Chapter 5
CASSANDRA
Boutique Thierry sits on a quiet block in SoHo.
Inside are velvet stools, mirrors that flatter, and racks spaced just so. The air smells faintly of steam, silk, and just a touch of citrus.
I push through the glass door, clock in, and call out a hello to Marisa, the other clerk on duty today. She waves from behind the counter, already fussing with a pile of invoices.
Routine takes over. I zip a gown onto a hanger, steam the creases out of a sleeve, smooth a hem with the flat of my palm. At the villa, it’s all marble and rules, here it’s pins and receipts. The afternoon moves slowly.
A stylist comes in to borrow a few dresses for an event. A woman in a camel coat asks if her sequined column dress is “too much.” I tell her she looks like a dream, and she smiles like she believes me.
I keep checking the clock. I wrote on the note I left for Damien that I’d be back by six, promising Mrs. Koval the same.
That means I’ll have to make an excuse to leave early.
The new phone waits at the villa, still in its box, the five-minute reply rule buzzing at the back of my mind even from across the city.
The bell over the door chimes at two o’clock. Raquel Chesterfield comes in like a draft of cold air. She’s a regular—one of those faces people recognize from old campaigns and glossy spreads, though the years haven’t left her untouched.
When her gaze lands on me, it’s clear that I’m staff, nothing more. I am totally fine with that.
“Good morning, Miss Chesterfield,” I say, professional and warm, because that’s my job.
The corners of her mouth turn into a smile that could grace a billboard and still not convince you.
“Sweetheart,” she says, voice like honey, “I need something devastating.”
“We have a few candidates,” I say, gesturing to the new winter collection. “Are you looking for a particular silhouette? Column, corseted, bias—”
“Something that will make everyone else disappear when I walk in,” she replies, eyes fixed on the mirror, admiring herself. “Nothing fussy. Damien hates fussy.”
The name lands sharp. My body wants to react, but I force it down.
“Damien?”
She raises her eyebrows, looking at me like I just climbed out of a closet.
“Damien Kozlov, of course. Surely even you have heard of him.”
I clear my throat and adjust my sleeve to make sure the ribbon is still hidden, pretending like she’s not talking about the man who essentially owns me for the next month.
“Oh, of course. You’re accompanying him to an event?”
She turns, hair swinging like a banner, lips curling just so. “His Christmas party,” she replies, letting it drop like a diamond on the floor. “You know, the one everyone talks about? Everyone who’s anyone gets in. Everyone who isn’t wishes they could.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be beautiful,” I say. The party has another reputation, but I don’t get into that.
She glides over to a rack and drags her hand along it, not looking at the clothes so much as enjoying the motion. “He’s very particular,” she adds. “He likes precision. Clean lines.” She stops on a red silk number with a slit that could be prosecuted in several states. “This. Size 2.”
“Of course.” I slide the hanger free. “We can start a room for you.”
“In front,” she says, as if privacy is for people who can’t command spaces. “I don’t have time to play hide-and-seek in back.”
“Right this way.” I lead her to the large mirror bank and drape the dress over a velvet stool. “Would you like a few options to compare?”
“Bring three,” she says. “Red, black, and something that says I’m the only woman in the room.”
“Chartreuse,” I say before I can stop myself, and she laughs, a bright, brittle sound.
“You’re funny.” Her eyes skim my face. “What’s your name again?”
“Cassandra.”
“Mm.” She turns back to the mirror, lifting her hair and letting it fall. “Help me with the zipper, Cassandra.”
It’s a command, not a request. I keep my expression professional, hand her the dress, and gesture to the screen so she can change.
“You know him?” Her voice floats over the screen.
“Who?” I ask, too neutral.
“Darling, don’t be obtuse.” Her bangle bracelets jingle like tiny bells warning of an oncoming train. “Damien.”
“I’ve met him but only briefly.”
“Briefly can be enough,” she says and steps out, red silk pouring over her body. She looks like a headline and knows it. “Zip.”
I oblige. We share the mirror for a heartbeat. She’s a polished blade; I’m a silhouette in black with a measuring tape around my neck.
“Thoughts?” she asks, already posing.
“Strong,” I say. “If you’re going to do red, this is the one. The cut’s clean, and the fabric photographs beautifully at night.”
“He hates fussy,” she repeats. “But does he hate red?”
“I don’t know Mr. Kozlov’s preferences,” I say, remembering the blood-red fabric of the hidden ribbon tied around my wrist.
