Devil's Contract

“Thanks, Gordon. It was lovely.”

I open my purse and pull out a stack of sweets wrapped in one of the cloth napkins I’d nicked from table nine. “They served those cookies you love. I brought you a few,” I say, shoving them into his hand before he objects.

“Oh Miss Katja, you didn’t need to do that. You spoil me,” he says, although he takes the treats, nonetheless.

Little does my doorman know the wide grin that lights up his face is one of few steady constants in my turbulent life. I’ve always found something therapeutic in watching how Gordon’s skin crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, which he does often. Those creases are like a barometer telling me all is well with the world.

“You take good care of me, Gordon.” I pat his arm affectionately before adding, “You deserve so much more.”

Stepping into the revolving door, I push through into the well-lit lobby of The Whitney, the only home I’ve ever known. My gaze scans every nook and cranny, observing… looking for anything out of place, and gratefully finding everything in order. In the distance, I hear the tinkling of piano music coming from the high-end bar at the other end of the grand lobby.

“Good evening, Ms. Belov,” the manager on duty greets me as I pass by the elegant front desk. The click-click of my high heels echoes off the marble and stone in the three-story atrium as he adds, “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Peter. Have a good evening,” I reply with a small nod of acknowledgment.

Seconds later, I find the head of my security team waiting near the elevator.

“Everything is under control, Ms. Belov. No issues this evening.”

“Thank you for your report, Mr. Jenkins,” I say, enjoying the usual professional banter with the retired military officer I trust to keep The Whitney and her guests safe. “As I’ve said a hundred times, you really don’t have to wait for me. Go and have a nice evening with your family,” I add, knowing he’s been waiting for my return, refusing to go home until he’s given me his final report of the day no matter how often I tell him it’s unnecessary. E-mail was invented for a reason, after all.

Only after I step into the private elevator that takes Tristan and me to our penthouse suite do I start to let the tight grip of self-control loosen its hold on me. The barrier may be invisible to the naked eye, but the hard, defensive shell has been my most constant companion in life.

Tristan is uncharacteristically silent, making it quiet enough in the enclosed space to hear his stomach churning as he flexes his head to the side, massaging his neck.

“You really aren’t feeling well, are you?” I ask.

“Not that you care,” he accurately retorts.

“Francesca is still on duty. Send her down to housekeeping for antacids if you don’t have any in your room.”

I don’t know why I’m helping him. He deserves to be miserable for the bullshit he pulled with mistress number eleven tonight.

A few seconds later, the elevator opens to our private lobby. Our personal housekeeper is waiting to greet us. Not for the first time, I wonder if she spends hours waiting or if she gets an alert from one of the lobby employees letting her know I’m on my way up. I guess it doesn’t matter. All that matters is she’s here six nights a week, waiting to take care of any last-minute requests I have before retiring.

“Good evening, ma’am. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Francesca. Any messages while I was away?” I don’t bother stopping to chat. I know she’ll follow me, always waiting discreetly in the wings.

“No messages, ma’am. I believe everyone was at the Gala with you.”

She is mostly right, although I’m expecting a call from my contractor. It annoys me that I’m going to have to track him down tomorrow and remind him that he works for me, not the other way around.

“Very good. It’s late enough, I think I’ll retire without going into my office tonight.”

“Of course, ma’am. Would you like me to draw you a bath?” she asks.

“No, thank you. Not tonight. I’ll just take my nightcap in the library.” I kick my high heels off the second I step onto the plush carpet of the bedroom lounge. It’s the only part of the master suite Tristan and I share.

I half expect him to be sprawled out on the leather couch, waiting for me. With our busy schedules, this is about the only time of day we spend even a little bit of time together. And after a party like the Gala? It’s one of the only things we genuinely enjoy doing together—rehashing the fashion hits and misses of the night while sharing any juicy tidbits we’d been able to gather on the other guests.

I push down my annoyance when I see the door to his private bedroom already closed. Like a child, he’s hiding, trying to avoid me holding him accountable for his gross indiscretion tonight.

Francesca knows me well. As I enter my bedroom, my California king is already turned down and the single Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup I indulge in each night is waiting patiently on a cocktail napkin next to my sleeping pill and a small glass of water on the bedside table.

The lights in my mammoth walk-in closet come on as I enter. I waste no time in stripping off my gown and strapless bra—throwing them over the nearest chair with the comfort that Francesca will deal with it later.

I catch glimpses of my near-naked body in the full length mirrors interspersed throughout the room, liking what I see. Despite celebrating my thirtieth birthday last month, I know my body doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. I have hundreds of hours in my home gym and a dietician that definitely wouldn’t like my nightly Reese’s habit to thank for that small miracle.