Chapter 4
CASSANDRA
The gate to Damien’s place is intimidating, to say the least.
A camera’s red blinking eye studies the car. The gate slides open after the driver speaks my name into a small black speaker box. We enter. The drive curves through winter bare trees, the car stopping before a modern villa of glass and stone.
The driver steps out and opens my door. The air has that knife-edge cold that burns your lungs and catches every exhale.
Day One. One month. No refusals. Total submission.
My stomach does a slow roll as I think about the assignment I agreed to.
Damien does not stand at the door in anticipation, which somehow makes his presence even more prominent.
Instead, a woman I would cast instantly as the head of staff steps out. Late fifties, silver hair in a French twist, black dress, a strand of pearls around her neck. Her posture is professional but not stiff.
“Miss Hewitt.” Her voice is kind, with a bit of Slavic tucked into it. “Welcome.” She smiles with a touch of warmth. “I am Mrs. Koval. I run the house here.”
“Hello,” I say, trying to upgrade to poised and probably landing on nervous. “Thank you for the welcome.”
“Mr. Kozlov is not at home at the moment. He asked that I show you the rooms and go over the household practices.”
Practices, not rules. Even the words wear gloves here.
She takes my overnight bag from the driver before I can and gestures me inside. Warm air meets my face like hands cupping my cheeks. There’s a faint smell of cedar, clean linen, and something darker—Damien, maybe?
The foyer belongs in a magazine filled with photos of spaces you fantasize about but could never afford. Slate floors. High ceilings. A center table with an abstract sculpture that looks like a wave.
We move into a long corridor, its walls heavily filled with art—abstract pieces that look like fragments of dreams with bruised blues and crimson red. All of it muted and precise.
“You will be staying in the eastern suite,” Mrs. Koval says, walking with purpose and not wasting a single movement. “Everything you need will be provided for you, for your comfort.”
Comfort. The word lands strangely, as if it’s a word my body knows but has not often experienced. “Thank you.”
“Staff is on the property from six a.m. until eleven p.m. After that, we are on call.” We pass a large glass door that overlooks a slate terrace and an ink-dark pool thinly skinned with ice.
“Security is twenty-four hours.” She doesn’t point out the cameras; she doesn’t need to—I can practically feel them on me.
“I’m a little surprised to be here,” I admit, remembering truth is one of Damien’s three commandments and trying not to trip on the first step. “I thought the arrangement would be more coming and going.”
“This is quieter,” she says simply. “Quieter is safer.”
I let that sit. Quieter is also harder to explain to a sister who thinks I’m applying for a bank loan.
She shows me the library—a large space with a cathedral ceiling, comfy leather chairs, a fireplace, and shelves of books that have one of those cool ladders attached to reach the top.
The kitchen is next—all stainless steel and granite, professional-grade—softened by bowls of citrus and small counter appliances that actually look used.
Mrs. Koval leads me down a long hallway, pausing at carved double doors, her hand resting on the knob as if weighing whether or not to let me in. Finally, she slowly opens it.
“This,” she says, her voice soft, “is the Blue Salon.”
The room is immense, cloaked in midnight and cobalt, walls rich as velvet, rugs plush enough to drink up any sound, couches that look too elegant to touch but are too inviting not to.
A four-poster California king bed sits in the middle, an oversized centerpiece.
An ensuite bathroom is off to the left. The windows are tall but shuttered with heavy slats.
Privacy is built into every inch, as if daylight itself has to ask permission to enter.
The room serves as both a lounge and a bedroom and is strangely inviting.
Mrs. Koval gives me a coy smile. “It is a private room. Only used as needed.” No further explanation is given, nor is it necessary.
I stand in the doorway, my pulse quickening.
The air smells faintly of cleaning products and smoke, and something else that I don’t want to think about.
Sex clings to the walls, lingering like a memory.
My skin prickles at the thought of what will happen to me in this room over the next month—what I’ll agree to, what I’ll discover.
I press my palms together and place them beneath my chin, wondering how much of me will be left when I walk out of here.
“It’s nice,” I mumble as she shuts the doors to the Blue Salon. I mean, what else is there to say?
“Mr. Kozlov prefers order,” she says as we begin to walk again. “He does not like fuss. He does, however, like things that are done well.”
“I gathered.” I think of the room back at his penthouse, lavish but tasteful.
We reach the east hallway. Mrs. Koval stops at a tall door and opens it with a little flourish, revealing a section of the house that looks like a good-sized apartment.
“This is yours,” she says.
The suite feels like stepping into someone else’s fantasy.
There’s an entryway, a long hallway, and three rooms, each one indulgent in its own way: a sitting area with a cozy sofa and a small desk, sunlight sliding across polished wood and a view of the pool; a bedroom with a bed so big it could fit five of me, a cashmere throw the color of ash folded at its foot; and a bathroom made of marble with a tub deep enough to totally submerge myself, shelves stocked with glass jars of bath salts, bottles of scented oils, and lotions.
On a tray by the sink, a card written in precise, neat handwriting awaits: WELCOME, MISS HEWITT.
“The wardrobe is through there.” Mrs. Koval nods toward a door. “There are items within you may use, with more deliveries to come.”
“Deliveries,” I repeat, unable to wrap my head around my new reality for the next month.
“Clothing,” she clarifies. “Sizes have been provided by Miss Bennett, the woman you met the night of the interview. If something does not fit exactly, you will tell me.”
“Of course.”
“In the kitchen,” she continues, “there is always food prepared for reheating, but if you require something in particular, you may ask. Mr. Kozlov insists his guests eat properly.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “I’ve been told.”
Her eyes flick to me, mildly curious. If she knows anything about the terms, she intends to let me drown in ambiguity, rather than throw me a lifeline.
