Chapter 8
Despite its grandeur, the place seemed too still. The kind of stillness that didn’t invite one inside to settle down for a spontaneous chat.
She had just lifted her hand to knock when the door swung open.
A tall, blonde woman in impossibly high heels filled the frame. For an instant, Natalie thought she was looking at a mannequin—impossibly thin, motionless—until the woman flipped her curtain of golden hair with a dramatic flourish, some strands catching in the wind.
Recognition clicked. Monica Levington. Super-model Monica Levington who had walked the runways of Milan, Paris and New York, not to mention several other high visibility shows over the past year.
“You’re here!” Monica’s voice was high-pitched enough to make Natalie’s ears flinch. She clapped her hands in delight, the movement making her skin-tight jeans creak faintly. Her sheer, diaphanous top fluttered with the motion, leaving little—too little—to the imagination.
Natalie’s eyes darted briefly to the neighboring windows, hoping no one was watching this peculiar welcome. She extended her hand with a polite, professional smile. “Ms. Mosey?” she asked, needing to confirm the name from her appointment booking.
Monica let out a tinkling laugh. “Oh, that’s just the name I use when I’m, you know, trying to be incognitient.”
“Incognito?” Natalie clarified, arching one brow.
“Yeah, that!” Monica laughed breezily, then seized Natalie’s hand and tugged her inside before she could say more, nearly pulling her off balance. They stopped in the middle of a wide, open… space.
“This,” Monica announced, sweeping her arms in a grand arc, “is what I need you to transform!” She twirled in place, wobbling on her heel and catching herself with a giggle that didn’t sound entirely natural.
Natalie’s gaze moved over the room. Sleek, minimalist lines. Stark furniture. Every surface pristine. The kind of deliberate, curated space that didn’t beg for filmy curtains and romantic clutter—the very style Natalie was known for.
“My fiancé owns the house,” Monica said suddenly, following her gaze. “But there’s no way I’m living in a bachelor pad like this. It’s so stark. So cold.” She shuddered theatrically, flipping her hair again.
Natalie’s pulse ticked upward. Fiancé? There was nothing in the appointment notes about a partner—let alone one who owned the property.
Keeping her tone even, she began to circle the space, taking in the layout, trying to picture the existing owner’s tastes. “What kind of décor would you prefer?”
Monica’s eyes lit up. “I want you to create the same kind of vibe you did at that other house.” She snapped her fingers as if to jar her memory but came up empty.
“You know, that romantic vibe with the filmy curtains and candles everywhere!” She sighed, the sound overly dreamy. “It was so seductive.”
Natalie’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. So that’s what this was about—reducing her work to candles and gauze. Monica clearly didn’t understand the layering of textures, colors, and lighting that had transformed Maggie Humphries’ home into an elegant sanctuary.
Still, this woman was the client—at least for now. “I can help you make changes to this space,” Natalie said, keeping her voice smooth.
“Oh, goody!” Monica squealed, bouncing on her toes. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
Natalie followed as Monica drifted from room to room, talking in vague circles about “softening everything” and “adding romance,” her tone dismissive toward the existing décor.
She waved a manicured hand at several modern paintings, including a striking Jackson Pollock. “That one,” she sniffed, “looks like something my niece scribbled on.”
Natalie’s jaw tightened. She recognized that piece—it had sold for sixty-one million dollars at auction three years ago. The meticulous curation, the sheer value of the art and furniture, didn’t match Monica’s flippant tone.
A new thought began to take shape. Does she even have the authority to change any of this?
“My fiancé is royal,” Monica announced, her tone dripping with theatrical importance as she swept a disdainful glance around the room.
“He seems to love this stuff.” She waved vaguely at the art, her fingers flicking as if the pieces personally offended her.
“But I hate it. I want this place to feel more… I don’t know, like a cozy cottage or something. ”
Natalie blinked. “A royal?” she repeated, but Monica had already pivoted toward the kitchen, her heels clicking against the gleaming wood floor.
Natalie lingered for a moment, letting her eyes travel back to the Jackson Pollock she’d glimpsed earlier. It truly was stunning.
The kitchen was breathtaking in its scale and quality.
A massive island anchored the room, flanked by flawless cabinetry and state-of-the-art appliances.
But beneath the polished surfaces, Natalie’s trained eye caught the signs of real use—a jar of utensils clustered near the stove, a haphazard collection of spices close to the stove, faint smudges along the marble countertops where a quick wipe hadn’t erased every trace.
“Isn’t this awful?” Monica asked, her voice pitched high and plaintive as she turned to Natalie with wide, expectant eyes. “It’s so… masculine. Don’t you think?”
Natalie didn’t answer right away. Something about the room didn’t align with Monica’s presence—or her story. Whoever lived here valued clean lines and function, but not in a show-home way. This was a lived-in space. “And you own this house?” she asked carefully.
Monica laughed, leaning one hand on the pristine counter. “Not yet,” she said breezily. “But I’m going to marry the owner, so it’s basically the same thing.”
A knot tightened in Natalie’s stomach. “Basically” wasn’t ownership. And walking into a job without the real decision-maker’s consent was a recipe for disaster.
“Why don’t I start measuring the office?” she suggested, keeping her tone light but needing space to think. How did one politely extricate from this kind of a situation without alienating a very influential person?
Monica clapped her hands like a delighted child. “Perfect! The office is the gloomiest room in the whole house. You start there, and I’ll make some tea.”
Natalie nodded and slipped into the office just off the kitchen, closing the door behind her with more care than was strictly necessary.
Leaning back against the wall, she pressed her palms flat against the cool paint, her pulse thudding in her ears.
Every instinct told her something was off—Monica’s flighty demeanor, her casual disregard for the home’s art and style, her apparent lack of authority here.
But walking away would mean explaining herself to Henry. And Henry… wouldn’t take it well.
So she did the only thing she could. She pulled out her digital measuring tool and began taking the dimensions, the device humming quietly in the otherwise still room.
She had just jotted down the last measurement when the muffled thud of the front door opening cut through the silence.
Her head lifted, her breath halting.
Then a deep, slightly familiar voice rang out, edged with irritation.
“Monica, what the hell are you doing in my house?”
Natalie’s heart jumped to her throat, her fingers tightening around the measuring tool.
Well… this is about to get interesting.