Darius Knows My Name

Camille Dupont arrived with fourteen suitcases, three hatboxes, and a dog the size of a loaf of bread. His name was Pretzel. I was told he owned more clothes than I did.

"Darling!" she sang, floating through the penthouse doors in a cloud of perfume. "I am home!"

I stood in the middle of the living room in a gray suit that Lucien's closet had chosen for me, and I wanted to run.

"Welcome," I said stiffly.

"You are so formal today." She kissed my cheek. "Servant! The bags!"

Behind her, in a maid's uniform that was slowly getting tighter and tighter across his shoulders, Lucien came through the door carrying four suitcases at once. His face was bright red. His arms were shaking. The tiny dog yapped at his ankles.

"Be careful with the blue one," Camille said without looking. "It has my pearls."

"Yes, Miss Dupont," Lucien said through his teeth.

"And do not drag the white one. It is Italian."

"Yes, Miss Dupont."

"And smile. Servants should smile."

Lucien smiled. It was the most terrifying smile I had ever seen on my own face. It looked like a wolf told to say please.

I pressed my lips together so I would not laugh.

Camille floated into the bedroom. I followed her slowly, like a man walking to his own funeral. The room was full of light and silk and flowers, and on the king-size bed, where I had woken up that morning, a new pillow had appeared. A pink one. With her initials.

"I had them put another pillow on your side," Camille said. "So we can finally be comfortable."

"Both of us," I said. "In one bed."

"Of course. We are engaged." She tilted her head. "Why are you looking at it like it will bite you?"

"I am tired."

"You are always tired this week." She kicked off her heels and sat on the edge of the bed. "Come here."

"I have work."

"You never work."

"I have started."

She narrowed her eyes. Behind her, Lucien walked in with the dog under one arm and a hatbox under the other. He saw her on the bed and stopped dead.

For one second, his face went through three expressions. Shock. Anger. Something much worse.

"Servant," Camille said, "unpack."

"Yes, Miss Dupont."

He marched to the closet and opened the first suitcase. A cloud of silk fell out. He held up a tiny, delicate piece of black lace and went very still.

"Miss Dupont," he said in a strangled voice, "what is this?"

"My nightgown."

"It has no..."

"It is French."

"It has no fabric."

I coughed loudly. Camille smiled. "Iron it, please. And hang it where Lucien can see it."

Lucien turned to look at me over his shoulder. His eyes, my gray eyes, were burning.

I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling very carefully.

Ten minutes later, I found an excuse to slip into the closet. He was inside, sitting on a stool, holding the lace like a dead bird.

"Do not say anything," he whispered.

"I was not going to."

"You are enjoying this."

"I am not."

"Your face is laughing."

"My face is your face."

"Do not use that against me." He held up the nightgown. "She wants me to iron this. It will burn. It is made of air."

"Then iron it carefully."

"I have never ironed anything in my life!"

"I know. You wear the same shirt for three days and call it fashion."

"It is fashion."

"It is laundry."

He threw a sock at me. I caught it.

"This is your fault," he said. "You should not have knelt."

"You should not have fainted."

"You should not have carried me."

"You should have said thank you."

"I said thank you!"

"You said, I did not say thank you."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he looked at the lace again, and when he spoke his voice was very small. "She is going to sleep in that. Next to you."

I felt my ears go hot. "I know."

"In my bed."

"I know."

"And she is going to put her hands..." He stopped. His jaw clenched hard in my face. "You will not let her."

"Excuse me?"

"You will not let her touch you." He stood up. "That is my body, Seraphina. You will not let anyone do anything with it."

"What exactly do you think I am going to do?"

"I do not know! I just know that if she kisses me, I will... I will..." He waved the nightgown helplessly. "Burn something."

"She is your girlfriend."

"She is my father's choice."

"You were with her for two years."

"I was with a lot of women for two years!"

It should not have bothered me that he was jealous. It bothered me that I did not hate it.

We stared at each other in the dim light of the closet. His breath was fast. Mine too. It was odd how close we were standing in each other's bodies, so close that I could see the freckle on my own cheek.

"Darling?" Camille's voice floated in from the bedroom. "Are you coming to bed?"

Lucien flinched as if she had struck him. I closed my eyes.

"I will handle it," I whispered.

"You better."

I walked out of the closet and into the bedroom. Camille lay on top of the covers in the French nightgown, with the little dog beside her, and for one terrible moment I could not look anywhere except at the floor.

"I cannot sleep here," I said.

"Why not?"

"I snore."

"You never snore."

"I have a new condition. It is serious. The doctors say..." I waved my hand. "I should not share a bed. For safety."

"What kind of condition?"

"A very rare one."

"What is it called?"

"Insomnia," I said. "Of the neck."

Camille stared. Behind her, Lucien, who had followed me out with the ironing board, made a noise like a dying goose.

"Fine," Camille said slowly. "Then your maid will sleep on a cot beside the door. In case we need her."

"What?" Lucien said.

"She will be here all night. To bring water, or pillows, or whatever you want." Camille smiled sweetly. "Is that all right, Lucien?"

I looked at Lucien. He looked at me. A very small muscle jumped in his jaw.

"That," I said, "is perfect."

An hour later, Camille was asleep, the dog was snoring, and I was lying on the far edge of the king-size bed with eighteen inches between a famous model and me. Lucien lay on a thin cot by the door, staring at me with narrowed eyes.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. I looked.

Darius Voss: Midnight. The Marquis Hotel, Room 1209. Come alone.

I held the phone in my hand for a very long time.

Then I slipped out of bed, put on a coat, and tiptoed to the door.

Lucien sat up on the cot. "Where are you going?" he whispered.

"To meet your rival."

"At midnight? In a hotel?"

"He sent a message."

"He sends warnings!"

"Then I will receive it."

"I am coming with you."

"You are the maid. You have a cot."

"I will say I need a glass of water."

"Camille would wake."

He opened his mouth. Then, to my surprise, he took my hand. His fingers, my fingers, were small and cold.

"Be careful," he whispered. "Darius never does anything by accident. If he asks you to come alone, he wants something very specific."

"What?"

"I do not know. That is what scares me." He let go. "Take my watch. The silver one. It has a tracker. If you are in danger, press the crown three times."

"Why does it have a tracker?"

"My father likes to know where I am."

I put it on. It was heavy, and it felt like a promise.

The Marquis Hotel was dark and quiet. I rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, my heart pounding. In every mirror, Lucien Ashford looked terrified. I stopped in front of Room 1209.

The door was already open.

Darius Voss sat by the window in a black suit, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in his hand. He was handsome in a calm, dangerous way, with sharp eyes and a smile that did not reach them. He did not stand up.

"Lucien," he said. "Right on time."

"You asked me to come."

"I did." He took a slow sip. "I have been wondering something since this morning. I saw the news. I saw you carry a maid."

"She fainted."

"Of course she did." His eyes settled on mine. They were quiet and very sure. "Tell me. How is your mother, Miss Vale?"

The whole room went cold.

"I do not know what you mean," I said.

"I think you do." He set down his glass very gently. Darius smiled slowly. "Hello, Seraphina."