Chapter Twelve
Mirabel
My ribs tighten with each mile the car devours, lungs shrinking as if my body knows I’m heading toward something that might consume me whole.
The familiar streets of my life fade into suburbs, then countryside, and finally into dense forest. Trees loom overhead, branches weaving together like fingers lacing.
Five thousand a month. Dad’s treatment. That’s all that matters. Not the way my skin prickles with warning. Not the hollow space forming beneath my breastbone.
I tap an uneven rhythm against my thigh, counting the turns in the winding road to keep myself from fleeing at the next opportunity. One, two, three…
“First time to Ashwater?” The driver’s voice slices through my thoughts—the first words he’s spoken since loading my pathetically small collection of belongings into the trunk.
“No. I came once for the interview. I didn’t see much of it, though.”
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “It’s something,” he says, a strange undercurrent in his tone. “Special place.”
“Sounds… interesting,” I say, not sure what to make of that. I turn back to the window as the forest thickens, trees pressing closer like curious spectators. My phone chimes.
Diane: Did you arrive yet? Text me when you’re safe, or I’ll assume you’ve been murdered.
I smile despite myself and type back: Still on the road. Will let you know when I get there. No murders yet.
The signal bars on my screen flicker once, twice, then vanish completely. No reception. The last tether to my normal life, severed by wilderness and distance. Perfect.
A glint of metal catches my eye—another security camera half-hidden in the branches, its lens tracking our approach. That makes seven I’ve counted since we turned off the main road. Seven electronic eyes watching, recording.
The trees suddenly part, the forest opening like a theater curtain to reveal Ashwater Heights in full dramatic display. My breath freezes mid-inhale. It’s still just as vast and intimidating as the first time I saw it. Huge and sprawling and altogether too much for just one man.
Correction: one man and his giant ego.
Maybe the size is appropriate.
We pass through the huge gates, past armed guards, and then make the winding trip up the drive to the front entrance.
The car stops. The driver exits and retrieves my luggage with efficient, impersonal movements. I remain frozen in the backseat, suddenly aware of how inadequate my preparations are—two suitcases to begin a life that already feels like quicksand beneath my feet.
Once again, the massive front door swings open before I reach the top step. Anfisa stands in the entryway, hands folded at her waist like she’s been waiting in that exact position for hours. Was she watching the cameras? Or does she have some sort of mystical power?
I fight down a shudder.
“Miss McLeod,” she says, her Russian accent transforming my name into something formal and strange. “Welcome to Ashwater Heights.”
My eyes dart past her, scanning the entrance hall for him—for Arkady—before I can stop myself. The disappointment that twists through me when I see only empty space is both immediate and humiliating. My body reacts like an addict denied a fix, and I hate myself for it.
“Thank you,” I manage, stepping inside. The foyer is vast and cool, lit by several large chandeliers that sprinkle light in strange patterns.
“Your bags will be taken to your quarters,” Anfisa says, already moving deeper into the house. “I will show you the main areas first.”
I follow her through the west wing, each room revealing new levels of opulence. A formal dining room with a table that could seat every friend I’ve ever had. A conservatory bursting with plants I can’t name. A library with more books than I’ve seen outside a university.
“You will be expected to maintain all common areas,” Anfisa explains, gesturing to intricate moldings that must be a nightmare to dust. “Mr. Laurov expects nothing less than perfection.”
Of course he does.
“And this is the kitchen,” she continues, leading me into a space that makes my eyes widen.
Gleaming stainless steel and rich wood fill a room that could swallow my entire apartment. Copper pots hang above an island that could hold my double bed. Three ovens—who the hell needs three ovens?—line one wall. A walk-in refrigerator hums quietly in the corner.
“You won’t need to cook often,” Anfisa says. “We have staff for that. But you should know where everything is.”
As we move through service corridors and back staircases, I hear fragments of a conversation—a man’s voice, low and sharp, speaking rapid Russian from behind a closed door. The anger in the tone needs no translation. Anfisa quickens her pace, deliberately drawing me away.
“The east wing is Mr. Laurov’s private residence,” she says as we enter another hallway. “You will not clean there without explicit permission. Those rooms have… additional security measures.”
My curiosity flares. “What kind of security measures?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “The kind designed to keep people out, Miss McLeod. There are parts of this house that are not for you to see. Ever. Do you understand?”
The warning in her voice sends a chill across my skin. “Yes.”
“Good.” She stops before a door at the end of a quieter hallway. “These will be your quarters.”
The room beyond isn’t what I expected. Not a servant’s afterthought, but a suite worthy of a five-star hotel.
A king-size bed dominates one wall, dressed in linens that probably boast a three-thousand-thread-count.
A sitting area with elegant furnishings occupies another corner.
High windows frame gardens that stretch toward the forest edge.
