Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Who the fuck are you?” Dom’s voice booms through my phone speaker.
Her response is immediate, delivered with surprising composure:
“Delulu new girl. Not my shoes. Not my car. Definitely not my scene. Point me to the suits, please.”
Dom’s confused face fills the screen, his expression worth every dollar I spent on those security gates. I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips.
This is going to be fun.
Dom’s entertainment choices have descended to unprecedented depths of tastelessness. Three women, their bodies literally encrusted with glitter, are sprawled across my imported Italian leather sectional like abandoned party decorations. Each movement releases a fresh shower of sparkles that will remain stubbornly embedded in the grain for months, if not years.
Empty Veuve Clicquot bottles stand in formation like fallen soldiers after a particularly decadent battle. Cigar ash—not mine, never mine—dusts the pristine Carrara marble tabletop in gray drifts. The air is probably thick with a noxious blend of cheap perfume and expensive champagne—a scent that will linger in the fabrics and woodwork for weeks.
This precise scenario is why I relocated to the apartment above the restaurant.
Dom, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination as far as his ten-inch dick is concerned, stares at Emmaleen as though she’s suddenly begun speaking fluent Mandarin. His confusion would be comical if it weren’t so utterly predictable. He reaches for his phone with the practiced motion of a man who knows exactly who to call when the unexpected appears on his doorstep.
My phone vibrates in my hand exactly on cue, as if choreographed.
“Let her in,” I say before he can even form words. “Point her in the wrong direction. I want to watch her face as she navigates the house.” A small test. A minor amusement. A way to observe Little Miss Take in an unfamiliar environment.
Dom doesn’t respond verbally. Just shakes his head and disconnects. He’s grown accustomed to my methods over the years. Doesn’t question them anymore. Doesn’t need to understand the why.
The security feed on my phone switches to the wide-angle camera in the foyer. Dom gestures vaguely down the first-floor hallway—deliberately away from the stairs, away from my bedroom suite.
Emmaleen hesitates, her expression clearly weighing his credibility against her instincts. Smart girl. But she proceeds anyway, apparently deciding that following directions, however suspicious, is safer than arguing with a half-naked man with a ten-inch hard on who reeks of whiskey and sex.
The limo slows as we approach the neighborhood, the driver navigating the winding private road with practiced precision. Two minutes out from arrival.
Emmaleen moves through the first floor with calculated caution, like someone navigating a minefield. She peers into the kitchen—professional Viking appliances that have never been used for anything more complex than coffee, marble countertops that have never been stained by actual cooking.
The dining room with its imposing twelve-person table where no one has ever dined or gathered.
My office—the public one, not the real one—with its carefully arranged props suggesting importance without revealing substance. Books positioned but never read. Awards displayed but meaningless.
She touches nothing. Just observes, catalogs, and continues her exploration. Her eyes miss nothing.
Then she finds the library.
I switch to that feed immediately, watching her face transform in real time. Her lips part slightly in unmistakable surprise. Her shoulders visibly lower from their defensive posture. The tension that has characterized her frame since arrival dissipates like smoke in a sudden breeze.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice perfectly captured by the high-definition microphones embedded in the ceiling trim. “Look at all of you.”
The library is the only room in the entire house I didn’t renovate to match my minimalist aesthetic. The original shelves remain intact—dark oak, floor to ceiling, with brass rolling ladders mounted on rails along each wall. Edison bulbs in antique brass fixtures cast warm, amber pools of light across leather reading chairs I’ve never once sat in. The mahogany tables hold leather-bound volumes whose pages I’ve never turned.
When I purchased the house, the shelves were filled with moldy, water-damaged books—worthless remnants of the previous owners. I had them removed without a second thought, but later discovered several dozen boxes of additional volumes stored in the attic. Rather than dispose of them as unnecessary clutter, I instructed my staff to unpack and arrange them throughout the library. It made the room look complete. Inhabited. Used. Like someone with substance and depth lived there.
It’s all theater, of course. Carefully constructed illusion. I don’t read fiction.
Emmaleen approaches the nearest shelf, her fingertip tracing along the spines with unexpected reverence, like she’s greeting old friends. She selects one volume, carefully, delicately, as if handling something infinitely precious and fragile.
The book is visibly old, its binding worn with age and handling. She opens it with practiced care, examining the title page with the attention of someone who knows what she’s looking for. Her face softens further, a private smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She returns it to its exact position with the gentle precision of someone who respects what she holds.