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Only after sliding on my long satin robe do I finally stand in front of one of my prized possessions—a floral oil painting, housed in an antique gold-leaf frame that is as priceless as the art.
While the artwork is beautiful, it’s knowing that the famous nineteenth century Russian artist who created it had proposed to my great-grandmother that makes the art special to me. I often wonder how different my life might be had she said yes to the starving artist’s proposal instead of marrying into one of the most powerful Russian Bratva in the Old Country.
The painting is one of the only items I own that has been passed down from my mother’s side of the family, and I treasure it.
And I treasure what hides behind it even more.
Swinging the painting away from the wall on a hinge, I punch my eight-digit passcode into the touchpad before placing my right index-finger onto the small biometric reader.
The click of the lock disengaging on the hidden wall safe triggers an almost euphoric wave of excitement for me. Other women get high on drugs, or designer shoes, or rare jewels.
Not me.
My drug of choice is a juicy secret. The more salacious the better, and I give myself bonus points for information gathered on the most elite members of society.
I force myself to take the time to remove the diamond earrings, necklace, and bracelet I draped myself in for The Gala, placing each piece of jewelry in their black velvet boxes.
Only then do I reach into the bottom shelf and pull out my most prized possession.
I know it doesn’t look like much from the outside. The thick, leather cover is scratched and nicked, and there is a small burn on the spine of the heavy notebook where I accidentally left it too close to my curling iron as a teenager.
But it’s what’s on the inside that’s most important anyway. That, and the unique jewel-covered fountain pen I pull from the safe before closing it and swinging the painting back into place.
Francesca has my nightly glass of Bordeaux waiting on the table next to the chaise lounge in the reading nook of my bedroom. Knowing my preferences, she’s pulled the heavy drapes open to expose the million-dollar view of the city that never sleeps. We’re high enough that the traffic is only a distant din below us.
I sip my wine, taking a few minutes to decompress, enjoying the dichotomy of the bright lights of Fifth Avenue against the darkness of Central Park. I can’t imagine ever getting tired of the view and while I’m not an overly emotional woman, it’s this time of day—alone with my wine, notebook, fancy pen, and the lights of Manhattan—that I’m at my most vulnerable.
“Can I get you anything else this evening, ma’am?” Francesca’s voice startles me.
“No, thank you. I’m good for the evening. Sleep well.”
“You too, Ms. Belov. Goodnight.”
She moves through the apartment silently, but I listen for the ding of the elevator in the distance, knowing when the doors whisper shut, I’ll finally be alone.
The jewel-encrusted pen is heavy between my fingers as I open my notebook, flipping to the last page containing my distinctive handwriting.
I take a few minutes to read my last entry. Has it really been two weeks since my discovery that one of America’s favorite actors had been using The Whitney to meet his mistress for a little extracurricular exercise?
Time can move so quickly sometimes, but I shrug it off. That guests use my hotel’s upscale rooms to get down and dirty with a side piece is not usually noteworthy. Hell, if I try to keep track of every time some guy sticks his dick into a pussy he shouldn’t, I’d need to invest in a half-dozen new notebooks—and a larger safe.
No. What makes the last entry so juicy is that the actor in question has a dark craving for power—the kind of physical power that ends with bloody sheets and screaming women. Mr. Jenkins had more than earned his expensive salary that night by making sure the abusive celebrity understood exactly how The Whitney handles assholes who love to whip their poor victims raw while sodomizing them against their will.
The two hundred-thousand-dollar payment he coughed up so we wouldn’t call the cops was much less important than getting the girl to safety, and I still feel a little dirty accepting it… even if she did beg us not to call the police. So, I instructed Peter to deposit the check, noting we could use some of the funds to get the room fixed and ready to rent again.
But as expensive as New York City is, I didn’t need the $200K to make repairs, which is why I told Peter to cut a check in the amount of one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars to the victim. She deserved the payout more than The Whitney.
I’m aware many would find it abhorrent that I kept the police out of the scandal, preferring that I throw the abuser in jail for his crimes instead, but my notebook provides my own brand of justice instead. Before throwing him out, I made it clear that if I catch even a whiff of a rumor that he’s done an encore performance with another unsuspecting woman, details of his sadistic crimes in my hotel will be the lead story on the eleven o’clock news across the country. The security footage and photos Mr. Jenkins took that night would ensure his demise.
Even if were ‘never able to identify’ the girl involved.
Looking at the fresh, blank page beside the nasty one, I let my mind turn to lighter news—remembering all the naughty secrets I’d discovered tonight at the Met Gala and documenting them, line by line, in my flowing script. Pregnancies, affairs, bankruptcies, and pending divorces—each entry makes me feel powerful, like I’m holding onto a small measure of control in an often-uncontrollable world.
The ink on my last entry isn’t dry yet when Dex Cohen invades my thoughts. Like the man himself, my memories refuse to behave. My brain barrages me with snapshot after snapshot of how fucking handsome he’d looked in his tailored tuxedo, working the room with his polished veneer of perfection.
And that scent… why did my body have to react like one of Pavlov’s damn dogs at the tiniest trace of his aroma? Even now, hours later, I can almost feel myself getting wet. As if I’d ever allow him to touch a hair on my head. I’ve witnessed firsthand how cruel he can be when he lowers the mask he wears in polite society.
I do my best to refocus on how sexy the rebooted boy band had been during their headliner performance tonight—trying to focus on their gyrating hips and indecent dance moves. But it’s no use. Just like he’d done in person at the Gala, Dex Cohen pushes himself into my thoughts, sets up camp, and refuses to leave.
