So I drag myself to the kitchen.
My eyes are hardly open as I pad down the hallway. Sunlight pours into the living room, assaulting me with its cheeriness. The chaos of my new life is so excruciating that I wake up feeling hungover most days, an ironic joke since I hardly drink anymore. I hardly do anything anymore. I shield my eyes against the light and I almost miss what is sitting in the doorway.
Are those… clothes?
My eyes are open now as I walk over and evaluate. Sure enough, there is a rack of clothes. They aren’t mine, but guessing by the size and styles, they are for me. I mean, it’s not like there’s another woman sleeping here, unless the cloud bed really does have me knocked out.
My eyes narrow as I approach it. Like the whole thing might be strapped with a bomb.
“What the hell are you up to?” I ask out loud before carefully sifting through the clothes. There’s work attire, obviously. Skirts and blouses, all things I would pick. A couple dresses both formal and more casual. A pair of jeans. Athletic wear. Leisure. Even pajamas.
Then I see shoes. The bottom rack is literally shoes. And bras? In my size?
Alright. Who is stalking who? For real.
“No.” I dust my hands and back up with a smile while shaking my head. “You are not going to buy me with—are those Louis Vuitton? Fuck me.”
A pair of pink pumps on the shoe rack has me on my knees on the floor sifting through the rest of them.
Damn this man.
Alright, well. Maybe I can be bought. Obviously I need to look good for the contract. And it’s not like he can’t afford it. Or like he doesn’t owe me. He has been an absolute prick lately.
With my head spinning, I make my way to the kitchen for coffee. But then I stop—again—because there, sitting next to the coffee maker, is a little red envelope. The handwriting on it is very clearly Ransome’s.
My heart skips a beat in my chest, but I silently tell it to calm its tits. It could say anything. It could be anything.
I run my finger along the inside, carefully tearing it open. Inside is a white note. Not a card, just a simple note.
A few things to help you get by.
— Ransome
P.S.—Don’t worry about picking up coffee. I’ve made other arrangements.
I toss the note on the counter with a persecuted sigh. Great. He’s probably going to fire me. That way, he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. The clothes are a parting gift before he sends me packing down the New York sidewalk, looking for a new job, a new life, a new name.
I knew it was all too good to be true.
Realizing the time, I hurry up and grab an outfit off the rack and get ready for work. Ivan will be knocking in about ten minutes. I decide on a pleated back and white short skirt, a simple black blouse and opaque tights with black pumps. The pink Vuittons can wait for another day. An occasion that doesn’t involve my demise.
As we drive, Ivan keeps his eyes on the road. At least, I think that’s where he’s looking. He wears sunglasses all the time, even at night. I can’t help but wonder if the man ever sleeps. Or if he gets to go home at some point during the night.
I glance at him in the rear view. He’s a put together man on the outside, always a suit, always black. His mouth is slack with a down-tipped frown. His skin is worn. Like you can tell his job isn’t just working as a valet. He’s seen some shit.
“Long night?” I ask.
Nothing.
“I don’t know about you, but I was not ready to get up this morning.” I smile.
Nothing.
“So do you sleep on the porch or in the car? Because I swear you never leave.”
Fucking crickets.
“You don’t talk. That’s cool. I can respect that.” I take in a deep breath and let it out. “Man, I could really go for some coffee. How about you?”
