19. Elyse
Elyse
Iturned down the opportunity of twenty-five grand on a regular basis for this date. It’s too awful to compute. All I can do is tell myself that it wasn’t an option, not really—that it was as far-fetched as someone offering to help you cheat on the lottery. That the prize wasn’t worth the price.
I’d be feeling so much more conflicted right now if I had accepted Sinclair’s offer.
That’s what I tell myself. But I still feel conflicted.
It didn’t seem fair to Sinclair to take the money, and I didn’t want to take it.
But surely my first priority should be to my family?
Surely, if I have a way to pay off big chunks of our debt at a time, every freaking week, then every other consideration should come in second place?
Surely, taking money off a billionaire who wants to hand it out like it’s peanuts should make me feel less bad than knowingly keeping our debt intact when I have a way to make serious inroads into it, and fast?
I chose to do the latter, and I had my reasons. My family will never know the option was even on the table, I tell myself. The knowledge that it would literally kill them to know what I was willing to do is some consolation, I guess, even if it would also kill them to know what I’ve already done.
It was a shitty choice either way, and I chose.
Mainly, I chose not to extort a well-meaning guy.
Our debts aren’t his problem, and if I want to see where this goes in any way whatsoever then money cannot change hands; that I’m sure of.
What happened at Alchemy can stay at Alchemy, but this is the real world—even if the building I’m currently standing in front of is not a part of any real world I recognize.
Sinclair’s building is uptown. It’s sleek and modern, and the entrance, with its smart monochrome awnings and even smarter-looking doormen, is giving major Do Not Enter.
I really, truly hope I’m not about to have my own Pretty Woman moment.
I’ve made a big effort with my appearance this evening, but it’s still obvious to anyone with an eye for quality that Zara is as fancy as this outfit gets.
I take a big breath and remind myself that I’ve been invited here by none other than Sinclair Voss himself.
I’m as deserving of walking through those doors as anyone is.
“Good evening, ma’am,” one of the doormen says, managing, with an imperious arch of one gray, bushy brow, to make the greeting sound like a question.
“Good evening,” I say. I clear my throat. “Um, Sinclair Voss is expecting me?” Dammit. I didn’t mean to sound quite so apologetic for my very presence.
To my immense surprise, he smiles and inclines his head graciously. “Ms. Ward, I assume. Right this way.”
He stands back and holds open the door to the left of the revolving doors, thank God. I always feel foolish in those revolving ones that have a mind of their own.
The lobby is a vast expanse of ivory-colored marble and brass fixtures.
The mounds of floral arrangements everywhere throw off the scent of lilies.
It’s approximately fifty times bigger than my entire home.
Walking into Voss’s headquarters was intimidating, but that was a corporate space.
This is a residential one, and that makes it way worse.
I hover as the doorman strides over to the long marble front desk and picks up a phone, presumably to call Sinclair. After a few moments, he nods and hangs up. “Elevator One will take you directly up to the foyer of the penthouse. Mr. Voss will meet you there.”
Perhaps I should have taken the twenty-five grand.
Not sure it would make me feel any more like Julia Roberts than I already do right now.
But I’m glad he’s not getting in the elevator with me.
I’m nervous enough without enduring God knows how many floors of silent judgment from an employee who has seen God knows how many women make the exact same journey as me. I suspect this is a well-trodden path.
I make an alarmingly rapid but seriously smooth ascent.
Even the quiet purr of this elevator feels sexual.
I seriously need to pull myself together.
The guy said Sinclair will meet me at the top.
I grimace in the mirrored wall to check I have no lipstick on my teeth, then pray hard that there isn’t a hidden camera.
Far too quickly, we pull to an equally smooth stop and the elevator doors glide open. And there he is.
Holy fuck.
He’s standing in front of the doors, smiling straight at me, in jeans and a navy-blue button-down whose open neck shows that lovely tan vee of skin.
His dark hair is combed neatly back. The thought of his making an effort, combing his hair carefully in whatever cavernous marble bathroom he has in this place, sends an odd pang through my heart.
Besides, he looks seriously pleased to see me. That smile is blinding.
“Welcome,” he says, holding out a hand to gesture that I should exit the elevator.
“Thank you.” I step out, and he bends to kiss me chastely on one cheek.
“I’m so happy you came,” he says, and I believe him. “Right this way.” His arm is back out, signaling the way. He hangs back to let me go first. It appears the guy whose animalistic, straight-down-to-business side I’ve seen at Alchemy has beautiful manners when he’s on home turf.
