What is wrong with me? I’m not some blushing virgin, so why the hell is a makeout session—a very cliché kitchen-counter makeout session, no less—reducing me to this trembling mess?
Once my legs stop their rebellion, I push away from the counter and leave the kitchen without looking back, even though I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, his mouth on my breasts....
How am I ever going to clean in there without getting flashbacks of Roan all over me?
Focus.I need to focus. I rub my temples as I wander aimlessly through the living area, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
The place is spotless, so there isn’t even any actual work to distract me from spiraling.
I make my way to the back of the hallway where the staircase leads upward, my mind still churning with dangerous questions.
Did Roan find something on me? I knew he’d try to investigate me after seeing how I beat Frederik’s ass, but I didn’t think he’d actually find anything.
There’s no way his decision to start calling me Katina is random. Not when it’s so close to my real name.
Is there?
The stairs open onto a spacious lounge area with floor-to-ceiling windows that mirror the ones downstairs, sleek black railings lining the edge, and a stunning black chandelier hanging over a cluster of soft-looking ottomans. The whole space is gorgeous, and offers a perfect view of everything below—the front door and the living area.
That’s how he saw me come in earlier.
On the other side is another hallway with multiple doors. Bedrooms, probably. And stuck to one of the doors is a note:Katina’s room.
There it is again. That name.
I swallow hard, reminded of my conundrum. Does he know my real identity? My hand trembles as I peel off the note.
No, no way.
If he knew, I wouldn’t be here playing house. I would be in thefrigoriferor some basement torture chamber.
That thought makes me relax a bit. It was probably just a lucky guess on his part—he has never hidden his distaste for the name Mia, so he invented an alternative.
Right. That’s all it is.
I nod to myself, trying to believe it. If I continue making a big deal out of him calling me Katina, it might actually lead to him becoming suspicious. Better to just accept it and move on.
I open the door to my assigned bedroom and immediately gasp.
Oh. My. God.
I’m not exactly poor—and Emily’s apartment that I shared with her in Manhattan wasn’t cheap—but this room exists on an entirely different tier. Soft, elegant grey walls wrap around the space, and polished marble glimmers under the light like it’s trying to impress me.
That huge floor-to-ceiling window I’m starting to recognize as a signature feature of this house makes the replica of the late Hana Përmeti’s garden feel impossibly close. For a beat, it’s like the whole scene has stepped forward into the room, more photograph than view, and I’m caught staring straight into it.
A queen-sized bed anchors one wall, dressed with white and black pillows and a white-and-dark-blue comforter, all perfectly arranged below an abstract painting in matching shades. The shaggy rug at its foot spreads out in a soft, invitingcloud, and my toes actually itch to test it. Nightstands flank the bed, each crowned with a small art deco lamp that fits the whole clean, intentional vibe of the room.
Directly across, a dark grey ottoman mirrors the frame seamlessly, and near the door, a compact desk with its own lamp completes the space.
As I step inside, I kick off my shoes, not wanting to track dirt across the gorgeous rug. The second my toes sink into its softness, a quiet sigh escapes me, and I let myself enjoy the feeling for a moment before drifting towards that massive window. Up close, it’s obvious this room has the first-class view on the garden, the kind of vantage point you only get if someone planned every line of this house with intent.
Roan must have calculated the angles carefully, making sure every bedroom had at least some slice of this place to look out on. The thought sends a stupid little pinch through my chest. He’s lucky—he has something to remind him of his deceased mom. I have nothing to remember my parents by. Nothing but Kayla.
The pinch fades as reality settles back in, and I step away from the window, reminded of my purpose here. My attraction to Roan aside, maybe living in his home isn’t the worst thing. I could find the information Kayla’s captor needs faster with unrestricted access twenty–four/seven.
Curiosity nudges me towards the rest of the room, and I spot two doors. One opens into a nice medium-sized bathroom, the other into a small walk-in closet that’s more than enough for the few things I own.
Satisfied, I leave the bedroom and head back downstairs with renewed purpose. It’s time to start snooping, under the guise of cleaning. I make my way to the small closet by the front door I noticed earlier, and sure enough, it’s fully stocked with cleaning supplies: vacuum cleaner, broom, mops, bleach, soap, everything a professional maid might need.
