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It may not be framed or placed in great prominence, but I’m mesmerized by it—and his talent—nonetheless. I’ve imagined myself like that before. The way he sees me. I reach out and touch the drawing, my mind maddened by the contradiction.
How can he do something as tender as this and then be as twisted and dark as he is now?
But I cannot dawdle here. I have my own task to accomplish. Shaking myself out of my trance, I listen for anyone who might come looking for me. Silence pervades the rest of the penthouse,reinforcing the knowledge that I shouldn’t be in here. I turn my ear toward the hallway. Nothing. Dominika forbids the staff from wearing shoes with hard or rubber soles—anything that squeaks or clacks against the polished floors—so I listen harder for the tell-tale soft shuffling of bare feet.
I stand still for a moment longer, until I convince myself that no one will suddenly catch me.
I scan the room, and my gaze darts from the wide antique table he uses as a desk to the row of black matte shelves on the opposite wall filled with art, oversized books, and various oddities.
He wouldn’t leave a phone on display like a piece of art. So, I start with the row of drawers first. With a quiet step, I approach the closest one and find it locked. No surprise there. But I give it one firm final tug just to make sure. It refuses to budge, and I continue down the line, pulling one after another.
Locked.
Locked.
Locked!
Ugh!I slap my hand against the smooth matte front, and it stings. I glare at the round metal locks that won’t open without a key.Fuck. But I can’t stop now.
Finally, one opens, and my fingers tremble as I rummage through the drawer, sifting through various back catalogs from auction houses. I pull one out for a closer look—the Bill Blass Collection. I flip through pages of expensive Americana and quickly toss it back. The only unlocked drawer, and it’s filled with auction catalogs. Of course.
I give up on the drawers and head over to Nikolai’s desk, refusing to look at the sketch of me, but my own instinct betrays me. Unable to help myself, I hold down the bent corner. Frustration makes me want to tear it down and rip it to pieces, but self-preservation stays my hand.
C’mon, don’t be stupid,I remind myself as I let it go. If I’m caught, I’ll be in a world of trouble.
The other side of the desk is a slim drawer almost hidden underneath the scrolled edge of the surface. I tug at it, and it comes flying open. Quickly, I balance it on my knees, but it tips over to one side, and I watch in horror as the contents fall out.
They crash to the floor, and I turn my eyes fearfully to the closed door.Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!Someone must have heard that!
A second ticks by. A heartbeat follows. Then another. And another.
But no one comes.
Taking a deep breath, I slide the drawer back carefully into the desk. My eyes flicker toward the door again. It remains shut, thank God. Papers, pens, power cords, and paper clips litter the floor at my feet. My heart beats too fast as I carefully pick them up and arrange them as neatly as possible in the drawer. I pray that Nikolai won’t notice. Or maybe he won’t open the drawer for a long time.
Not that he actually works here. Whenever he’s home, Nikolai either stares at his paintings or glares at me.
I step back once the inside of the drawer looks nicely arranged.Maybe he’ll think the staff was just cleaning, I try to reassure myself.Sure, Eden, just keep on hoping he’s that stupid.
I chance another glance at the door, wondering if I might find something in the stack of papers. Fuck it. Throwing caution to the wind, I pick them up and start thumbing through them, but there’s nothing of interest. Random letters about the artwork he has acquired or wants to acquire from the auction houses—Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Phillips, Bonhams, and Heritage. Letters addressed to him personally and signed with a pen, not by computer.
I put them back.Useless.
Several photographs have slipped out of an old datebook and lie on the floor. I bend down to pick them up and look at each one with interest. Curious despite my anxiety, I hold them as if they’re as valuable as the paintings on the wall. A dark-haired woman with dazzling green eyes holds a baby on her lap while two older children look on. The older boy looks directly at the camera, and his hand rests protectively on the woman’s shoulder. The girl leans in toward the baby, her gaze soft as she presses her cheek to his.
I know without names what I’m looking at. Nikolai on his mother’s lap, surrounded by his older siblings, Matvei and Larissa.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I don’t know why I feel this way over a photograph. Maybe because they look so happy. And now two of them are dead. I stare at the baby and how he smiles at the camera, genuine and cheerful, not tortured and cruel. Then my gaze passes to Matvei, and I see the same hard seriousness that now resides in Nikolai’s eyes.
Nikolai became something he wasn’t meant to be.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, slip the photograph into the datebook, and flip the next photo.
As soon as I do, it freezes me in place.
I see a young Nikolai, a boy no older than eight. But it’s the other person in the photo that takes my breath away.
No …I gawk at the photo.This can’t be real!