“There is a schedule on the desk,” she adds. “It is not complicated.”
That means it’s complicated. I step to the desk and look. Tomorrow says there will be a fitting at four, dinner at seven.
Today reads simply: ORIENT. REST. EAT.
“Today he is out until evening,” she says. “He does not like to be disturbed when he returns from the city.”
“Noted,” I say, feeling a little faint. When he comes back, the house will adjust its posture to accommodate him, and I will be here pretending I know how to exist within the geometry of his preferences.
As we pass the bedroom, I notice a white box with a ribbon on the small table by the bed. I stop. “May I?” I ask, pointing to it. I am determined to be a version of myself he can’t fault for manners.
“Of course,” Mrs. Koval replies. I lift the lid. Inside is a phone, a leather case, and a card. The card’s message is printed in the same uncompromising font as the schedule.
USE THIS.
Beneath it, a smaller line in pen: Five-minute response window.
“Helpful,” I say sarcastically.
“He likes efficiency and does not like to be kept waiting,” she reminds me.
I set the phone back in the box. My overnight bag sits on the bench at the foot of the bed, looking shabby yet brave.
“Miss Hewitt,” Mrs. Koval says, drawing my attention back, her chin lifting slightly. “There are some practicalities you need to know.”
“Okay.”
“House staff uses the service hallway. You may use any common space, though if Mr. Kozlov is using the Blue Salon, you will wait to be invited. The library closes at 10 p.m. No shoes on the carpets. The pool is not heated, though I’m sure he could be persuaded to make an exception if you’d like it heated.
” She taps the palm of her hand with her forefinger. “And we keep to the schedule.”
“I’m good with schedules,” I say, which is both the truth and an aspiration.
“If you require something, ask me. If you do not wish to ask me, ask Miss Bennett. Do not ask Mr. Kozlov’s men. They are here to guard and protect, not to fetch things or give directions.”
His men. The phrase is like a little cold wind down my back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That is good to hear,” she replies, prim as can be.
I smile properly. “Thank you, Mrs. Koval.”
“Rest,” she says. “And eat.”
“And orient,” I add.
She replies with a curt nod, then departs.
Once she’s gone, I unzip my bag, hoping it will anchor me to something practical. Inside, my work clothes—black blouse, skirt, and tights—suddenly look like artifacts from a different life.
The cashmere throw on the bed is thick and soft. I drag it over my shoulders like a cape and sit on the edge of the mattress.
Ten days. Dr. Miller’s voice in the hospital was so caring and gentle when he said it, which made my lie feel even worse. Ten days that determine whether or not my sister will be alive to see next Christmas. I glance at the schedule. Orient. Rest. Eat.
I go to the walk-in closet and open the door. The light comes on automatically. Inside hangs a row of luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. Tags hang off the zippers with dates. I can only assume the dates signify when he wants to see me wear the corresponding item.
There is also a drawer labeled Lingerie. I don’t open it. At this point, I fear I may never stop blushing. On a shelf sits a neat stack of soft-looking loungewear, folded like origami and tied with ribbon.
I touch the fabric, running my hand over the luxurious softness. The kind of softness I certainly cannot afford. The thought causes an ache in my core. This is too much.
In the bathroom, I peruse the bottles of bath oils and jars of bath salts. There’s a candle that smells faintly of pine and something smoky. The mirror is flattering without lying. I splash water on my face and stare at myself.
My phone alarm goes off, reminding me that my shift at work—real work, not whatever this is—starts in an hour and a half.
If I’m going to keep my job at Boutique Thierry, I have to keep showing up. Damien’s commandments—privacy, precision, truth—line up in my head. Privacy I can keep; I won’t say his name to a soul. Precision I can handle. Truth is where I’ll have a problem.
I sit at the desk and pull a card from the tray. The paper is heavy, the pen smooth. I print carefully because I don’t know if he’ll judge me for my loopy handwriting.
Mr. Kozlov,
Taking care of some business in the city. Back by six.
—Cassandra
It’s ridiculous how formal my name looks floating there on the paper. I add Thank you underneath before I can stop myself.
I set the card on the desk and weight it down with the phone box, so it won’t wander.
The phone. Should I take it? I decide not to. It’s my first day, and I am supposed to rest. Besides, I can’t have him tracking me, finding out where I work.
I change into my work clothes, pull on my coat, slip my wallet and keys into my bag, then stand in the doorway for a second. I look back at the suite. It reminds me of a picture I could step out of.
On my way out of the mansion, I pass by the Blue Salon again. The door is open, the winter light making the room look like someone pressed pause on a film.
When I reach the front doors to exit, Mrs. Koval is there. She takes in my coat, my bag, my determined face.
“Miss Hewitt,” she says.
“Mrs. Koval.” I lift my chin. “I’m going to the city. I left a note.”
She says nothing about approval or disapproval. Instead, she asks, “Should I have a driver take you personally?”
“The train is faster,” I say. “Unless that’s not allowed.”
I don’t want a driver taking me and reporting back my comings and goings.
“What is allowed is what Mr. Kozlov has arranged,” she says. Then she says, “Today, he has arranged nothing other than for you to relax and orient yourself.”
A kindness disguised as protocol. “Train, then.”
She opens the door, cold air instantly finding my cheeks. “Please do not be later than six.”
I pat the pocket where the new phone would be if I’d brought it and feel a small thrill at not carrying his leash just yet. “I’ll be back by then.”
She nods once. “Don’t forget your gloves.”
I smile, surprised by how much the instruction warms me. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside, the world is the kind of cold that puts color in your cheeks and order to your thoughts. I tuck my chin into my scarf and move down the steps.
The villa sits low against the winter sky. The gate opens obediently when I approach, as if it’s already decided I belong. I walk through, the city waiting for me.