Chapter 24 Jordan
JORDAN
Istand in the mirror getting ready.
It's been four days since Matei first slid inside me, and I stopped pretending I didn't want this or want to leave.
I set down the makeup sponge and reach for the mascara, my hand steady despite the flutter low in my belly. The ache between my thighs is a permanent fixture now, a dull throb that reminds me of every time Matei's buried himself so deep I can't tell where he ends and I begin.
God, I love it. I must be ovulating or something because I can't get enough. The stretch, the fullness, the way he growls my name when he comes.
Romanians are crazy in bed. Who knew?
I drag the mascara wand through my lashes, thickening them into dark fans. I blink twice, checking for clumps.
I cap it and grab the lipstick, a deep rose that makes my mouth look like it's begging to be kissed, and it is, for one man only.
I glance at the clock on my phone. It reads 10:15.
Forty-five minutes until the driver arrives.
Matei scheduled me an appointment at some upscale salon in Brentwood.
Hair, nails, the works. He kissed my forehead this morning before he left and told me to relax, to let someone else take care of me for once.
And I'm being chauffeured there in his Rolls-Royce.
I swipe the lipstick across my bottom lip, press my lips together, and step back to assess.
I'm wearing black jeans that hug my ass, a white silk blouse, and the Cartier necklace.
I look like I belong in Matei's world now. Like I was always meant to be here.
Whose life is this?
I slip on a pair of heeled sandals and grab my purse, not the old ratty one Matei confiscated, but a new Chanel bag he bought me on Rodeo Drive. The leather is buttery soft under my fingers.
I walk downstairs, my heels clicking against the marble floors. One of Matei's men, Sorin, I think, I'm trying to learn people's names around here, waits by the front door. He nods when he sees me.
"Ms. Robertson," he says, opening the door. "The car is ready."
The Rolls-Royce gleams in the circular driveway, black as sin and just as beautiful. The driver steps out and opens the rear door, his face blank and professional.
"Thank you," I say, sliding into the backseat.
Even though Matei's not with me today, the car still smells like him. The door shuts with a heavy thunk, sealing me into quiet luxury.
As we pull away from the mansion, I fish my phone from my purse and scroll to Lindsey's number. I haven't been able to get ahold of her. She's done this before, disappeared for a week or two without warning, but something feels off this time.
I hit call.
It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
"Hey, roomie." I force my voice to sound unbothered.
"I haven't been able to get a hold of you in like a week.
If it's like last time, where you went with that rich Italian to Italy for two weeks, just send me a text.
Something, so I know you're okay. I'm getting kind of worried. Call or text me, okay? Love you."
I lower the phone and stare out the window as we make our way to Brentwood. The city sky is hazy from the sunlight and smog.
Thirty minutes later, the driver turns onto a tree-lined avenue, slowing as we approach a sleek building. I recognize it immediately. A fashion magazine did a spread here a few years ago, some celebrity-owned salon that charges thousands for a haircut.
Of course Matei sent me here.
The driver opens my door, and I step out onto the sidewalk. The air smells like expensive perfume and freshly cut grass.
"I'll be right here when you're finished, Ms. Robertson," the driver says.
I nod and turn toward the entrance.
The salon's interior is all white with bright colored accents. It's kind of got a lounge vibe that screams exclusivity. Soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, and a large eighty-inch TV is mounted on the far wall playing a fashion show on mute, models strutting down a runway in impossible heels.
A woman in a black dress approaches, her smile bright.
"Ms. Robertson?"
"Yes. That's me."
"Welcome," she says and looks at her computer. "Looks like we have you scheduled for the full treatment today. So hair, nails, and," she pauses and clicks her mouse, "a head massage. It was added by Mr. Ionescu this morning."
I smile. I mentioned at breakfast this morning that I had a slight headache and that it was probably nothing. Matei must have called ahead.
"That sounds perfect," I say.
The woman leads me through the salon, past stylists working on other clients, and we stop at a private room in the back, smaller and more intimate, with a massage table draped in white linens.
"We'll start with the massage," the woman says. "Then we'll move you to the main floor for hair and nails."
I nod. "Sounds good to me."
The masseuse comes in, and she's nice and works thoroughly on my head, neck, and shoulders, which I'm thankful for.
My head instantly feels relief, and the scent of lavender and eucalyptus fills the dark room as I drink my cucumber water and relax.
