Katie
After I have fully taken advantage of everything in the bathroom, including makeup that probably costs more than my rent and a diffuser that actually understands my curls, I finally leave Michael’s bedroom.
I pull the door closed behind me and head toward the stairs, but the sound of voices stops me halfway there.
I step closer to the balcony and look down.
There are people everywhere. At least a dozen of them move through the space with purpose, some in uniforms, others in suits.
When I glance outside, I see even more. Gardeners are spread across the lawn, working as if this place runs on some kind of invisible system that never slows down.
I rest my hand on the railing and stare for a second longer. Did I step into a princess movie?
Beatrice is at the bottom, and I smile. I head down the stairs, and she meets me, taking my hands in hers.
“Good morning. You must be starving,” she says, her Italian accent warm.
“Yeah, I could eat,” I say.
“Follow me.”
She turns and starts walking, and I move after her, realizing I have to pick up my pace to keep up.
As we go, I glance around, trying to take it all in.
The floors have to get polished daily. The walls are covered in art that I am almost afraid to look at too long.
Every room we pass looks like it belongs in a magazine spread, perfectly arranged and completely untouched.
There are fresh flowers on every side table.
I shift my gaze forward again, mentally calculating how much everything in this house costs.
She stops in front of two large doors, and the men on either side open them. I step inside and slow down. A long table stretches down the center. The light above isn’t a light. It’s a crystal chandelier, throwing reflections across the entire room.
My eyes move to the walls. Paintings line the space, huge and framed in gold.
“You want me to eat in here?” I ask, turning to Beatrice, because there is no way she’s serious.
“I know it’s a lot,” she says. “But Mr. Amato insisted this is where you have breakfast.”
I look back at the table.
“Beatrice,” I say, completely serious, “that table could host a wedding party.”
She exhales through her nose.
“I’m not sitting at that thing by myself,” I continue.
She gives me a look. “Mr. Amato—“
“I know,” I cut in. “I know what Michael said, but he’s not the one sitting at the end of that thing like he’s in some period drama.”
She tries not to smile, but I see it.
“Please,” I say, softer now, stepping closer. “Is there somewhere normal I can eat? I don’t care where. The kitchen? A counter? I will literally sit on the floor if I have to.”
She sighs, and I hug her.
“Thank you,” I say, already grinning.
Beatrice takes me on a tour of the house after breakfast, and I spend the entire time trying to act normal instead of internally spiraling.
She points out art on the walls, rooms that apparently have names, and shows me the indoor swimming pool.
A fucking indoor swimming pool. I actually stop walking for a second, staring at it, before forcing myself to move again.
At the end of one hall, she points to a closed door and tells me it’s Michael’s office. We don’t go in. I don’t ask. Something about it feels off-limits without needing to be explained.
The tour goes on long enough that everything starts to blur together, and by the time we make it back to the foyer, it’s almost time for me to leave to go shopping for a dress.
When we get back to the foyer, Sal stands waiting, and next to him is a woman I haven’t seen before.
She’s beautiful. Dark hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place, and her makeup is subtle but precise.
Her dress is simple, but I know it’s expensive by the way it fits her.
She stands straight, calm, and completely at ease in this house.
Beatrice brightens the second she sees her.
“Bella!” she says, already stepping forward.
“Zia,” Bella answers with a grin, meeting her halfway.
They kiss each other’s cheeks, and Beatrice pulls back to look her over.
“Mr. Amato keeps you too busy at that office of his.”
“Oh, Zia. He does not,” she says playfully waving Beatrice away. She turns to me. “Hi. You must be Katie.”
She extends her hand, and I take it.
“Yeah. And you’re Bella.”
Her smile deepens, and she lets out a soft laugh. “That would be me.”
I look at myself in the mirror and blink.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What the fuck.”
The dress is doing too much. Or maybe I am. I don’t even know. The fit was made for me, the fabric catching the light every time I move. And the slit—
I glance down again.
“That should be illegal,” I mutter.
I turn slightly, watching myself from another angle, and let out a laugh.
“He’s going to lose his mind.”
Bella laughs. “Yes, he is.”
We’ve already been to lunch at some fancy ass restaurant where a salad cost seventy dollars, and now I’m standing in the middle of a private fitting room in Saks Fifth Avenue. The same Saks Sarah and I walk into to check prices, laugh, and get the hell out before someone asks if we need help.
I look at myself again, then back at Bella.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. “I don’t belong in here.”
“Oh, honey,” she says. “You’re Mr. Amato’s girlfriend. You do now.”
My face heats, and I turn away before she can see it, but it’s too late. I feel her watching me.
“Anyway,” I say, trying to change the subject. “How much is this dress?”
I reach around until I find the tag.
Holy fuck.
“Eight thousand dollars?” I blurt. “I can’t get this dress.”
“Yes, you can,” Bella says calmly.
“That’s insane. My car didn’t even cost eight thousand dollars.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “I was given very clear instructions to get you whatever you wanted. Money isn’t a concern.”
I stare at her.
“That’s a sentence I’ve never said in my life.”
She pushes off the chair and comes to stand next to me, her reflection appearing beside mine in the mirror.
“Katie,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “You need to understand something.”
I look at her through the mirror.
“You’re dating Michael Amato,” she continues. “The most powerful and influential businessman in Los Angeles.”
She doesn’t break eye contact.
“And he doesn’t do anything halfway. If you’re his girlfriend, you get whatever you want.”
Oh shit.