Chapter Fourteen
Mirabel
The goddamn keys mock me, a jangling mass of cold metal with no labels, no color coding, no logic.
Thirty-seven keys for God knows how many locks in this monstrosity of a house. I grip them tighter, the edges biting into my palm as I stand frozen in the hallway like an idiot.
My shift hasn’t even started, and I’m already drowning.
Dad would tell me to make a plan, to approach the problem methodically. But Dad isn’t here. He’s in a hospital chair right now, poison dripping into his veins to kill the poison already inside him, while I’m clutching overpriced keys in an overpriced mansion.
“You got this, Mira,” I whisper, the sound swallowed by the cavernous corridor. “One key at a time.”
Do you, though? Debra’s voice floats through my mind, that particular mixture of challenge and affection only she could manage. This place is massive. The list of tasks is endless. When will you even sleep?
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter, running my thumb over the ridges of what looks like a master key.
I’m just being realistic, imaginary-Debra counters. Handymen to coordinate, renovations to supervise, miles of hardwood to polish—all for a man who looks at you like he’s calculating the most efficient way to take you apart.
“I’m doing this for Dad,” I remind her, remind myself. “Five thousand a month. Twenty thousand up front. This isn’t the time to complain.”
You’re right. Her voice softens. He needs you to be strong.
Tears sting my eyes, the hallway blurring. “You should be here with me,” I whisper. “For six years, there hasn’t been a second when I didn’t miss you. How dare you just disappear like that?”
Shh, Mirabel. Relax. Everything will be fine. You just need to be strong for now.
I shake my head abruptly, dashing the voice away. This isn’t the time to be losing my grip on reality. This is the time for—
My body registers his presence before my brain does, every nerve ending suddenly, traitorously alert. I don’t need to turn to know it’s him.
“Why are you standing in the corridor?” Arkady’s voice slides down my spine like ice water. “I’m not paying you to do nothing.”
I spin around, keys clutched against my chest like a shield. He looms in the hallway, a wall of controlled intensity in a charcoal suit that clearly was made for him. His eyes catch the light, cold and assessing.
“I’m not,” I say, hating how defensive I sound. I’ve barely been on the job a minute, and already he’s crapping on me? “I’m trying to figure out which key belongs to which door. A note on each key would be helpful.”
His mouth curls, not quite a smile. “You said at the interview you’re a fast learner.” The way he watches me makes my skin prickle. “Now’s the time to prove it.”
He turns and walks away before I can respond, the smooth confidence in his stride making me want to throw the entire key ring at the back of his perfect head.
What a smug prick!
I wait until he’s gone to exhale slowly, counting to ten. My hands shake slightly as I separate the keys, examining each one closely.
Maybe Rosanna was the lucky one, escaping marriage to that gorgeous asshole.
I pick the first key that looks promising and move to the nearest door.
It doesn’t fit. Neither does the second key, nor the third.
By the fifth attempt, frustration burns in my chest, but when the sixth key slides in smoothly and turns with a satisfying click, victory surges through me like a drug.
“Finally,” I whisper, pushing the door open to reveal a study lined with leather-bound books.
I step inside, marveling at the rich mahogany desk, the leather chairs, the subtle wealth that oozes from every surface.
After a moment of exploration, I reach into my pocket for the small adhesive labels I’d found in the kitchen.
A touch of rebellion flares as I stick one onto the key, marking it “Study.”
One down, thirty-six to go.
By mid-morning, I’ve worked my way through most of the west wing. My system is working… each key now bears a tiny label with its corresponding room. The library. The guest suites. The formal dining room. The music room with its gleaming grand piano that probably no one ever plays.
Each space I unlock reveals new wonders, new absurdities of wealth. A climate-controlled wine cellar with bottles worth thousands. A home theater with seats upholstered in plush velvet.
It’s easier to focus on the details than to dwell on the magnitude of what I’ve signed up for. One key, one room, one label at a time.
But the last door confounds me.
It’s smaller than the others, unassuming in a quiet corridor away from the others. I try each remaining key methodically, working through every possibility. Nothing fits. I double-check the keys I’ve already labeled, thinking perhaps one opens multiple doors.
Still nothing.
I step back, staring at the door like I can intimidate it into opening. There has to be a key, right? Unless this room is… special somehow?
The hairs on the back of my neck rise seconds before I hear her voice.
“Keep away from that room.”
I whirl around, heart lurching painfully. Anfisa stands three feet behind me, appearing from nowhere like some Russian ghost. Her eyes are hard, her mouth set in a grim line.
“Didn’t Arkady tell you? That’s a room nobody can ever enter. Only the very few people he permits.” Her gaze pins me in place. “I am one of them. You shouldn’t even be in the east wing.”
I swivel my head, glancing around in confusion. Shit. I’d been so focused on the stupid keys, I hadn’t even noticed where I was.
“I- I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I guess I wandered here by accident.”
Weak, Mira, really weak.
Her eyes are hard on me. “Be more careful.” She turns and walks away, her footsteps soundless against the hardwood.
Jesus Christ. I press a hand to my racing heart. How does she move so silently? Is watching me part of her job description?
I glance back at the mysterious door. What’s behind it? What secret requires such protection in an already fortress-like mansion?
Whatever it is, now’s not the time to try to find out. I move away quickly, not wanting to be caught by the Ice Queen yet again.
Heavy footsteps approach from the opposite direction—not Anfisa’s silent glide but a man’s confident stride. Arkady rounds the corner, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Russian. When he spots me, he pauses mid-sentence, lowering the device.
“You’re still messing with the keys?” His eyes flick to the tiny labels I’ve attached. His frown deepens as he checks his watch. “It’s 10:30. May I ask when you wish to start the actual job itself?”
Heat rushes to my face. “I have started,” I say, gesturing to the labeled keys. “I’ve been putting labels on them all morning.”
“And who allowed you to put labels on my keys?”
Is he serious? The question is so absurd that I almost laugh.
“I allowed it myself,” I reply before I can stop myself. Immediately, I regret the words. The last thing I need is to get fired on my first day over some ridiculous power struggle about labeled keys.
But instead of anger, something else flashes in his eyes—amusement, maybe? Approval?
His lips quirk into that not-quite-smile that does strange things to my insides. He moves past me, arm brushing against mine in the narrow hallway. That brief contact sends electricity racing across my skin, a reaction so visceral it’s embarrassing.
“I like a woman with fire in her veins,” he says, voice low enough that I almost think I’ve imagined it.
Then he lifts the phone back to his ear, continuing his conversation as if I’ve ceased to exist, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering and my skin too tight.
Damn him. Damn this house. Damn the effect he has on me with nothing more than a glance and casual contact.
I think of the mystery door again, wondering who’s going to clean the room I have no key to. Probably him. The mental image of Arkady Laurov—with his expensive suit and cold eyes—wielding a mop makes me smile despite myself.
What secrets are you hiding, Arkady?
And why do I suddenly want to uncover them all?
I shake my head yet again, forcing myself back to the task at hand. The keys are labeled. Now the real work begins.
Five thousand bucks a month, I remind myself once again. For Dad.
But as I make my way through the house, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve already started opening something far more dangerous than locked rooms.