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Fuck me, this is it.
Suddenly, my mind starts racing. Scenarios flying through my head like bats out of hell. Anya had mentioned something about spyware, about people disappearing. Could it be?
Are they onto me?
I can feel paranoia creeping up my spine, a prickle of fear that threatens to consume me whole. Getting busted as a spy in a place like this isn’t just a slap on the wrist; it’s a one-way ticket to a hellhole. Or worse.
Just as I’m mentally preparing my last will and testament, Svetlana’s voice rings out, cold and clear. “This Saturday,” she announces, “we are hosting a birthday party for Miss Yulia.”
Wait, what?
An explosion of relief. Over a party announcement? I let out a chuckle, uncontrolled and loud. I instantly wish I could grab that laugh and stuff it back into my mouth. Too late. Every maid in the room has spun around to stare at me. Guess it’s my debut as the court jester.
“I…I,” I stammer, caught in the merciless glare of Svetlana. “I apologize. I thought…I just… Yeah.”
Svetlana’s stare is turning frostier than Siberia in the winter. “We’re not here for a comedy show, Miss Williams,” she bites out. The air in the room drops a few degrees. Ignoring me with a vengeance, she commands everyone’s attention. “We are celebrating Ms. Ivankov’s birthday this Saturday. The venue is the Sunset Pavilion. We’re catering for a hundred guests.”
A hundred people? I blink, taken aback. Who the hell knows a hundred people, let alone wants them all at their birthday? Especially a little kid. The questions whirl in my mind, but I stay quiet.
“Chef Antonio,” Svetlana directs her gaze towards a burly man with a chef’s hat, “I need a carnival feast from your team. Something grand, something extravagant, and something absolutely delicious. You have free rein; just make it unforgettable.”
“And the tasting?” Antonio, with his thick Italian accent, sounds more like he’s confirming than asking.
“Mr. Ivankov would like to have a tasting by tomorrow,” she replies crisply.
Antonio nods and turns to his crew – an eclectic mix of tattooed, muscular men who look more suited to a mobster movie than a kitchen. A tattooed giant with a butcher’s apron starts discussing meat cuts animatedly with a skinny guy in a toque. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The Godfather meets Hell’s Kitchen – that should be a reality TV show.
Turning toward two women, Svetlana continues, “For the decorators, Tatiana and Olga, we’re going for ‘Lavish Grandeur.’ I want every inch of the Sunset Pavilion to sparkle. Be creative, be lavish.”
Ten thousand questions are popping into my head at once.
Then she sweeps her gaze across the room, landing on me for a second before continuing, “And we’re bringing in a circus crew for Yulia.”
I almost swallow my tongue.
A circus? For Yulia? Who decided that? Luka?
Suddenly, a phantom touch ghosts over my shoulder. I flinch. Turning, I find Anya right there, looking as inscrutable as ever.
“Geez, Anya. You scared me. You’re like a ghost.” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
Ignoring my quip, Anya leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just a party, Sophia.” Her words are an ice-cold splash of water. The amusement seeping out of me just a moment ago freezes in its tracks.
“Wh-What do you mean, not just a party?” My voice is hushed, matching hers. My brow furrows, my mind whirring with a thousand possibilities. What kind of other “party” are we talking about here?
For a split second, an evil grin flickers across Anya’s face, like a glimmer of moonlight on a dark pond. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined it. Her eyes, though, are a different story – hard, cold, devoid of any semblance of warmth or humanity. It’s like staring into the eyes of a shark.
In a voice so low, it’s practically a breath of wind, she mutters, “Aleks wants you to get ready.”
The name hits me like a sucker punch, knocking all the air out of me. “Anya…you’re…” The rest of the words stick in my throat as if my vocal cords have gone on strike.
My heart skips a beat. Aleks. She’s on his side. Anya, the aloof maid, is also Aleks’s spy.
“Quiet!” Anya hisses, making me snap my mouth shut faster than a mousetrap. That chilling smile she wore moments ago vanishes as if it was never there, replaced by the usual wallflower act I’d expected from her.
I watch, flabbergasted, as she recedes back into the crowd, a chameleon in human clothing. It’s like witnessing a two-faced monster shed its skin, transforming back into a harmless bunny.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
