Chapter 2
through social media profiles, public records, and business filings, they came up empty-handed. Even narrowing the search
to Boston didn’t help; all their attempts led them down a rabbit hole of Ozzy Osbourne fan pages.
Yumi arrived ten minutes early on the day Lady Ozie’s car was supposed to pick them up. The Boston winter was living up to
its reputation—crisp and piercingly cold.
Yumi sported a long black coat, over-the-knee boots, a huge pink scarf, and a matching pair of big fuzzy earmuffs. Aida had
always admired her friend’s ability to appear both elegant and adorable at the same time. She waved her phone at Aida. “I
connected my sister to my GPS app so she’ll know where we are. If I haven’t called her by midafternoon, she’ll send out the
troops to look for us.”
“I did the same for Graham and Erin.”
A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation. A man in his mid-forties in an immaculate chauffeur’s suit and
hat appeared as if he’d walked straight out of a classic film. Aida had been chauffeured before, but never by someone so impeccably
dressed. Behind him, a gleaming black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat double-parked. Aida’s heart lifted. Perhaps Felix was right,
and this job would pay well, after all.
“Miss Aida Reale?” He arched an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between Aida and Yumi.
“I’m Aida,” she confirmed, slinging her purse over her shoulder and wrapping a scarf around her neck. “My colleague Yumi will
be joining me.”
The chauffeur shook his head. “Lady Ozie’s invitation is for you alone.”
Aida drew a breath and stood taller, a trick she had learned to steel herself against the condescending scholars she often
encountered during her research. “Please forgive me if I refuse to get into a car with an unknown person to go to an undisclosed
location alone.”
The chauffeur paused, considering her, gave a curt nod, then headed down the path toward the car, where he stood near the
rear door to let them in. He swung it open, revealing the car’s luxurious interior, which screamed opulence—from the blue
leather seats and blue-furred floor mats to the ceiling speckled with tiny twinkling stars.
It had just begun to snow, the pretty, fluffy kind that was unlikely to stick. The air felt charged with possibility. Aida
climbed into the waiting Rolls-Royce, buoyed by a mix of hope and anticipation.
Once she and Yumi were inside and seated, the chauffeur returned to the driver’s seat and activated a console on the back
of each seat in front of them.
“If you desire, choose the massage you would like, then press the button.”
Yumi looked at Aida, eyes wide.
“Has anyone ever declined a massage?” Aida asked as she fiddled with the settings.
His eyes smiled in the rearview mirror. “No, Miss Reale, not yet.”
“Where are you taking us, anyway?” Yumi asked.
“The Boston Harbor Hotel on Rowes Wharf.”
Aida’s fingers were already flying across her phone’s screen, texting Graham.
Within twenty minutes, they were pulling up to the hotel, its grandeur marked by a massive flag that billowed from the center of the wide arches defining the seaside structure.
Beyond the arches lay the hotel’s dock, a haven for luxury yachts adorned with helicopters and swimming pools.
Nearby, a covered floating ballroom boasted a checkered floor that seemed to dance on the water’s surface.
Aida recalled the days of her early childhood spent there, long before her parents became ill.
She’d been too young for cocktails but delighted in sipping ginger ale as if it were a grown-up drink, her eyes wide with wonder as she watched the swing dancers whirl and dip.
Those were magical times, filled with laughter and the gentle sway of the floating dock, a stark contrast to the more complicated years that would follow.
A white-gloved bellhop swung open the car door and paused as if he were unsure he had opened the right door. “This is Aida
Reale and friend,” the driver told him. Masking his puzzlement, the bellhop warmly greeted them before escorting the two women
into the hotel’s lobby, where a woman stood by a window overlooking the seaport. Her ink-black hair was pulled into a severe
ponytail, offering a striking contrast to her ivory skin and impeccably white pantsuit.
“Aida Reale and friend,” announced the bellhop before promptly disappearing.
The woman eyed Yumi with a furrowed brow. “You are Yumi Tanaka.”
“How did you know that?” Yumi bristled and crossed her arms.
The woman did not respond. “The invitation was only for you,” she said, addressing Aida.
“Please forgive me, Miss . . .” Aida paused for the woman’s name. After an uncomfortable moment when it became clear the woman
was not going to indulge her, Aida repeated the rationale she’d given the driver earlier, insisting on the presence of a companion
for her own safety.
