The first semblance of normalcy since discovering that my “elite” fencing instructor moonlit as an unpaid maid came from six uninterrupted hours of work.
By the time I raised my head from the computer screens, my watch read half past noon. On the dot.
My internal clock functioned properly again.
Natalie cracked the door open, poking her head past its cavity. “Yoo-hoo. May I interrupt?”
You already fucking are.
I reclined in my leather chair, ripping the black thick-rimmed reading glasses from my face and placing them on their stand. “Yes?”
“Your lunch is ready, Mr. Sun.”
I ate the same lunch every day since seventeen. Eight strips of sashimi, one toro inari, cold shishito peppers, and a cucumber salad.
Variety didn’t interest me.
I found no pleasure in food, and type 2 diabetes seemed like a less appealing prospect than Chapter 9 bankruptcy.
“Send it in.”
Natalie invaded my domain, jostling a cart past the double doors.
She followed me to the coffee table, set down a cavernous porcelain bowl of water, and handed me a fresh towel after I washed my hands in it.
As far as assistants went, she was tolerable enough.
Former Phi Beta Kappa at Johns Hopkins. No scented beauty products to nauseate me. Capable of taking orders with above-average executive function.
A little heavy on the dialogue, but I supposed I’d yet to encounter anyone who could keep their questions, answers, and reactions to my preferred two-syllable limit.
She transferred the tray of dishes from the cart to the table, then collected her iPad, clutching it to her chest.
If possible, the powder-blue blouse wrapped around her torso like Saran Wrap tightened with the movement.
She’d coupled the shirt with a gray pencil skirt and a pair of Louboutins so high, she probably had an eagle-eyed view of the Washington Monument.
I cocked a brow, curious what had given her the idea that she was welcome to stay. “Yes?”
An audible gulp traveled down her neck. “Mr. Sun…”
She painted a circle with the tip of her ridiculous shoe, white-knuckling the edges of the tablet screen.
I stared at her.
She knew better than to expect me to fill the silence.
Natalie fidgeted under my scrutiny. “There’s something else.”
After studying her for ten straight seconds, I gathered that she had no intention of completing the thought.
“Well, I’m on pins and needles here, Natalie. Whenever you’re ready. Preferably in this century.”
Another gulp.
A shaky breath.
I should’ve finished my lunch by now, which I preferred at the forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit I expected it served at.
The Go board caught Natalie’s attention.
She drew a palm to her chest. “Aw. You haven’t touched your checkers game in forever.”
“It’s Go.” And so should you. “You were saying?”
“Right.” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me for overstepping, but I couldn’t help but overhear your mother’s conversation with Celeste the other day when they visited for lunch.”
She forced herself to maintain eye contact with me. No easy feat. My default expression was set to hostile.
She flattened her free hand over her skirt, continuing. “I know you’re auditioning women as potential… umm, you know, life partners.”
Poor Natalie.
She didn’t think she stood a chance, did she?
I had nothing against my assistant. In the same way I had nothing against people who wore Crocs.
Just because I found them fundamentally tasteless did not mean they did not deserve to breathe.
Or so society insisted.
Natalie was excruciatingly average.
Pretty—but not beautiful.
Hardworking—but not genius.
She’d attended an Ivy League college for her master’s, but those had steadily produced idiots since their inception.
She lacked any real personality or talent.
In fact, I’d only chosen her as an assistant because she didn’t possess the usual aversion to long hours and basic math.
“And I was thinking…” She licked her lips, dropping her gaze from my face to the floor, brushing her mousy brown hair back. “I think you should definitely consider me. I’m hard working and quiet.”
Not right now you aren’t.
She hopped from foot to foot. “I take directions really well. I’m dutiful and a team player.”
Team player? How many people did she think I planned on inviting into my sack?
“I will not give you trouble. I… I…” Her cheeks turned scarlet. She pinched her lips together before forcing nonsensical words to tumble out. “I will do whatever you want—however you want it—in bed. I’m not even asking for exclusivity. I’m a survivor. I want a good life. And I have a feeling you’re a survivor, too, Mr. Sun. I don’t know how or why, but I see it in you.”
I didn’t ask her what she saw.
I did not care.
But Natalie was in the zone, already too far gone to notice her reluctant audience was unimpressed by her lackluster performance.
