Chapter 3
THEA
"Call me Gabriel."
"I don't care what your name is."
The sleek black sedan pulls through tall wrought-iron gates before gliding up a circular driveway and coming to a stop outside a mansion on the Upper East Side. The mansion is all pale stone and tall windows, lit from within by soft orange lights that glow like a museum after hours.
I press myself against the door, as far from Gabriel Moretti as the back seat will allow.
He hasn't said a word to me since we left, other than telling me his name. He's just been sitting there, one arm draped over the seat back, occasionally glancing at me like I'm some puzzle he needs to solve.
The driver kills the engine and gets out, then comes over to open my door. I don't move.
"Out," Gabriel says, his tone sharp and commanding.
I swallow hard and climb out, my legs shaky. I immediately feel his gaze tracking the movement.
It is an unseasonably warm evening in late spring. As I exit the vehicle, I realize how quiet it is. I look around at the tall plants bordering the fence. You can't see or hear the city, aside from the thin glittering rectangles of Midtown in the far distance.
Gabriel gets out of the car and moves to my side, placing his hand on the small of my back. His touch grounds me, though it shouldn't.
"Come."
He nudges me gently toward the stone steps that lead to the massive arched wooden doors. My eyes move along the facade, taking in the detail of the stonework, the small gargoyles perched on the corners of the windows, the year 1851 etched into the stone next to the door.
We're about to walk into a piece of New York history.
The front doors open before we reach them, and a man steps out. He's older, sixty-something if I had to guess, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit. He has kind eyes. When he sees me, his eyebrows lift.
"Sir," he says carefully, a trace of an Italian accent in his speech. "I wasn't aware that we were expecting a guest."
"She's not a guest." Moretti walks past him into the house, leaving me standing on the steps like an package. "She's staff. Get her settled."
The older man cocks his head to the side and blinks. Then he looks at me, really looks, taking in my smudged makeup, my wrinkled dress, and the way I've got my arms wrapped around my body like I might fall to pieces if I let go.
"I see," he says softly. Then, to Moretti's retreating back, he asks, "And her name, sir?"
Moretti pauses in the entryway but doesn't turn around.
"Thea."
With that, he disappears into the house.
The older man sighs, then offers me a small, apologetic smile. "Oscar Benedetto. Head of the household staff. You look like you've had a very difficult night."
I let out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "That's one way to put it."
"Come." He gestures me inside. "Let's get you something warm to drink."
I follow him into a foyer that could swallow my entire studio apartment. Marble floors. A chandelier overhead that looks like it was stolen from Versailles. Stairs that curve upward like something out of a gothic novel.
It's beautiful.
But it's a cage.
We travel through a gorgeous sitting room with antique furniture, then into an industrial kitchen that's somehow cozy. Copper pots hang from hooks above a large island. The marble counters gleam. Outside the large windows is a vast moonlit garden.
He pulls out a chair at a small breakfast nook in the corner. "Sit. Please."
I do. But mostly because my knees are about to give out.
He puts a kettle on, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from decades of practice.
I watch him in numb silence as my brain tries to catch up, to process everything that's happened.
I'm trying to make sense of how I went from being a maid wiping down toilets at the Belvedere to sitting in a billionaire's kitchen after being sold at an auction.
How I walked through a door I should never have walked through.
How I followed a man I didn't trust because social pressure is its own kind of gravity, and I've never been good at pushing back against it.
"Thea."
I flinch, recognizing the deep voice.
I turn in my seat to see Gabriel standing in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. My eyes linger on his big hands, his muscular forearms. I hate how my body betrays me whenever I look at him.
"Yes?" My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
He crosses the room, leans against the counter, and folds his arms. He's studying me.
I scan the kitchen, looking for something I could use as a weapon, wondering if that is even an option. Could I actually fight my way out of here?
No chance.
"You are going to stay here," he says. "And you're going to work for me. You will do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"
I stare at him. "Work for you," I repeat.
"As a maid. Oscar will explain your duties."
"You paid a million dollars for a maid?"
"It's better than the alternative." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. "Those other men at the auction? They weren't bidding on you so they could bring you home to dust their bookshelves, Thea."
"And what if I just leave? We're in the middle of Manhattan. I could scream and have half the NYPD here in no time."
Nothing in his expression or posture suggests he's bothered in the least by my threat.
"In the event that happened, you would likely get the half that are on my payroll."
My stomach tightens. He doesn't need to say any more. I think back to the gate that surrounds the property. It has to be at least twenty feet tall and has all those dense hedges in front of it. There's no way I could scale it.