I’m conscious of everything as I walk through the beautiful foyer ahead of him: the click-clack of my heels on his lustrous hardwood floor; the shabbiness of my cheap coat; the fact that I’m in his personal space.
And what a space. I was expecting size and luxury, but I didn’t expect his home to overwhelm me with the sheer impact of its beauty, its opulence.
Like penthouse, like owner, right?
I take in the foyer as quick as I can, greedy to maximize the clues his home provides. It has warm olive-green walls and is thick with paintings—mainly oils, from the look of it, in the kind of gorgeous heavy, dully gilded frames you see in art galleries.
But there’s nothing dated about the paintings.
Landscapes, still lifes, and portraits jostle for space, but they share a kind of austerity that’s deeply satisfying.
Dried orange halves against a charcoal background.
An endless cattle ranch. An old man, tears trickling down his wizened face like the last water working its way down a dried-out riverbed.
They have gravitas, I guess. They speak to you.
And they’re packed together in a way that seems almost greedy, that feels as though he can’t get enough of them and doesn’t care whether the layout works or not.
It’s the layout of an art lover, not an art collector. That’s my two cents, anyways.
“They’re so beautiful,” I say, turning my head to see him.
He rewards me with a grin that looks almost sheepish. “They’re my addiction. This is my opium den. So now you know my dark secret.”
I don’t know the half of his dark secrets, if the lore that endlessly surrounds the Voss family is to be believed, but I appreciate his attempt at a joke.
“Will it get even darker through there?” I ask him.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
He opens one of the double doors at the opposite end of the foyer and ushers me through. I gasp. Holy shit, does it get darker.
“Oh my God,” I say, turning in a circle and staring upward, all my intentions of playing it cool going right out of those floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. “This place is insane.”
“Thank you.” He halts and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, watching me take in his home. “It’s my refuge, so I’ve kinda stuffed it full of all of my favorite things.”
“Yes, you have,” I agree. And why not? He’s richer than God.
Why not buy up every object that makes you happy and take it home, where you can enjoy it all without sharing it with everyone?
That’s not to say he’s a hoarder; not at all.
Or maybe it’s just that this space is so vast that it could hoard half the Met without feeling crowded.
It’s double height, one wall being entirely glass.
Beyond, the city twinkles in the dusk in a way that’s every bit as magical as a nineties romcom.
He has his own terrace, and I spot flames through the glass.
An outdoor fire? But in here, the high walls and dark colors and the abundance of artwork make the space feel both warm and serene in a way I can feel better than I can explain.
I could wrap myself up in this room like a cloak and be perfectly content for the rest of my days.
Every glance is like a delicious bonbon for the eyes.
On the polished concrete sits a table that looks to be made of ancient temple doors resting on trestles.
An enormous portrayal of the crucified Christ, his silhouette made entirely from what looks like pinned white butterflies against a black crucifix, takes up almost one whole wall.
Against another is a huge set of charcoal bookshelves, stuffed haphazardly with books and featuring a charcoal-and-brass ladder to reach the upper shelves.
There’s an oversized limestone fireplace, currently unlit, and, in front of it, two white couches facing each other.
I’d like to curl up on one of those with a good book and spend an entire winter here.
It’s hard to conceive of a place that signals I can buy whatever takes my fancy more, yet there’s nothing sterile or clichéd about it. On the contrary, it’s dripping with passion and great, if totally freaking random, taste.
“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in,” I tell him truthfully, and his face softens.
“That’s very kind. I’m glad you like it.”
“Like is not the right word.” I shake my head. “It’s like heaven up here. I’m amazed you ever want to leave.”
“I don’t, really. But dragging myself out has its own rewards from time to time.
”He raises a pointed eyebrow at me, and I realize he’s referring to Alchemy.
To me. My face heats, and I don’t know what to say.
“Let me take your coat,” he says. He seems nervous, too.
I guess at Alchemy things are more cut-and-dried.
I untie my coat and slip it off, handing it to him and feeling more than a little naked in my black dress, even though it’s full length. It has tiny straps, a built-in bra, and a slit up one side. It’s only cheap, but it clings in all the right places and has cute draping across the chest.
He folds my coat over his arm and just stares for a moment. “You are exquisite,” he says finally.
“Thank you,” I say, tucking my hair nervously behind one ear. Exquisite is such a full-on word. It makes me feel like some priceless china doll, which I clearly am not.
He smiles and breaks the tension. “Let me hang this, then I’ll get you a drink. And then you can have the rare and dubious experience of watching me cook.”