She closed her eyes and heaved in a breath. “You have this air about you, like you’re ready for war at the drop of the hat. I know that look. I wear it, too, sometimes.”
“I appreciate a good hustler, Natalie, but I am in the market for something rather specific.”
Her eyes clung to mine. “What is it?”
“Whoever gets Constance Sun’s stamp of approval.”
She shoved out an awkward, stilted laugh. “Is Constance your cult leader?”
“In a way. She is my mother.”
“Why would you let her dictate who you marry?” She hiked the iPad up her chest like it would shield her from my answer.
Because her husband died protecting me, and there hasn’t been a single day since that I didn’t wish it were me instead of him.
“I took away her partner. The least I can do is let her choose mine.”
Natalie’s shoulders caved downward, her entire being liquifying into a slump. I disliked people with bad posture.
She was disqualified before she even opened her mouth.
“But it’s not fair—”
I held up a hand. “As is life. You’re over the age of three. I thought you’d already gotten the memo.” I fanned the cloth napkin over my lap and picked up the set of steel chopsticks. “Anything more you’d like to discuss before I have my lunch? I wish to do so in silence.”
Natalie opened her mouth then clamped it shut, showing off her best trout impression.
“If nothing else, you’re about to get your wish.” She tucked her iPad under her armpit, voice cracking.
I lifted a brow. “They’re canceling federal taxes?”
Surely, I did not have this good of luck.
I was born on the fourth day of the fourth month. The unluckiest number in Chinese culture.
In Mandarin, four shared similar pronunciation with the word death.
Already, the cure to my physical aversion to humans landing headfirst in my lap seemed like an uncharacteristic stroke of fortune.
“Well, not that wish.” Natalie set her iPad on the cart, busying her hands by collecting the porcelain washing bowl and depositing it on top. “Your mother called earlier to inform you she is letting some girl borrow her Astteria necklace. The custom jade and gold one you keep in a safe for her.”
The state of modern dating must’ve hit an all-time low since I’d last checked, because she sniffed, failing to keep an errant tear at bay.
It was a particularly gruesome punishment for my sins that I had to endure the tears of women without even getting the pussy.
Natalie progressed to clenching her fists around the cart handles, challenging their load-bearing capacity. “Constance said the girl is going to drop by today and asked that you show her around.”
She used her fingers as quotation marks, her lower lip curled in a barely contained pout.
This again.
Hadn’t Mom realized blind dates didn’t work after Plan N?
I burrowed my fingertips into my eyelids, massaging the area with a heavy sigh. “What’s the woman’s name?”
Natalie scrunched her nose. “Electra? Exotica, maybe?”
“Eileen.”
My mother would dine on a bowl of eyeballs before trying to match me with a woman named Exotica.
“Yeah. Something like that. Very bland name if you ask me.”
Good thing I didn’t.
“When am I expecting her?”
“Three o’clock.”
Might as well make an effort with Eileen to please my mother. Even if I felt like dying before doing it.
“That’s fine. Let her in when she arrives. I’ll take care of it.”
“Really? You never accept anyone unannounced.”
I did not answer Natalie.
She shook her head, huffing. “Every woman in this zip code would die to have your attention, and you only have eyes for your mother. What a travesty.”
“Watch your mouth, Miss Mikaylov, unless you’re eager to lose your job.”
Natalie remained standing in the middle of the room like an out-of-place piece of furniture you had to keep because a close relative had gifted it to you.
There seemed to be more she wanted to say, but the idea that I was paying her an hourly rate to try to convince me to marry her instead of spending the money on something more useful—like dry cleaning or getting Oliver’s Cane Corso’s anal glands expressed—rubbed me the wrong way.
I plucked a translucent sliver of budo ebi from the sashimi plate, bringing it to my lips.
Too warm.
“Will that be all, Miss Mikaylov?”
For a reason unfathomable to me, I nursed the foolish hope that she’d tell me Farrow had tried to set the house on fire, auction my entire art collection, or otherwise commit a heinous crime on my property.
Something to give me an excuse to seek Miss Ballantine out and breathe fire at her blizzard existence.
But Natalie merely exhaled again, head bowed.
“No, sir, that will be all.”
She retreated with the cart, leaving me with a surprise date I did not want and a low-security dating agency server to hack into.
