”
Natalie’s jaw tightened.She recognized that piece—it had sold for sixty-one million dollars at auction three years ago.The meticulous curation, the sheer value of the art and furniture, didn’t match Monica’s flippant tone.
A new thought began to take shape.Does she even have the authority to change any of this?