I'm stuck.
I clear my throat and straighten my posture. "You own me," I say, bitterness dripping off my words. "That's what you said. My body. My life. So why pretend this is a job?"
"Because it is." He pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. I force myself not to shrink back. "I paid a million dollars for you. That makes you mine. But I'm not interested in keeping you in a gilded cage. You'll work. You'll earn your keep. And in exchange, you'll be safe."
"Safe." I laugh, and it comes off a little unhinged. "Safe from what?"
His jaw tightens. But he doesn't answer. The moment hangs in the air until Oscar clears his throat delicately. "Sir, perhaps Miss Thea would benefit from some rest. It's quite late, and she's clearly been through an ordeal."
That's putting it mildly.
Gabriel's gaze flicks from Oscar to me.
"Fine," he says. "Show her to her room. Make sure she has everything she needs."
"Of course, sir."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door, looking back over his shoulder.
"One more thing, Thea."
I meet his gaze, and it's like looking into the eyes of the devil himself.
"Don't try to leave."
And with that, he's gone.
I sit there, shaking, until Oscar sets a cup of tea in front of me.
"Drink," he says gently. "It will help."
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms. I take a deep, slow breath.
Looking around the kitchen, the gorgeous, expensive kitchen, I try to convince myself that this is nothing more than a horrible dream.
That tomorrow morning I'm going to wake up and realize none of this happened, that I never followed Mick down that hallway, that Sylvie is still at that bar ordering her second drink.
But I didn't drink enough for that excuse. I was completely clear-headed when I walked through that door.
Which means I have no one to blame but myself.
The thought sits in my stomach like a stone.
"He owns me?"
"That's about the long and short of it," Oscar says.
"He really thinks he owns me?"
Oscar hesitates, then sighs before easing into the seat across from me.
"Mr. Moretti is a complicated man," he says carefully. "But he's not cruel."
I think back to what Gabriel said about the other men at the auction and about Sylvie. I think of her at a different mansion, one not so opulent, with some creep making her do God knows what.
My stomach tenses, and tears form in my eyes.
Oscar doesn't miss a beat. He slides out of his chair and snatches a box of tissues from the counter. I take the two seconds he's gone to compose myself.
"Here, young lady."
I snatch one of the tissues and dab my eyes.
For a moment, I consider opening up to him about Sylvie, about how goddamn scared I am. But then I realize that I barely know the guy.
Oscar pushes the tea closer. I take a sip, letting the warmth steady me.
He glances away for a moment, as if trying to figure out the best way to say what he has on his mind.
"You are in a new world now, bella," he says. "A world of lions, of men who live their lives on scales that people like you and I can't imagine. But I sense strength in you. You'll adapt."
Another sip. I can taste that it's chamomile, sweet and floral.
"What happens if I try to leave?" I ask quietly.
His expression softens. "I would strongly advise against it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only thing I can say."
We sit in silence for a moment as I take another few slow sips of tea. Sylvie's face appears in my mind over and over.
Oscar stands, smoothing his jacket.
"Come," he says, "you must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room. Bring your tea."
He extends his hand and I take it. Oscar helps me out of my seat and we leave the kitchen, making our way through the house, up the grand staircase, and down another hallway. It's lined with portraits of imposing men and women with stern expressions.
Oscar stops at a door near the end and opens it. The room is not at all what I expected.
It's big, but not ostentatious. There's a four-poster bed with soft white linens. A window overlooking a dark expanse of what I assume is a garden. A small sitting area with a velvet armchair and a lamp that casts a warm, golden light.
It's beautiful.
But it's still a cage.
"There are clothes in the wardrobe," Oscar says. "Tub, shower, and toiletries in the en suite. If you need anything, there's a bell by the bed. Someone will come."
I nod, numb.
When he lingers in the doorway, I see something similar to pity in his eyes.
"Miss Thea," he says quietly, "I do not know what brought you here tonight. I do not know why Mr. Moretti spent a small fortune on you. But I can tell you this: Mr. Moretti does nothing without reason. If he brought you to this house, he believes that you belong here."
"I don't belong here," I whisper.
Oscar's smile is one of understanding. "Perhaps not yet. But that may change. Buona notte."
With that, he closes the door softly behind him.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the closed door.
No drugs. No fog. Just me and every choice I made tonight, spread out in front of me like evidence.
I followed Mick because I didn't want to make a scene.
Sylvie followed because she was looking for me.
And somewhere across this city, she's paying for it.
I will find her.
I don't know how.
But I am completely, devastatingly clear-headed.
And I am going to use every bit of it.