“This is… mine?” I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice.
“Mr. Laurov believes staff should be comfortable,” Anfisa says. “The bathroom is through there. Your clothes have already been unpacked.”
Something about that detail unsettles me—strangers handling my worn T-shirts and bargain-store jeans, arranging my pathetic wardrobe in closets designed for couture.
I move to the windows, drawn to the view. Evening light gilds the gardens, shadows stretching like fingers across meticulously trimmed lawns. In the distance, a lake gleams like spilled mercury against the tree line.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“Yes.” Anfisa joins me at the window, something softening in her face. “I saw the place when Mr. Laurov was planning the gardens. He has always had such vision.”
Her voice carries an almost maternal note. It makes me wonder about their relationship, how this severe housekeeper came to speak of her employer with such tenderness.
“What’s he like?” The question slips out. “To work for, I mean.”
Anfisa turns to me, eyes suddenly sharp as she studies my face. “Mr. Laurov is… complex. Demanding. Precise. He values loyalty above all else.”
“I understand,” I respond.
“I don’t think you do,” Anfisa says. “Arkady Laurov is not an easy man. He controls what belongs to him. And while you live here, you belong to him.”
The words should repel me. Instead, they send a hot current straight to my core, lighting something I refuse to acknowledge.
“Belong to him.” My voice catches. “I’m sure you don’t mean that literally.”
She eyes me for a moment, her lips pressed together, not confirming my statement. “I have to warn you of something, Miss McLeod,” she eventually continues, voice dropping. “Something important.”
“What?” My own voice sounds distant to my ears.
“Do not, under any circumstances, develop feelings for Arkady.”
I blink in surprise. Heat floods my face.
“I- Why would you think—?”
“Because I see how you look when I say his name.” Her eyes hold mine, unflinching.
“Your skin goes red. Your breathing changes. Small things, but I notice them.” She sighs.
“Three years ago, a girl worked here. Natalya. Beautiful, smart, ambitious. She thought she could breach his walls. Thought she was different.”
She pauses, and I find myself leaning forward. “What happened to her?”
“She disappeared. Left in the middle of the night. No note, no explanation. Just… gone.” Anfisa’s expression darkens.
My throat tightens. “Are you saying he—?”
“I am saying she understood what was good for her and left.”
I think of the expression on Rosanna’s face the day he ditched her at the altar and wonder how many more hearts he’s left in his wake.
“I can look after myself,” I say firmly.
Anfisa doesn’t look convinced. “I am warning you. He is like a son to me. I have watched him suffer, watched him build defenses. I do not wish to see more young women dash themselves against those walls.”
The intimacy of her confession startles me. What suffering does she mean? What happened to Arkady Laurov that required such fortress-like protection?
“I’m here to do a job,” I say firmly. “Nothing more.”
“Good to see that you remember that.” She moves toward the door. “Dinner is at seven in the smaller dining room. You have an hour to settle in. Tomorrow we begin training at six sharp.”
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone in a room that suddenly feels too large, too luxurious, too much like a beautiful trap.
I sink into a plush armchair and stare around me, pulse hammering against my wrists. I should leave. Should grab my suitcases and run before I’m in too deep.
But where would I go? How would I pay for Dad’s treatment? The ten thousand dollars is already in his account, the next round of chemotherapy already scheduled.
Five thousand a month. A fighting chance for Dad. That’s all that matters.
Not the way Arkady Laurov looked at me during my interview, like he was stripping away layers of pretense to see what lay beneath.
Not the electric current that had shot through my fingers when they brushed against his.
Not the dreams that have haunted me since—dreams of ice-blue eyes and tattooed skin and hands that know exactly how to touch.
None of that matters.
I rise and move to the window again, drawing back the curtain just enough to peer outside. Darkness has begun its slow crawl across the grounds, security lights blinking on around the perimeter.
And in a window of the east wing, a silhouette appears. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Standing motionless, looking out over his domain.
Arkady.
Even at this distance, I recognize the rigid line of his shoulders, the commanding set of his head. Something about seeing him—knowing he’s there, somewhere in this massive house—makes my pussy clench, a shameful warmth I can’t control.
I step back from the window, yanking the curtains closed.
Do not, under any circumstances, develop feelings for Arkady.
But as I prepare for dinner, brushing my hair and changing into the least shabby clothes I own, I wonder if whatever magnetism drew me to him at the wedding has already worked its way under my skin like a slow-acting poison.
I press my palms against my burning cheeks, forcing deep breaths into lungs that feel too small.
If I fail here—if I can’t handle this job, this house, this man—Dad dies. It’s that simple. That brutal. I have no fallback plan, no safety net. Just this beautiful prison and the ice-eyed man who holds the keys.
I open my door and step into the hallway, repeating to myself: I am here to work. To earn money. To save my father.
Nothing more.