Chapter 3
Nicole
Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.
I read Boyana’s message and groan at the pain pulsing through the soles of my feet. High heels should come with a built-in masseur for post-party recovery. One day, when I have my own finances, I’ll make sure my household staff includes one. A necessity, not a luxury.
I call Boyana, and she answers on the second ring. “You didn’t forget Vanessa’s costume party, did you?”
I’ve been awake for five seconds and I’m already frowning. If my mother saw me, she’d give me the usual lecture about facial expressions, wrinkles, and the miracle of Botox.
Costume party? For some inexplicable reason, images of creepy dolls and murderous clowns flash through my mind. The memory of the gift resurfaces. ‘Happy Birthday, Harvest 290.’ My stomach twists with an odd, persistent fear. Just a prank, Nicole!
“You still there?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here, Bo.”
“I asked if you’d forgotten about the party…”
“I very intentionally forgot.”
“Ha. Cute. But seriously. Vanessa’s blowing up after that reality TV show. The party’s gonna be insane. Also, we need to talk about last night. I’m literally catatonic over that sexy guy! We have to stalk him on all socials. Like, full NASA mode.”
Glimpses of Branimir’s striking green eyes undressing me replay in my mind.
But the moment my thoughts return to my birthday party, a different feeling arises.
My heart races at the memory of those icy chills, touching every part of my body.
The breathlessness, the sensation of drowning. Of being trapped. The leather pouch…
The closed bathroom door catches my attention.
“The twins said the media’s gonna be all over it. So yeah, we’re going,” Boyana adds.
“Did you see that godawful photo they posted of me?” The pain in my feet sharpens as I rise to stand.
“You’re amicable!” Boyana laughs. I scoff, but don’t bother correcting yet another misused word. Instead, I tread to the bathroom. “So, what are you going as? Please don’t half-ass it this time!”
“Why bother? I can’t stand Vanessa or her little pack of desperate sugar babies…” My fingers curl around the door handle.
“Because—hello—reporters! And because it might be fun? Who knows, maybe there’ll be someone worth looking at. I’m going full sexy vampire. White foundation, blood-red lips, smoky eye makeup, and one very illegal dress.”
I tune her out and slowly press down the handle.
“And you, Niki? What are you wearing?”
It takes a second before I respond. “I’ve got all day to figure it out. Might just show up as a cat or something.”
“A cat? Girl. You should be a Greek goddess. Or an angel. You’d kill it.”
“I’ll think about it…” I push the door open. Darkness spills out, but I turn on the lights, chasing it back.
“Fine, don’t be late. There’s gonna be some kind of masked raffle thing, too.”
I focus on the trash can. “A raffle?”
“No clue what that even means. But it sounds fun!”
To me, it sounds like another sad cry for attention. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7 PM. Not planning on drinking anyway.”
“Perfect. I’ll be ready, babe.”
The call ends.
I tiptoe to the trash can and peer inside.
It’s empty.
My knees buckle, forcing me to kneel for balance.
That’s not possible… I blink at the empty trash can.
It can’t be. Someone from the house staff must’ve come in while I was asleep and cleared it out. Weird that I didn’t hear anything—weirder that anyone would get in while I was sleeping—but sure, that explains it.
A logical explanation.
And yet, the icy knot in my stomach won’t loosen.
I swallow hard and close my eyes, trying to calm down.
With my vision gone, everything else becomes more vivid.
The chill from the tiles seeps into my skin, making me shiver.
I attempt one of those breathing tricks meant to help, but give up almost at once.
Every inhale intensifies the scent—vanilla and blood, thick in the back of my throat.
Suddenly, the bathroom isn’t a bathroom anymore. It’s a schoolyard. I’m on the ground, and the asphalt digs into my knees. Tears sting my eyes, and humiliation wraps around my lungs like a snake, squeezing tight.
Don’t cry. Don’t let the last drop of your pride slip away.
With effort, I shove the memory away and pull myself back into the present.
I open my eyes. Scan the trash can again.
And then a shadow stirs along the wall, just at the edge of my vision.
I spin around.
Nothing.
Shivering, I rise to my feet.
I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Uni exams were a nightmare, and I spent most of my time running errands for my dad. Maybe Boyana’s right. A ridiculous costume party could be just the distraction I need.
