Almost.
I grab my jacket and leave.
The door clicks shut behind me.
Nico's bedroom door stands slightly ajar.
I knock twice anyway. Wait. Count to ten in my head like Giulia told me.
Nothing.
Good. Empty room. Easy task. In and out.
I push the door open and step inside, immediately hit by the scent of him. I don't know which specific cologne he's wearing and my nose has no business memorising his smell like it's important information.
The room is... not what I expected.
Minimal. Almost severe. A massive bed dominates one wall, perfectly made. No decorative pillows. No throw blankets. No warmth. Dark wood nightstands flank each side, one holding a single lamp and nothing else. The other has a phone charger and what looks like a worn paperback, spine cracked from use.
I don't let myself look at the title.
Massive windows span the far wall, heavy blackout curtains pulled back to let in light. A desk sits in the corner. Papers stacked in neat piles, laptop closed, three monitors dark. Everything has a place. Everything is controlled.
Of course his room looks like this. The man probably alphabetizes his socks.
I snort at my own joke, then immediately feel guilty.
The walk-in closet is my destination. Giulia's instructions were specific: Nico wants his clothes organized by color. The new laundry girl mixes things up. Check it weekly.
Simple enough.
I flip the closet light switch and step into a space bigger than Lily's bedroom. Suits line one side. Blacks, navies, all hanging with an inch of space between each hanger. The other side holds shirts, sweaters, casual wear I've never actually seen him in. Does Nico Sartori own jeans?
Apparently yes. Dark wash, folded on a shelf like they've never been worn.
I start at the left, checking that black suits are together, navy suits separate. My fingers brush fabric that probably costs more than my car. Had cost more than my car, back when I owned one.
A black sweater has migrated into the navy section.
There you are, troublemaker.
I relocate it, smoothing the cashmere before hanging it properly. The softness of it makes me think about his hands. Always moving, always tapping. Would they feel like this? Soft underneath the rough?
Stop.
I yank my hand back like the sweater burned me.
This is a job. He's my employer. He hired me out of pity or obligation or whatever rich people feel when someone saves their life. Gratitude that comes with a price tag. A transaction, nothing more.
But I keep thinking about him.
The way he knelt down to meet Lily at her level that first night. How his voice dropped when he said you don't have a choice and somehow it didn't scare me the way Jack's commands used to. The look on his face when he caught me singing.
I've been trying to read him.
Pathetic.
The thing is, I've only ever been with Jack. My entire adult life has been shaped by one man who told me daily that I was lucky he wanted me. That no one else would. That I should be grateful for his attention because I certainly didn't deserve it.