“I was talking to myself, dear,” a trace of condescension to her tone. “Of course you wouldn’t know.” She studies me in the mirror. “You’re not exactly his type.”
Charming.
My smile remains frozen on my face. “Would you like to try the black?”
She waves a hand like she’s granting me permission to breathe. “Please.”
I bring her a black crepe column with a razor of sparkle at the shoulder and a pale silk that’s not chartreuse but close enough to earn a smile from Sylvie, if she were watching.
Raquel slides into the black, then out of it. The pale silk is beautiful, but even I can tell it surrenders too easily to her. She wants to be seen. Red it is.
While I hold the hangers, she lets the conversation drift like fog. “Damien’s party is intense, not for the faint of heart.” Her eyes flick to mine.
She goes on, not really talking to me so much as at me.
“He’s been particular lately. Short on patience.”
“Miss Chesterfield?” A cheerful, French-accented voice carries through the shop. Relief rushes through me at not having to handle Raquel all on my own anymore.
My boss, Sylvie Allard, materializes from the back with a garment bag, shooting me a look that says she’s sorry she left me alone with Raquel. She’s tall and Parisian by birth, with a tight chignon and an accent that makes even the most mundane of words sound romantic.
“Miss Chesterfield,” she purrs, “you’re radiant.”
“Radiance is work,” Raquel says. “Ask my chemical peel guy.”
Sylvie’s eyes flick to me, silently asking, “You good?” I give her the smallest nod. She turns back to Raquel. “Are we purchasing today or sending on approval?”
“Sending,” Raquel says dismissively.
“Of course.” Sylvie glides away to start the paperwork. She is unflappable, which I can’t help but admire.
Raquel studies herself one last time, then steps behind the screen, red silk whispering down to her ankles. “You’ll steam the dress,” she calls over the screen, “and I want a backup in case a seam decides to betray me. Make it the chartreuse.”
“Done,” I say.
“Good girl.” She emerges, laying the red dress over my arm. Then, as if tossing a bone to a dog, flings the black crepe at me. “Not that one. It reads nervous.”
“We’ll hold it for twenty-four hours,” I tell her. “In case you change your mind.”
“I never do,” she replies and heads for the door. “Thanks, Cassidy!”
“Cassandra,” I correct, pleasant as can be.
She pauses and turns. For a slip of a second, interest dims into irritation—tiny, sharp, gone. The smile snaps back into place, camera-ready. Then she’s gone.
The boutique exhales. I hang the black dress back where it belongs and go to the steamer. The red sighs under the heat, falling into perfect obedience. Sylvie comes to stand beside me.
“She’s a hurricane.”
“Something like that,” I mumble.
Sylvie’s mouth tics. “You were great. Sorry, I had to step out, otherwise I would’ve handled her.”
The steamer hisses as the fabric smooths. “Thank you. But she’s only a little scary to me now.”
The afternoon trickles by. My body switches to autopilot when it can, the tension loosening only when I’m busy. But the taught wire of my life hums under it all: the villa expecting obedience, the boutique demanding performance, both marching forward like competing armies.
I check the clock and feel adrenaline crackle. It’s 4 p.m. If I don’t leave now, I won’t be back before six. I don’t know what the penalty is for a first-day miss, and I don’t want to learn the hard way. I finish steaming, hanging the red with its backup in the hold closet.
“Sylvie,” I say. “Is there—”
“Go,” she says, already reading my mood. “It’s dead after five. I’ll close with Marisa.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’m a manager,” she corrects with a wink. “There’s supposed to be snow tonight. Text me when you get home. I’ll feel better.”
I love her a little bit for that. “Yes, boss.”
Outside, SoHo flirts with twilight. The cold bites cleanly, the sky the color of polished steel. I pull my coat tighter and head for the station, my bag light on my shoulder, my mind heavier than it should be.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from an unknown number.
ETA?
Mrs. Kozlov, I assume. I stare at the text for a second, then type.
On my way. Before five.
Good.
It shouldn’t feel like a judgment, but it does. I tuck the phone away and take the stairs. Ten days. A party, a surgery, a promise I made with my sister’s warm hand in mine.
The train roars in. I step on and find a pole, steadying myself as the car lurches forward.
I hold my breath, thinking about the line I’ve drawn for myself today. Back before five, ready for the evening. No scenes, no slips.
I hope.