* * *
I rummage through my wardrobe, but there’s nothing suitable for tonight—except for that old “bunny” costume I wore to a Halloween party in tenth grade.
A revealing black corset, paired with satin shorts featuring a fluffy white tail.
The outfit includes a crisp white collar, a tiny black bow tie, and velvety ears attached to a headband.
I hold the hanger up in front of me, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe.
The “bunny” brings back memories, like when half the partygoers’ jaws literally dropped as I strutted in dressed like that.
The other half were girls. Not that the swarm of sycophants and desperate copycats didn’t fall over themselves showering me with compliments.
No need for flattery, girls. I’m well aware.
I’ve spent years polishing this armor until it reflects nothing but awe.
The bunny costume is put away. I need to make a quick trip to the mall to find a more suitable outfit for an architecture student—a costume that says “seductive,” but not “slutty.”
I slip into a chic summer dress from Valentino’s latest collection, in my signature midnight blue shade. Clutching a pair of heeled sandals and my handbag, I step into the hallway.
I tiptoe down the stairs to the ground floor. Shoes on, I step inside the garage and freeze midway across the space.
My Mercedes is gone. So is my father’s S-Class. The only cars left are the convertible he occasionally takes for a spin, and that ancient Golf he refuses to part with, out of some sentimental attachment to the days when he couldn’t afford better.
I race back into the house, storming into the living room. Our newest maid—a Ukrainian woman whose name I’ve already forgotten—is wiping down the kitchen counter.
“Where’s my mother?” I snap.
She blinks at me wide-eyed and lifts the cloth with a vague gesture, pointing at the garden.
I cross the living room, rummaging through my bag for my phone, about to call the police.
There was a news report just the other day, saying some gang of car thieves was targeting the area.
If those same idiots broke into our garage…
But it’s not my mother I find. My father is at the table by the pool, deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize.
“Someone’s stolen my car!” My voice rises.
He peers at me over the rim of his sunglasses and waves a hand. “Relax, sweetheart. The S-Class is getting an oil change. Georgi took it in this morning, so I used yours to head to the office. It’s parked on the main driveway. You do know the spare key is in my safe, don’t you?”
I scan the salt-and-pepper streaks in his jet-black hair, holding back the urge to frown. I could ask why he didn’t take his convertible or that rusted old Golf, but the answer is clear in my mind: because everything in this house, including my mother and myself, belongs to him.
The other man smirks. “I’d say she gets her looks from you, but I’d rather not start our partnership with a lie.”
“She takes after me in many ways, just not in the looks department. Thank God for that.” My father chuckles. “Nicole, this is Mr. Tolev, Senior Building Inspector of Sofia, and my new partner on the Livadi skyscraper project. This”—he tips his chin at me—“is the future Director of Urban Design.”
I hide my surprise behind a tight smile.
My father has been “courting” the new Senior Inspector since his appointment three months ago.
He must have finally found a way into his heart.
That means smooth execution for his upcoming construction projects.
Making him a partner in one, though? That’s a big move.
But then again, my father always knows what he’s doing when it comes to business.
I scan the stranger. He’s in his forties, dressed in a tailored suit despite the oppressive heat, and when he takes off his sunglasses, his eyes shine in a familiar way. It’s the same expression my father wears—a quick, calculating flash that gauges your worth in seconds.
“Director of Urban Design? Quite ambitious. You’re studying at the architecture university in Sofia, I assume?” he asks, though the spark has already faded.
I nod once and face my father again. “May I have my car?”
He doesn’t bother replying. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slides a black credit card across the table. “Take a taxi.”
I hate taxis.
I hate the stench of stale leather baking in the summer heat, the seats clinging to my skin.
I hate how my father believes he owns everything including my time, my things, me.
I hate the way he tosses that card at me, like I couldn’t pay for my own damn ride if I wanted to.
But most of all, I hate the casual finality in his demeanor. Like he’s brushing off an irritating fly.
I snatch the card off the table and stride away.
“Kids, eh?” the Baron chuckles behind me.
* * *
In the evening, the taxi pulls up outside a house in Dragalevtsi. Marble columns flank the driveway, each one crowned with winged lions. In the center of the courtyard stands a three-tiered fountain, topped with a gilded Cupid taking aim.
Boyana presses her forehead against the window, scanning the estate.
“The house belongs to Vanessa’s boyfriend,” she explains. “Some mafia guy.”