Presley
I followed Etienne downa hallway that stretched forever, my sock covered feet silent on hardwood floors that gleamed like honey. The walls were decorated with art, not the prints and the ceiling was so high I felt like I was walking through a cathedral.
"This is the guest wing," Etienne said over his shoulder. "Your room is at the end. Private. Quiet." He paused. "Safe."
There was that word again.
He stopped at a door, painted the softest shade of cream and pushed it open.
The breath left my body.
The room was painted a pale lilac that reminded me of the lavender Mum used to grow in the window boxes before she got too sick to tend them. White curtains cascaded from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, pooling in elegant folds on a carpet so plush my feet sank into it with each step. Cream and gold accents caught the light from a crystal chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace.
But, it was the bed that dominated the center of the room. It was a king-sized cloud of white linens and pale purple throws. Pillows were stacked against a tufted headboard, and there were dozens of them in varying sizes and textures, velvet and silk and something that looked like it might be cashmere. Blankets were layered at the foot, each one more luxurious than the last.
I could float on that bed. I could sink into it and never come out again.
"Is this..."
"Yours," Etienne said. "For as long as you're here."
I walked forward in a daze, running my fingers along the edge of a duvet. The fabric was impossibly soft. Cool against my fingertips.
"The bathroom is through here." Etienne moved to a door on the far wall and opened it. I followed, and—
Oh.
The bathroom was beautiful.
Carrara marble covered every surface. The floors, walls, the vanity with its double sinks and gold fixtures that gleamed under recessed lighting. In the center of the room sat a rolled-top bathtub, also gold, positioned like a throne. The moment I was alone, I was going to soak in it for hours with water up to my chin, and steam rising around me.
Beyond the tub, a walk-in shower took up an entire wall—multiple heads, a rainfall fixture, what looked like jets embedded in the marble. Glass doors stretched from floor to ceiling.
And through a door that was ajar, I glimpsed a separate toilet, because of course even the toilet had its own room.
"This is..." I trailed off again. I was going to need new words. My vocabulary hadn’t been designed for this level of luxury.
Etienne moved to the vanity and crouched, opening the cabinet beneath the sinks. He retrieved two bottles. One shampoo, one conditioner, and pressed them into my hands.
I looked at the labels.
"This is—" My voice cracked. "This is the brand the royal family uses."
"Oui." He said it like it was nothing. “I thought you would like the lilac scent."
I turned the lid of the shampoo bottle and smelled the contents. “Mmm. It’s really good.”
"Make yourself at home." Etienne smiled as he watched me. There was something kind in his expression. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. Take your time."
He left, closing the bathroom door behind him, and I stood there clutching the royal shampoo in a marble bathroom that was bigger than my childhood bedroom.
Then I looked at the bath, but decided I’d have a long soak later. I turned on the shower.
The water pressure was perfect as I stood under the rainfall head only a few minutes later. I let the water pound against my shoulders, washing away the helicopter travel, the greasy cafe, the nervous sweat and the persistentchill that had lived in my bones since the British weather has started to worsen in October.
I poured a large dollop of shampoo that smelled like heaven. I used too much of it. I didn't care. I was now earning five grand a week, I could afford to buy the next bottle myself.
By the time I stepped out, my skin was pink, my muscles liquid, and I felt more human than I had in months.
