Chapter 1 #2
This isn't just storage – it's a private museum.
Some pieces are displayed under glass, others rest on pedestals with custom lighting that highlights their uniqueness.
I recognize an ancient Greek amphora, its black figures dancing eternally against the terracotta background.
Nearby, a jade carving so delicate it looks like it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.
I move deeper into the room, my professional eye noting how the space is organized not by time period or culture, but seemingly by the collector's personal aesthetic.
Bold pieces neighbor delicate ones. Ancient artifacts sit beside modern sculptures.
It's the collection of someone who chooses with their heart rather than an investment portfolio.
This glimpse into the private tastes of Dominic Sterling fascinates me more than it should. The ruthless businessman the world knows seems at odds with whoever assembled this deeply personal collection.
I'm drawn to a piece near the center of the room, displayed on a pedestal of its own with lighting that makes it appear to glow from within.
It's a music box, I realize as I draw closer.
But not like any I've ever seen. The base is carved from what looks like rosewood, with intricate inlays of mother-of-pearl and gold that form patterns I can't quite decipher.
They might be constellations or perhaps ancient script.
My fingers hover just above its surface, not quite touching.
The craftsmanship is extraordinary – each inlay fitted so perfectly that the seams are nearly invisible.
Atop the box stands a small figure of a woman with her arms outstretched, crafted from some pearlescent material that catches the light in ways that make her seem almost alive.
Without thinking, I reach for the tiny golden key protruding from one side. My fingers brush the cool metal, and I hesitate, suddenly aware of how inappropriate this is. I'm alone in a private room, about to handle what must be an extremely valuable item that doesn't belong to me.
But my curiosity wins. I turn the key gently, just a quarter turn.
The box comes alive under my touch. The top sections unfold like petals of a mechanical flower, revealing intricate gears of gold and silver beneath.
A melody begins to play – haunting and somehow familiar, though I can't place it.
The figurine begins to turn, her arms rising and falling as if conducting the music herself.
The melody wraps around me, unexpectedly intimate in this secret room. I lean closer, watching the precision of the gears, the delicate movement of the figure. This isn't just a collector's item – it's something beloved, something personal.
The thought strikes me suddenly: I'm intruding on something private. This room isn't just a storage space for expensive things; it's a sanctuary. These objects aren't displayed for visitors to admire – they're here for one person alone.
The music continues its melancholy tune as I carefully close the petals of the box, silencing the melody mid-note. My heart pounds with a mixture of guilt and something else I can't name. I should leave before someone finds me.
I back away from the pedestal, hoping I've left everything exactly as I found it. As I turn toward the door, my elbow brushes against a small framed sketch I hadn't noticed. It rocks precariously, and I lunge to steady it, my breath caught in my throat.
When I've righted it, I pause to look at the drawing – a simple pencil sketch of a woman's profile, her expression peaceful, almost dreaming. The artist captured something profound in just a few lines. It's signed with just a small "D" in the corner.
D for Dominic? The thought that he might be the artist behind this delicate work is startling. Another piece of the puzzle that is Dominic Sterling – businessman, collector, and perhaps artist.
I force myself to turn away, to head for the door. I've already stayed too long, seen too much. This glimpse into the private world of my employer feels like I've read pages from a diary I was never meant to see.
As I reach the doorway, I cast one last look at the music box, still feeling the ghost of its melody in my ears. Whatever I expected from the infamous Dominic Sterling, it wasn't this room full of beauty and sentiment.
I slip back into the hallway, carefully pulling the door nearly closed behind me, leaving just the inch of space I found it with. My heart continues its rapid drumming as I hurry back toward the main part of the house, hoping no one has noticed my absence – or my trespass.
I've barely taken three steps down the hallway when a deep voice freezes me in place.
"I don't recall giving tours of my private collection today.
" The words aren't loud, but they resonate with authority that makes my skin prickle.
I turn slowly, my clipboard clutched against my chest like a shield, and find myself staring up at the man whose house I've been wandering through all day.
Dominic Sterling. In person. My mouth goes dry as the Sahara.
He fills the hallway with his presence, making the spacious corridor feel suddenly cramped.
Tall – taller than I expected – with shoulders that strain the seams of what must be a bespoke suit.
His dark hair is styled in a way that suggests he ran his fingers through it in frustration not long ago, yet somehow it looks perfectly deliberate.
But it's his eyes that pin me in place – blue so intense it's almost cruel, like looking at winter sky right before a storm breaks.
"I—I'm so sorry," I stammer, my voice emerging higher than normal. "I was measuring rooms for the Christmas decorations and I got turned around and—"
He doesn't blink as I ramble, just studies me with an intensity that makes me wonder if he can see right through me to the music box I'd touched, to the private moments I'd intruded upon. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, clenched slightly as he assesses me.
