Devon
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to decide if last night at Obsidian had actually happened, or if it was just a creative nightmare stapled to the end of a closing shift at Margie’s.
If it had been a dream, it explained everything: the purple lights, the wall of desire, the way Kazimir looked at me like he could see the architecture of my bones.
I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life, which was pathetic because I couldn’t even remember my life before six months ago.
I forced myself up, one vertebra at a time, shuffling to the kitchenette and firing up the world’s loudest coffee maker.
It started hissing and shuddering, like it, too, hated to be awake.
The place was a dump, all stained linoleum and water damage that crept like mold into my soul, but the rent was two weeks behind and the landlord hadn’t kicked me out, so I called it “charm.” I splashed water on my face.
The person in the mirror was still me: white-blonde hair sticking up in a bird’s nest, pale skin gone translucent in the afternoon light, my eyes that were always too big for my face and too bright for comfort.
I looked to be in my early twenties. Maybe I was.
I turned off the shower, shivered in the hot air, and wiped the mirror clear with a hand towel.
I yanked on pilled black leggings and a thrift store Eagles T-shirt.
Margie didn’t care what I wore as long as it was clean.
My entire prep process took six minutes.
I was supposed to be at the diner by four.
I towel-dried my hair and ran a brush through it until it was tangle-free.
I was lucky that even though I use dollar store shampoo and conditioner, my hair still somehow maintained a glossy shine.
I was about to put my shoes on when a knock at my door stopped my heart. Nobody came to my apartment unless they were selling something, or worse, collecting. The guy who chased me last night flashed through my mind. I tried to stay as still as possible so maybe they’d think nobody was here.
Another soft knock. It was almost polite.
This time a voice vibrated through the door like a cello note; he called, “Ms. Wade? Devon Wade?”
The last time someone used my whole name, they were trying to get me into therapy. Still, I stayed silent, hoping he’d think I was out or asleep or dead.
He waited, then spoke again, this time more gently: “It’s Nikolay Kozlov. My father sent me. He asked that I deliver a message personally.”
I sucked in a breath so hard it made my head throb. I recognized the last name—Kozlov, like Kazimir.
The smart thing would be to tell him to go away. I imagined myself doing it, the “fuck off” rolling off my tongue like muscle memory. But when I opened my mouth, the words wouldn’t form. Instead, I found myself moving to the door and unlocking the deadbolts.
When I opened it, he turned to face me, blue eyes lighting up.
If Kazimir were a marble statue, this one was a Disney prince version—softer at the edges, hair the color of sunlight.
His suit was navy, the shirt beneath white and crisp, and even his shoes looked like they’d been polished by a team of valets.
The package under his arm was large, wrapped in pale blue tissue, and tied with a ribbon.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Wade,” he said, smiling. He was so put-together it almost hurt to look at him, especially knowing how I looked in comparison.
I stared at him for a moment too long. “What can I do for you Mr. Kozlov?” I asked, trying for tough but coming off more like “scared Chihuahua.”
He raised his hands, palms out, in a perfect gesture of harmlessness. “Only to relay a message, and to give you this.” He lifted the package. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the door.
I hesitated, then opened it wide enough for him to hand the parcel through. His fingers brushed mine, cool and dry. The package was heavier than it looked.
“What is this?” I said, hugging it to my chest.
“A gift from my father. He thought you might be in need.” His smile was apologetic, as if he were embarrassed on my behalf. “May I come in? Only for a moment.”
He didn’t move until I nodded, then stepped into the room with a dancer’s grace. He looked around, taking in my sad little space.
I set the package on the counter and said, “I don’t know your father. Not really. I don’t know you either.”
He nodded. “Understandable. But he knows you, Ms. Wade. Or at least, he wants to.” He folded his hands behind his back, suddenly very serious. “He asked me to deliver this to you, along with an offer.”
That got my attention. “Offer?”
His lips quirked. “A job. My father is… in need of someone with your skills.” He looked me over, and I realized he had no idea what my “skills” were. Neither did I, unless you counted delivering food to hungry people with questionable dining choices.
