Chapter 7
Sky
I ascend the stairs to the first floor, stifling a yawn. The night was restless as I spent hours contemplating how to operate in the coming months without attracting the attention of the press. This is paramount.
No scandals atTouch av lyx.
That's the golden rule. Regardless of how well I represent my father, if even the slightest piece of information about me and my past becomes public, it won't bode well for him. Employees have always had confidentiality clauses in their contracts with staggering penalties, so I don't need to worry about those. But everything else is a problem.
Simply staying in Stockholm is dangerously risky. Nevertheless, I have to do it. That, and something else.
When I arrived at my parents' house yesterday, I was too weak. I knew how dangerously close the day had brought me to a boundary I must never cross again. So I merely collapsed onto the living room sofa and closed my eyes.
Now, I stand before this wooden door with elegant embellishments. The incoming sunlight reveals a thin layer ofdust on the handle. My toes press into the plush carpet that stretches the length of the hallway.
Although I'm fairly certain I know what isn't behind this door, a part of me hopes for something different.
With a deep breath, I press down the handle. The door swings open.
I swallow hard.
Where my bed used to be, there's a treadmill. Only a grimy gray outline remains to remind me where my desk once stood. The television is still there, but someone has carefully removed the butterfly stickers, leaving no trace of adhesive residue.
It's as if I never existed. I wonder if keeping my room intact was too painful for my father.
"All of this, you'll have again," I remind myself aloud. "Show him what you're made of. Prove that you're worth being his daughter."
With determination, I march back into the hallway. I need to be at the airport in an hour. I descend the stairs, ignoring the vacant spaces on the walls where my pictures once hung. I call for a taxi, specifying that I'll be picked up atStureparken. I can easily walk the short distance to the park, ensuring the taxi driver won't associate me with my father.
Just as I zip up my suitcase, the doorbell rings. It can only be Lil. She must have had a change of heart, now wanting to fly to Milan with the photographer and me, to support me just as she does with my father. Or maybe Stig talked to her again.
With hopeful anticipation, I open the door.
It's not Lil.
It's the guy from yesterday, the one whose face lingered in my mind for far too long after our collision. Today, he radiates in a way that even makes the thinly frosted garden behind him seem somehow cozy.
"Yes?" I say, just as I realize I shouldn't have gone to the door. Officially, I don't exist. I'm neither Gustav Blohm's daughter nor am I in Stockholm. But I could be the housemaid. Yes, that would make perfect sense.
He runs a hand through his light brown hair, causing it to stick out in all directions. "Skady Blohm?"
I involuntarily flinch. How does he know my name? "No?" Oh, that sounded like a question, didn't it? Now he probably thinks I'm clueless.
In response to my reaction, he furrows his brow. "That sounded like amaybe," he comments softly. Then a smirk plays at his lips. "Hello, I'm—maybe or maybe not—Kjell."
Kjell. I dig into my memory. Do I know a Kjell? If so, where from? Something about his eyes seems vaguely familiar.
Perhaps.
"Are you following me, Maybe-or-Maybe-Not Kjell?" I say out of desperation because if I've learned one thing from my father, it's that the best defense is a good offense.
"Never," he says with a feigned look of shock, one I'm not entirely buying.
"Oh yeah?" I raise an eyebrow. "Then why am I seeing you for the second time within twenty-four hours?" He didn't expect that. I can tell from how he looks down at the ground, somewhat embarrassed. "Why are you here? What do you want?" My words come out harsher than intended, but my fear of being recognized is simply too great.
"Compensation," he replies with such seriousness that I'd almost believe him if his lips weren't twitching suspiciously.
"Did you flatten your nose against the glass insert of the door too much?" It slips out, and I'm afraid I might even be smiling. Inappropriately so. Unprofessional. But there's something about him...