The woman’s dark eyes narrowed, and Aida thought she caught the flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips. “Fine.” The woman flicked her hand at the two of them to follow, then led them to a private elevator, where she inserted a key card and selected the penthouse.
A thrum of unease coursed through Aida as she stepped into the elevator, her mind racing with questions. How—and why—did this woman know who Yumi was? What else did she know about them? The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing
them in a silent ascent. Aida wanted to speak, to demand answers, but the woman’s icy demeanor stifled any attempts at conversation.
The illuminated numbers above the door ticked higher with each floor they passed, ratcheting up Aida’s tension.
As the elevator neared the penthouse, the woman finally broke the silence. “Miss Tanaka, you will be escorted to our theater
room, where you’ll be made comfortable. Both of you are required to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“I need to sign an NDA even if I’m not part of the conversation?” Yumi asked. “You know so much about me. I hardly find it
fair.”
The woman only raised an eyebrow at her. “Lady Ozie requires the utmost privacy for her affairs,” she explained. “I’m sure
you’ve worked with clients that require the same.”
The door opened, not into a hallway as Aida had expected, but a stone-inlaid foyer. The woman led them through the vestibule
into a palatial space with a high-vaulted ceiling and a massive glass chandelier blooming downward from its center. Several
upholstered gray and white couches were carefully arranged beneath it. While opulent, the room’s muted color palette of grays
and whites lent it a chilly air. Beyond was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that led to a vast terrace with a panoramic
view of the Boston Harbor.
“Dear god,” Yumi said as she took in the view.
Ignoring the chef carrying a tray of pastries and a red-haired woman engrossed in her tablet, their host guided Aida and Yumi to a long table near a plush sofa. She opened a drawer, presenting each with a pen and sheet of paper. “The NDAs.”
Aida quickly skimmed the document. It was standard fare, similar to contracts she’d signed at corporations she had worked
at before her academic pursuits. The language was clear: No discussion of what took place within these walls, no photos or
recordings of any kind, and no mention of the meeting to anyone, not even in passing. It was a simple but effective way to
ensure whatever happened here stayed here. A glance at Yumi showed her friend had already picked up the pen and was signing
her name. Aida scribbled her signature at the bottom, sealing her silence just as Yumi handed the document back to the waiting
assistant.
“Our next step,” the woman said, lifting the lid of a sleek black leather box on the table. “Please place your phones here.
Photos, recordings, and messages are not permitted beyond this point.”
Aida watched as her friend gave a resigned shrug, as if to say, “Well, we’re in it now,” and relinquished her phone to the
box. She followed suit, wondering what kind of meeting necessitated such secrecy.
“Now, Miss Tanaka, come with me.”
Yumi trailed after the woman, leaving Aida to stand awkwardly at the table. She marveled at the view and the opulent suite,
but her insides were churning. She wasn’t one to usually be nervous in interviews, but this was an extraordinary location
for an interview for a strange position. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone long—the woman returned, passing Aida with a gesture
to follow.
“You’ll be meeting Fran now,” she said, leading her toward the dining area.
The red-haired woman, engrossed in her tablet a moment before, stood to greet them.
Aida’s eyes were drawn to an elaborate gold belt at her waist, with an interlocking ancient motif.
A meander, or a Greek key, Aida recalled.
She wanted to remark on it, but the woman addressed her before she could say anything.
“Miss Reale, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She took Aida’s hands in hers. They were warm, as was the smile upon her face.
“I’m Fran.” She pronounced it like frown, which made Aida question the way the woman who had escorted her had said it earlier. Had she misheard, or was there something
more to this unusual pronunciation?
“Thank you, Disa. Please, Aida, sit.” Fran indicated the seat next to her.
Fran was even paler than Disa. There was such a similarity in their features that for a fleeting moment Aida wondered if they
could be sisters.
It was odd that despite Aida having signed the NDA, Fran failed to give their last names, but then again, everything about
the scenario was odd. Disa pulled out the chair for Aida, and she sat, feeling awkward at the head of the long table. A white
runner edged in the same gold meander ran down its length, and a bowl full of shiny red apples rested a few feet away, the
only bit of color in the room. A single golden apple sat on top.
“Are either of you Lady Ozie?” Aida finally asked, curiosity winning over caution. “The invitation was from her, so I assumed . . .”