Chapter 1 #8
“Natalie,” I state, remembering the Vodianov family tree as well as my own. I've never met her, but I've seen her photographs in Brenton's reports. “How's Cole?” My voice is sharp as a knife, her composure crumbling behind her mask.
“He sends his congratulations on the North deal.” I nod, delighted to know I'd gotten under his skin enough to make him send his cousin to deliver a warning.
Careful, she's going to say. Don't be greedy.
Don't bite off more than you can chew. The North buildings and assets all sat in Vodianov territory, or benefited them in one way or another.
I'm well aware. Why else would I have bought them?
I was in a...tidying mood. A straightening-things-out kind of mindset.
The sort you get after spotting a rat in your perfectly clean kitchen, and we can't have that, can we?
It's all part of my lifetime plan, the one I made when my father passed away.
The steps it'll take over the next few decades to expand and rule over Westhaven.
“And...” she trails off as I glance at her, shooting holes through her little skull. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. “To...” I smirk. She can't even deliver her line. Poor girl. Come on. I'll help a damsel in distress for a second.
“To watch my back?” I offer, arching a brow.
“Yeah—yes, Mr. Ashford,” she stammers, and I notice her dress looks a size too big. Maybe she borrowed it from her mother.
“You did a good job. Your message has been received. Off you go now. I'll tell him you did great... Well, you'll tell him.” I smirk before making my way out.
Just before I turn away, she murmurs, “Eleven. Forty. Sixty-four.” I stop for a second, my back to her, committing the numbers to memory.
I don't know what they mean yet, but I'll find out soon enough.
What is Cole playing at? He knows he's not smart enough for elaborate mind games, so what could this code possibly mean?
I'll need to drive to my office after this party and check his file.
Brenton updates it every time new information comes in.
Perhaps I'll find the code somewhere in there.
If this was his way of getting into my head, then...
he actually succeeded. With my mother's wineglass in hand, I make my way back to her, avoiding anyone else who might try to corner me, passing investors, philanthropists, actresses, tech billionaires, and so on.
“Dearest,” Mother coos, taking the glass with her long red nails. “Excuse me,” she adds gracefully to the couple she'd been chatting with, leaving us alone for the first time all evening. “Who was she?”
“Vodianov.”
“How dare they show up here?”
“Rats always find a way.”
She rolls her shoulders back. “It's a shame. She was really…pretty.” Her tone is light, and I can hear the melody of Xanax playing through every word.
“Pretty ain't everything.”
She sighs, like I’m still a boy who has a lot to learn. “Pretty is all we have when all is lost, darling. This is an ugly, ugly world we live in. We might as well try to find beauty where we can.” I don't respond. Our differences on the matter remain unchanged.
“Thanks for the party, Mother. You outdid yourself, as always.” I kiss her cheek, her hand resting delicately on my shoulder.
There's no need for her to know I'm heading to the office now that I've crossed paths with a Vodianov.
She already knows enough after marrying my father, who spent decades doing exactly the same thing.
A light rain leaves droplets on my suit as I step out of the conservatory.
I'd handed Mother a fat check earlier that evening, the Ashford Holdings contribution to whatever charity she'd chosen to champion this time.
No valet for me tonight. Paul parked right in front of the entrance, waiting in my black Land Rover.
He's been my chauffeur ever since Father passed away.
He used to drive him. Now he drives me. Invisible and silent, witnessing my comings and goings while keeping them to himself.
“Sir,” he says as I slide into the back seat.
“To the office.”
He answers with a clipped nod, his hands settling on the wheel, opera music already playing through the speakers.
Exactly what I need to think clearly. The night is still young, the moon casting silver light across the city.
Thirty minutes later, I'm stepping out of the elevator, reading emails on my phone and absentmindedly making my way toward my office without even looking up.
It's only when I push open the door that I realize someone else is inside. My blood runs cold.
A petite, dark-haired young woman is standing in front of my bookshelf, holding the photograph of Nate, Maddie, and me from last Christmas.
She's running a fingertip over my face, her small frame almost swallowed by her white cleaning blouse. A spray bottle and cloth rest on my desk. The new maid. I could interrupt her. I could. But I want to see what she’s going to do.
Will she go for the safe? Will she start looking through the documents in my drawers?
Instead, all she does is stand there, staring at the photograph, a small sigh escaping her lips.
“See anything you like?” I ask, loud enough to startle her. A cracked squeak leaves her as the frame slips from her hands and crashes onto the floor, the glass shattering into dozens of pieces. Her gaze collides with mine, and I stop short.
Pale skin, round face, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes, full lips, and long, layered black hair.
She has a small nose with the slightest softness at the tip.
Whoever she is, she looks like a girl straight out of a children's book, the kind who sweeps chimneys and scrubs floors while waiting for her prince to find her.
There's a grace and gentleness about her, something so profoundly delicate that it steals the air from my lungs.
Whatever I was about to say stays lodged in my throat as I stride toward her.
She's already kneeling, trying to gather the shards of glass with her bare hands. No, don’t.
She's going to hurt herself. A thick crimson line blooms across her palm.
Without hesitation, I seize her wrist as gently as I can and pull her to her feet, wanting to inspect the wound.
“Sit,” I order, pointing toward my chair, not caring one bit about a broken frame that can be replaced first thing tomorrow.
She shakes her head twice, as though the very thought of sitting in my chair would physically harm her.
“You're bleeding,” I say harshly, still holding her wrist. She silently mouths the same word over and over again.
Sorry.
“I'm going to get the first-aid kit. Stay here.” I release her wrist, the absence of her touch leaving me oddly unsettled, as though holding her had been the most natural thing in the world.
Hurrying out of my office, I go straight toward the kitchenette on the opposite side of the floor, where I know there's a box stocked with disinfectant and bandages.
I grab it within seconds, ignoring the fact that I'm rushing for a woman I've never met over what is, objectively, a small cut.
I can’t see her from here. The elevator bell rings.
I clutch the kit and hurry back toward my office, passing the elevator just as its doors slide shut.
When I step inside, she's gone. The shards of glass have disappeared.
So has the blood. No trace of the spray bottle and cloth either.
She cleaned everything in less than a minute and disappeared while I was fetching the bandages.
I step into the lounge and notice a bag resting on one of the couches.
She forgot it. I come closer, my heart unusually loud.
This bag has seen better days. There's a hole in one side, and the strap is badly frayed.
Why did she run away? Did she think I'd fire her for breaking a picture frame?
All I'd wanted was to...take care of her. Her purse clenched in my hand; I set it on my desk. My mother never left our home without her bag; I guess she’ll come back for it too. The thought of seeing her again sends a jolt of electricity through me.
Her eyes… Ones of someone who lost her innocence far too soon.
Of someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
I know that look. The very same stares back at me every morning in the mirror.
A strange urge tells me to run after her.
Instead, I shut my eyes and force myself to focus.
I came here to check Brenton's file on the Vodianovs, not chase after a maid.
I skim through the report, finding nothing that matches the combination Cole's cousin gave me earlier.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. When she comes back...
I want to be here. Even if I don't understand why.
As I leave the Ashford building and slide into the back of my car, something suddenly strikes me.
I haven't even heard her voice.