"The door was open," I finish lamely.
"Cracked," he corrects. "Not open. There's a difference." He takes a step closer, and I catch his scent – something woodsy and expensive that probably costs more per ounce than my monthly rent. "You're the decorator."
It's not a question. He knows exactly who I am, which means he's been briefed on my presence. The thought that Dominic Sterling has discussed me, even in passing, sends a strange flutter through my stomach.
"Event planner," I correct before I can stop myself. "I specialize in holiday transformations."
Something shifts in his expression – a barely perceptible softening around the eyes, though his mouth remains firm. He glances over my shoulder toward the partially open door of his collection room.
"And did my private collection inspire any holiday transformations, Ms. Parker?"
He knows my name. The realization sends another jolt through me. "It's a beautiful room," I admit, honesty overtaking my fear. "The lighting design alone is extraordinary. Whoever created that display understands how objects hold stories, not just value."
This earns me a look of genuine surprise, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. "That would be me."
"You designed the displays?" The question slips out before I can contain it.
"It's my collection." He steps past me, pushing the door open wider. "Since you've already helped yourself to a tour, you might as well see it properly."
I should refuse. Should apologize again and retreat to the authorized areas of the mansion. Instead, I follow him back into the circular room, drawn by something I can't name.
"The music box," he says, noticing immediately which piece had captured my attention. "Austrian, circa 1890. The melody is a rather obscure Chopin nocturne."
"It's exquisite," I say, keeping my hands firmly clasped around my clipboard this time. "Did you restore it yourself?"
His eyebrow arches slightly. "What makes you think it needed restoration?"
"The gears move too smoothly for something that age without expert care. And there's a slight difference in the patina of the left hinge—nearly imperceptible, but it suggests replacement."
He turns to face me fully now, and the full force of his attention hits like a physical touch. "You have a good eye, Ms. Parker."
"Holly," I say automatically.
"Holly," he repeats, and somehow my name in his mouth sounds different—weighted with something that makes my cheeks warm. "You're not what I expected."
I'm not sure if that's a compliment or criticism. "What did you expect?"
He moves closer, not answering my question, until only a foot of space separates us. This close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that suggest he might smile occasionally, though not often.
"You touched it," he says quietly.
My face flames hotter. "I shouldn't have."
"No," he agrees, but there's no anger in his tone. "Few people appreciate the craftsmanship enough to be tempted, though. Most see only the gold, the monetary value." His gaze drops to my hands, which are twisted around my clipboard. "You have musician's hands. Piano?"
"As a child," I admit, surprised by his perception. "How did you know?"
Instead of answering, he reaches out and takes the clipboard from my grip. His fingers brush mine in the process, and an electric current shoots up my arm. He sets the clipboard on a nearby pedestal without looking away from my face.
"I know many things, Holly." The way he says my name makes it sound like he's claiming it for himself. "Including when someone is somewhere they shouldn't be."
I should be backing away from the intensity in his gaze. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly toward him, like a planet caught in a gravitational pull.
"Are you going to fire me before I've even started?" I whisper.
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—not anger but something hotter. "I don't think so." His voice drops lower. "I find I'm curious what else you might discover if given access to my home."
The double meaning in his words isn't lost on me. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I can feel heat spreading across my chest and up my neck. I've never had a man look at me the way Dominic Sterling is looking at me now—like I'm a rare artifact he's considering adding to his collection.
"I should get back to work," I manage to say.
"Yes," he agrees, but doesn't move to let me pass. "The Christmas preparations. Ms. Winters tells me you come highly recommended."
"I'm very good at what I do."
His eyes darken a shade. "I expect nothing less than excellence in my home."
"You'll have it," I promise, finding my professional voice despite the strange tension humming between us.
He studies me for another long moment, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my lips and back again. Then he steps aside, a deliberate movement that nonetheless feels reluctant.
"I look forward to our meeting tomorrow, Holly," he says as I reclaim my clipboard. "Come prepared to impress me."
The words could be purely professional, but the heat in his eyes suggests otherwise. I nod, not trusting my voice, and slip past him toward the door. His presence radiates heat that I swear I can feel against my skin as I pass.
At the door, some reckless impulse makes me turn back. "Thank you for sharing your collection with me, Mr. Sterling."
"Dominic," he corrects, his eyes never leaving mine. "And I haven't begun to share anything with you yet."
The promise in those words follows me down the hallway, along with the feeling that I've just stumbled into something far more dangerous than a forbidden room. Dominic Sterling looks at me like he's already decided I belong to him, and the most frightening part is the thrill that sends through me.