He seemed to sense my confusion. “He believes you may have an aptitude for accounting. Numbers, organization, discretion.” He ticked off the words like items on a checklist. “The position pays well. Housing and meals provided, if you wish.”
If I’d been holding the coffee, I’d have dropped it. “This has to be some kind of prank.”
He smiled again, warmer now. “No prank, Ms. Wade. My father is not a man who jokes.” I almost laughed at that, but he said it so seriously it killed the impulse.
I glanced at the package, then back at him. “Why would I take a job with a man I only met once?”
“Because,” he said, “my father believes you to be wise, and he trusts you. He rarely trusts anyone. I can wait outside while you get changed. My driver will take us to the club. You owe it to yourself to at least hear him out.”
I stared at the package on my counter.
“You’re right. I have very little to lose.”
I opened the door and waved my hand for him to wait in the hall, then shut the door behind him.
I opened the package of clothing and let the implications sink in.
A man I’d met one time, for maybe two hours, had sent his disturbingly attractive son to offer me a job, housing, and a wardrobe upgrade.
I’d seen honeypot scams on YouTube, and this felt like one, except the honey was real, physical, and somehow perfectly tailored to my size, right down to the shoes.
I poked the loafers with a finger; they flexed in a way only expensive things do.
Outside my door, I could hear footsteps, like Nikolay was pacing the hall in slow, patient figure eights.
I let him wait. Not because I wanted to play hard-to-get—God, I was likely the easiest person on earth to get with a good enough offer—but because the idea of putting on the new clothes felt illicit, maybe even dangerous.
I’d spent the last months patching together clothes from whatever Goodwill had on the half-off rack.
These clothes weren’t for camouflage. They were armor.
After a minute, I gave up and stuck my head out the door. “Are you still there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He appeared instantly, like he’d been waiting for me to peek out. “Of course,” he said, and there was something so guileless in his face that it made me want to be better, just so I wouldn’t let him down. “Did you have questions?”
I thought about closing the door again, but instead I let it swing wide and leaned on the jamb. “Why me?” I said. “I’m not even sure I know how to do accounting. Or assistanting. I don’t have a resume, or references. I don’t have a Social Security number.”
Nikolay’s smile was steady, like a metronome.
“My father believes in certain intangibles. Judgement, resourcefulness, the ability to adapt.” He said it as though he were reading from a press release, but then his expression shifted, and I could see the curiosity leak through.
“And you have a work ethic,” he added, more softly.
I braced my arms across my chest. “Is this—” I couldn’t quite say it. “Look, I’m not signing up to be some kind of courtesan, okay? I’m not for sale.”
He went pale, then actually took a step back, mortified. “No, Ms. Wade. That’s not what this is.” His voice was so serious I almost laughed. “My father would never—he is not that kind of man.”
The relief came out as a cough. “Sorry. I just don’t get it. You show up here, offer me a job out of nowhere…” I gestured to the clothes, “and now you’re acting like it’s totally normal?”
He smiled then, the first real smile I’d seen from him.
“It is normal in our world. My father values loyalty and competence. He likes to pay in advance.” He reached out, almost touching my arm but stopping short, as if he’d remembered something last minute.
“Try the clothes. See if they fit. If you hate them, you don’t have to wear them.
But, the people who work at Obsidian have an aesthetic.
My father would hate for you to feel self-conscious. ”
“That’s considerate of him. And… I’m not saying yes,” I said, as I closed the door behind me, fingers already greedy for the softness of the jacket.
He answered through the door. “You don’t have to. I’ll wait.”
It took me three tries to fasten the belt on the high-waisted wide-leg pants.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The tank was simple: a soft, luxurious brushed cotton that felt like a caress against my skin.
The blazer was navy blue with a satin lining that hugged my frame as though it had been tailored exactly to my body, and the color contrast to the tan pants was perfect.
Even the black shoes made me feel as though I was walking on pillows.