He nodded and left, taking his coffee with him. I sagged against the counter. Lying to Mikhail shouldn't bother me. I lied to everyone here—about my past, my real name, the bruises I'd covered with makeup for the first six months of working here. What was one more lie? Except this one felt heavier. This one came with a contract and a countdown and the weight of Olek's expectations pressing down on my chest.
The staff started arriving at seven. I put on my mask—efficient, professional, in control—and delegated the day's tasks. Floors, laundry, the formal dining room that hadn't been used in weeks but still needed dusting. Everyone knew their jobs. They just needed me to tell them it was okay to do them.
"Katrina?" Elena, one of the younger maids, hovered near the pantry. "Mr. Sidorov left a note. He wants fresh linens in the master suite today."
My stomach dropped. "He changes his sheets every Monday."
"I know, but—" She showed me the note, written in Olek's precise handwriting. "He specifically requested you do it."
Of course, he did.
"Fine," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'll handle it."
Elena looked relieved. Nobody wanted to clean Olek's rooms—they were too personal, too close to the man himself. Most of the staff avoided the third floor entirely unless specifically ordered. I'd never had that luxury. As head maid, Olek's suite was my responsibility. I'd been in there dozens of times, always when he wasn't home. Always professional. Today would be different.
Today, I'd be in his space knowing that tonight, I'd be in his bed. I waited until after lunch, when I knew he'd be in meetings. Grabbed fresh sheets from the linen closet—the expensive Italian ones he preferred, thread count higher than my rent used to be. Climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The master suite took up the entire east wing. Bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet, and a sitting area that overlooked the garden. I'd only seen the bedroom and bathroom—the rest was always locked. Today, the sitting area door was open. I hesitated in the doorway. This felt like a test. Like Olek was giving me access to more of his space, more of himself, as a preview of what was coming. Or maybe I was overthinking it. I pushed inside and got to work.
Stripping the bed was mechanical. Fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcases. Everything went into the hamper. The mattress was massive—California king, probably custom-made. I tried not to think about what would happen on it in—I checked my phone—eight hours. The new sheets smelled like fabric softener and lavender. I tucked hospital corners, smoothed wrinkles, fluffed pillows. Made the bed I'd be unmade in tonight.
My hands were shaking.
"Stop it," I muttered. "You signed the contract. You took the money. This is happening whether you're ready or not."
I moved to the bathroom. Marble floors, a shower big enough for four people, and a tub that belonged in a spa. I replaced the towels, refilled the soap dispenser, checked that everything was exactly how Olek liked it.
Perfectionist, a control freak is what he was.
When I came back out, Olek was standing by the bed.
I nearly dropped the towels.
"You're early," I said, hating how breathless I sounded.
"I live here." He was in another suit—charcoal this time, with a black shirt underneath. No tie. Top button undone. "I can come and go as I please."
"I meant the meetings…”
"Finished early." He sat on the edge of the bed I'd just made, completely relaxed. Like he hadn't just scared ten years off my life. "The sheets are nice."
"They're the same ones you always have."
"Are they?" He ran his hand over the comforter. "They feel different."
Because he knew I'd touched them. Because he knew I'd been thinking about tonight while I made his bed. The bastard was playing with me.
"If you're done, I have other rooms to?—"
"Come here, Katrina."
My feet moved before my brain caught up. One step. Two. Until I was standing in front of him, close enough to touch.
He looked up at me. "Nervous?"
"No."
"Liar." But he smiled, just a little. "You're allowed to be nervous."