"All done," she says. "When you're ready, we'll head to the main floor."
I soon follow her back out. The main floor is bustling now, more clients filling the chairs. I'm escorted to a stylist with bright pink hair.
"Jordan, right?" she says, her smile genuine. "I'm Becca. Let's get you gorgeous, girl."
I settle into the chair, and she drapes a cape over my shoulders, running her fingers through my hair.
"Oh my God, you have beautiful hair," she says. "So thick and healthy. What are we thinking today? Trim? Layers?"
"Just a trim and a blowout," I say. "I don't want to lose the length."
"Perfect. Let's add a gloss treatment as well. You're going to look amazing."
Another stylist joins her, and they work in tandem, sectioning my hair and snipping away split ends. I relax into the chair, letting the tension bleed from my shoulders, trying to remind myself what Matei said about letting others take care of me.
They compliment my hair a few times, and each compliment makes me sit a little straighter, feel a little prettier. It's been so long since I felt like this. Pampered.
They add the gloss to my hair and give me the best shampoo treatment of my life. The smells alone send me to another place. The blowout afterward takes forever, but it's worth it.
My hair falls in glossy waves down my back, catching the light with every movement. Becca holds up a mirror so I can see the back, and I can't stop smiling.
"You like it?" she asks.
"I love it."
"Good. Let's get you over to nails."
I move to another station, this one overlooking a beautiful park.
The nail technician is a tiny woman with a floral tattoo sleeve, her hands steady as she files and buffs my nails.
I choose a deep red polish for my fingers and a softer pink for my toes.
She hands me a glass of champagne and works in silence, letting me zone out.
My toes are still drying when the TV flickers, the fashion show cutting to a breaking news graphic.
brEAKING NEWS scrolls across the bottom in bold letters.
I glance up, curious, and my heart stops.
A picture fills the screen. A face I know too well. Gray hair, smug smile, the kind of confidence that comes from never facing consequences.
Brian Saunders.
The words beneath his photo read: LEGENDARY FILMMAKER AND PRODUCER brIAN SAUNDERS FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL ROOM.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
No.
No, it can't be.
My hands grip the armrests of the chair.
The news anchor's mouth moves, but there's no sound. Just the silent ticker scrolling details I can barely process: found early this morning... no signs of forced entry... investigation ongoing...
It's a coincidence. It has to be.
Brian was shady. He had enemies, I'm sure. Plenty of people who could have done this.
Yeah. That's it.
Not Matei.
Not because of what I told him.
My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat.
The nail technician glances at me. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I force a smile, my face numb. "Yeah, I'm fine."
She nods and goes back to painting my nails, oblivious.
I stare at the screen, at Brian's face frozen in time. The man who would haunt my nightmares for months after everything happened.
Matei wouldn't, though. He couldn't.
Except... he absolutely could.
I think about the way he looked when I told him Brian's name. The way his jaw tightened, his eyes going cold and flat.
I think about the man at the restaurant, the one who grabbed me. The way Matei drove a steak knife through his hand without hesitation.
I think about the Bulgarians at the club.
Why wouldn't he kill Brian?
The ticker scrolls again: LAPD asking anyone with information to come forward...
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I nearly jump out of the chair.
I fumble for it, keeping the hand she's working on flat on the table.
It's a text from Matei:
How's the salon, fluture?
I stare at the message, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Did he do this?
I type back.
It's great. Thank you.
Three dots appear. Then:
Good. I want you to feel like a queen. Because you are mine.
A wave of something hot and dizzying washes over me. This wasn't just a murder. It was a message. It was a twisted act of service. He saw something that hurt what belonged to him, and he removed it from the world.
A part of me, the part that still remembers being a scared girl from Washington, is horrified. It's screaming that this is so wrong.
But it's a very small part of me now.
And it's being drowned out by a strange, dark warmth spreading through my chest. A feeling of being so thoroughly protected, so possessively cherished, that the moral lines of the world begin to blur and fade. He didn't just kill a man. He killed my monster.
I look back up at the TV. Brian's face is gone now, replaced by footage of the hotel swarming with police. He's just another story. He's been erased.
The good girl in me hopes it's all a terrible coincidence.
But the woman sitting here, the one he calls his, she knows it's not.
Deep down, I hope he made him pay for every tear, every moment of humiliation he caused me. I hope he made him suffer.