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“Miss … you’re my boss as well.”
“I’m definitely not.”
Masha chews her bottom lip, getting more uneasy the longer we stand there. “My job is to serve you.”
“Well, I don’t want that. I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t need me to help you choose an outfit for the day? Or wash your hair? Perhaps I can style it for you? Oh! I know! A back rub!”
My mouth drops open, aghast. “Oh God, no.”
“I see.” Masha flinches like I slapped her. “Um, then, I guess I’ll be going.”
She’s acting like I let her down somehow. Once she’s gone, I shake my head in wonder. Weird.
I take a quick shower, drying my hair in front of the extravagant vanity mirror. The stool, with its elegant, curved wooden legs, is topped with a plush white cushion. It matches the scrunchie I use to tie my hair off my neck.
Throwing open the wardrobe, I go taut at the sight of the tightly packed hangers of new clothing. I discovered them yesterday after Ulyana notified me she’d stocked the closet, but I made no effort to explore the outfits. In a way, I didn’t want to know everything that had been bought. There’s something off-putting about having someone shop for me. That kind of stuff is reserved for celebrities, not kidnapping victims.
Nonetheless, I start rifling through the items, surveying my options.
I can’t be mad at Ulyana’s taste. She might dress like a stuffy maid, but these outfits are straight from ELLE magazine. Settling on a pastel blue baby-doll dress and some rose-gold flats, I face the bedroom door. I never know what I’ll find on the other side. It could be more staff or one of the armed soldiers.
It might even be Arsen.
My heart hitches at the thought.
I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when he was forced out of the parlor before I chose a wedding dress. He’s probably busy. Plotting the demise of an enemy takes a lot of effort. I mentally roll my eyes. I don’t want to care about where he is or what he’s up to, but I do.
Somehow, he’s begun hooking himself into my mind, clinging deeper and tighter each day that passes.
In the hallway outside, I spot a young man. He’s decked out in dark brown slacks and a matching vest over a cream dress shirt. There are more women staff than men in the mansion—most of the men I see are guards—but a few male staff wander the halls here and there.
They always ignore me. But today, the man smiles lightly and bows at the waist. “Mistress,” he addresses me.
I pull up short. “Can I help you?”
“That’s my job,” he answers quickly. “Do you need assistance?”
I quickly shake my head. “Just going to the kitchen for breakfast.”
“Of course, I’ll let the chef know. He’ll make you something fresh.”
“No, that’s okay!” Waving my hands to stop him, I put on a tight smile. “I can make myself something to eat. It’s no problem.”
“But— “
“I’ve been feeding myself for years; it’s fine,” I say, hurrying away from him.
I breathe easier once I’m out of his sight. It’s not long before another staff member—this one a woman with thick, heavy bangs in her eyes—notices me.
She too bows low. “Mistress! Good morning!”
“I don’t need anything!” I yell as I power-walk around her.
She gives me a perturbed look but says nothing
It’s not the end of my awkward encounters. I pass three more staff on my way downstairs to the kitchen. Every single one of them makes a point of showing their deference and offering me their devoted attention.
