Mary
Islept like the dead.
Which is probably the most inappropriate comparison I could make, considering recent events, but there it is. Eight hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep in a bed that probably costs more than my yearly salary.
The sheets feel like they’re made of clouds and good intentions. The mattress cradles every curve without making me feel like I’m sinking into quicksand. Even the pillows seem offended by the idea of neck pain.
It’s so quiet here that I can hear my own heartbeat.
No Mrs.Chang shuffling around upstairs. No traffic from the street. No air conditioning units dying dramatic deaths in the middle of the night. Just… silence. Perfect, expensive silence.
I shouldn’t have slept this well.
I’m essentially a prisoner in a luxury penthouse, owned by a man who kills people for a living. I should be having nightmares. I should be planning escape routes. I should definitely not be stretching like a cat in imported sheets.
But here I am, feeling more rested than I have in months.
What does that say about me?
I sit up, and reality crashes back in waves. The USB drive sits on the nightstand like a tiny black harbinger of doom.
I rake a hand through my hair, pushing it off my forehead with the kind of sharp, annoyed flick that feels more like me than anything else in this penthouse. The sheets are too soft. The mattress too perfect. Even the way I swing my legs over the side feels surreal, like I’m trespassing in someone else’s life.
My toes sink into plush carpet before meeting the smooth wooden floor as I pad toward the bathroom. Warm underfoot, like something out of a holiday resort. I splash water on my face. I barely recognize myself. My hair’s mussed from sleep. Skin clearer than it’s been in years, thanks to whatever designer soap Boris stocked the place with.
Wearing a pale silk pajama set I didn’t pick, didn’t buy, and somehow still love. The top has tiny buttons and delicate piping, and the pants glide over my hips like they were tailored.
When did I become someone who owns silk pajamas?
Don’t think about it. Don’t get used to it.
My body wants to sink into the comfort, but my brain keeps screaming it’s temporary. A loan. A trick. Sooner or later, this ends. And when it does, the silk won’t come with me.
I brush my teeth, then step into the shower. The water pressure is perfect, the temperature exactly right. Even the soap feels different; creamy, luxurious, leaving my skin softer than it’s ever been. It smells of bergamot and vanilla, clean and warm and somehow comforting.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge wrapped in a towel that’s impossibly soft. Time to face the designer wardrobe.
The blouse hanging on the back of the door has a Brunello Cucinelli tag. I don’t even want to look, but I do anyway. $1,250.
The pencil skirt beside it? Theory, $425.
God. I’m holding someone’s mortgage in hanger form. I lift the blouse like it’s made of spun glass, half afraid I’ll sneeze on it and owe the Russian mafia a down payment. The skirt gets the same treatment: two hands, no sudden moves.
I slip into the work clothes, carefully removing price tags as I go. The blouse fits like it was made for my body, the skirt hugs every curve without being inappropriate. The fabric feels like liquid silk against my skin.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and freeze.
“Goddamn,” I whisper to my reflection. “You look expensive.”
Right. Expensive spy who could get killed at any moment.
Somehow, that strikes me as so absurd I actually laugh. A short, slightly hysterical sound that echoes off the marble walls.
Mary Sullivan, personal banking associate turned luxury assassin target. If this were a movie, I’d give it two stars for believability.
I smooth the blouse down over my stomach, tug at the skirt’s waistband like maybe I can make it fit better than it does. Adjust the borrowed luxury, pretending it belongs to me. Then I draw in a deep breath.
Time to face whatever fresh hell awaits me in the land of the living.
