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That’s the thing with a man like Jac.
Ostentatious means on display, like a taunt. He just succeeded in making my job easier.
Of course I’m not here to rob him.
The mansion is over the top and modern from the gleaming white and black edged kitchen. The tile work and marble perfect. The giant twelve-foot-long island has a special sink that slants to a hidden drain, and a push of a button raises up the taps and faucet.
Two dishwashers, a huge fridge. The kind of eight burner induction stove that foodies would drool over.
But I’m not there for an Architect Digest photo shoot, either. I move through the room and peek into the dining room that’s like an atrium. Modern furniture, almost Zen-like.
I’m betting he spends almost zero time in here. There are other rooms but they’re not what I’m interested in; there’ll be a second kitchen for staff if he has a party, as well as a walk-in freezer, a massive pantry and a China closet.
Although what the fuck a man like Jac would want with the last is beyond me. But I assume it came with the place. I’ve seen the blueprints, so I know the layout.
I step out into the foyer in gray natural stone. Opulent, yes, but tasteful. Not what I’d think of Jac.
To me, he’s more golds and marble. Or mosaics.
There’s a sitting room with gray furnishings that are sleek, modern but not over the top. I continue, and then I head upstairs.
Every room’s a surprise. I expected gaudy. A portrait of him, or his cock. Expensive and tacky modern art. But what I get is modern art. Expensive but minimal.
Everything chosen with care. I want to dismiss it all as his interior decorator because he’ll have had one, but there’s nothing generic about it. The pieces are personal, the way art should be. Like the Picasso.
I know that one’s personal and has meaning because of where Hendrick keeps it.
I push open the door on the top floor and stop.
Jac Miller’s bedroom.
I swallow because there’s something very unexpected about it.
There’s an Alaskan king bed, the covers neutral grays, greens, and cream. Not even a silk or satin sheet in sight.
It’s French linen. As in linen, the material. I can recognize it. I grew up poor, fighting to survive, but I know quality, and as I slide my fingers over the sheets, they’re made with impeccable craftsmanship. And I bet it’s organic and has a zero-carbon footprint.
I’m shocked he doesn’t have the pedigree of his bedding framed.
Moving along, I trace the top of the bedding. What does Hendrick have? He’s the one who strikes me as having a bed in linen. Soft, worn, beautiful. Maybe they’re two sides of a disturbing coin.
He’s got a giant ensuite, two walk-in closets either side of that to the right, and at the floor to ceiling window opposite on the left is a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table with a computer, and some books.
Far on the other side of the bed, at the foot, is a second floor to ceiling window that opens to a huge balcony.
The more I look, the more my head spins.
This is not what I expected.
At all.
It’s over the top, yes. But it’s also understated.
I want to knowthisman.
“What the fuck, Lena?” I mutter, turning off this particular light and going down to the drawing room on the bottom floor.
I stay there for a minute, before I decide it’s too deep in the house and take a bottle of bourbon and a glass from the great room and then I go to the kitchen and set my bag down, take off my wig, go to the fridge and peruse the contents. He’s got handcrafted lemonade in a bottle and also ginger ale. I take those and open them to make a cocktail, then sit at the counter and wait.
