HE THINKS HE’S UNTOUCHABLE. YOU KNOW HE’S DANGEROUS . . .
ALL EYES ON HIM
ILIANA XANDER
Iliana Xander is the author of the psychological thriller Love, Mom. She’s been writing stories since she was a teen and has published over twenty novels in various genres under different pen names. Secrets, heartbreaks, love, envy and twisty twists – you’ll find it all in her books. When she’s not writing, she is traveling the world or making crazy art.
ALSO BY ILIANA XANDER
Love, Mom
PENGUIN BOOK S
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Penguin Random House UK , One Embassy Gardens, 8 Viaduct Gardens, London SW 11 7BW penguin.co.uk
First published self-published by Iliana Xander 2025 First published in the United States of America by Sourcebooks 2026 First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2025 001
Copyright © Iliana Xander, 2025
The moral right of the author has been asserted Penguin Random House values and supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes freedom of expression and supports a vibrant culture. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for respecting intellectual property laws by not reproducing, scanning or distributing any part of it by any means without permission. You are supporting authors and enabling Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for everyone. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the DSM Directive 2019/790, Penguin Random House expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception Internal design by Sourcebooks Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
The authorized representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D 02 YH 68
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–405–98383–9
Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
PROLOGUE
SEVEN YEARS AGO
I loved you. Up until the day you decided to kill our baby. Our unborn baby—but still.
My hands shake, and I try to hold back tears as I toss several pieces of clothing into a canvas bag sitting on our bed.
I need to get out of here, fast.
“Take the Mercedes,” you said on the phone as I walked out of the clinic earlier. “It drives like a dream. You’ll be at your parents’ in no time.”
At my parents’, right. Now that you think I went through with the abortion, you don’t care what I do or where I go.
When I told you a week ago that I was pregnant, your only words were, “We can’t. We are not ready. My business takes all my time. I can’t be distracted.”
I can. I am ready. But it’s too late for you to fix what your words have broken, what you’ve done to me in the last week.
You are a brilliant man. You’ll go far. You always get what you want at any cost, and I’ve found out some things about your business that make me uneasy. I’ve always sensed a darkness in you. It trickled into our life little by little until I realized you weren’t the man I fell in love with a year ago.
And now we are here…
You were the one who booked an appointment at the private clinic for abortions. You paid for it. You drove me there this morning, sat with me while we waited for the doctor. With no mention of the week I’d spent telling you that I didn’t want to do it. That I’d be fine. That I’d take care of the baby. If only you had let me.
Instead, for the last week, you’d kept me prisoner. You’d sedated me with some medication for days, making me compliant.
“It’s for the best,” you whispered before the nurse led me away.
And you left. “I have to go. I have a meeting. Take a cab home when you’re done.”
You hoped I’d be a coward, still high on whatever sedative you’d pumped into me. But I didn’t go through with it. When the nurse sat me down, the tears started spilling down my face. I told her that I didn’t want to do it. That it wasn’t my choice.
When I walked out of that room two hours later, I was calm, proud of what I didn’t do.
I just need to get some personal belongings from your place, drive away, and never see you again, never tell you that our child will grow up without knowing its father. I shouldn’t be driving after you’ve been drugging me for days, but I need to get away from you.
My shaky hands almost drop my laptop as I shove it into a computer bag. I pick it up, together with the canvas bag, and hurry out of the house.
My phone rings.
It’s you.
My stomach drops, dread coiling inside me. In one week, you turned from a loving partner into a cruel monster, and my heart thuds in panic when I pick up the phone.
“Everything all right?” you ask, traffic noise in the background. Your business is more important than me or the baby we could’ve had together.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
There’s a weight in my chest, a tension, a feeling that you know. That you suspect something. I don’t remember the moment I began to be afraid of you.
“I will see you soon,” you say. “I’ll pick you up from your parents’ in a couple of days.”
No, you won’t. “Yes, of course.”
My parents’ house in upstate New York is only a threehour drive from your place in Vermont. I never want to see this place again, but now I fear that I won’t be far enough away from you.
“Once you are on the highway,” you say, “it’s a breezy ride. No cars. You’ll fly. I love you, Emily.”
Emily… You don’t call me that. You call me Em. Emily is for when you are upset or withdrawn.
“I love you too,” I say, though this time, I’m lying.
The drive through the Adirondack Mountains is easy. I have time to think about what to do next, how to live on. Without you. A single mother.
It’s a calming drive. Getting away from you feels like freedom. An hour into the drive, my car is winding down the
mountain highway, but when I brake, trying to slow down, the brake pedal gives with little resistance.
My stomach sinks— I’m going downhill, struggling to keep control of the car that’s gaining speed.
A turn is looming ahead. A cliff…
I press the brakes again, but the pedal sinks to the floor. Easily. Far too easily… My heart pounding, I jam it as hard as I can, but I already know it won’t work.
Your words flash in my mind. “You’ll fly.”
Dread washes over me like a tide.
The car speeds up, gaining momentum, careening toward the sharp turn ahead.
And then I fly…
1
NATALIE
NOW
“Brain dead?” I whisper and feel the omelet I had for breakfast forcing its way back out.
My friend Cara, lying motionless on a hospital bed, makes my stomach turn. A flashback of Lindsey’s funeral hits me, stirring fresh pain.
The three of us moved to New York City nine years ago. Small-town girls. Big dreams.
Then there was just Cara and me.
Now, another one of my best friends is fighting for her life.
“That’s not what I said, Miss Olsen,” says the detective who stands just a bit behind me, explaining what happened so routinely, like she does it every day for a living. “She’s in a coma with little brain activity.”
The detective is around my age. But her voice is low and abrasive, like she’s recovering from a bad sore throat, which doesn’t go with her pretty feminine looks.
“The doctor will be here shortly to explain everything,”
she continues. “They said your friend is likely to have some degree of amnesia if she recovers. It’s the effect of the drug found in her system.”
“What drug does that?” I choke out as I step closer to the hospital bed, afraid that, if I touch Cara, she will feel cold like a corpse.
“Think date- rape drug but five times stronger, with potentially lethal effects.”
“Why?” I ask in a whisper.
“To find out why, we need to find the person who did that to her. We need your help.”
“I already told you. I have no idea who he is.”
“Assuming it’s a he.”
“Who else would it be? Like I said, we were at the club. We were drinking. She was talking to the red-haired guy I told you about. She never said his name, only that he was in the VIP section.”
“Did you get a good look at him? Who was he with?”
“Don’t know. She just said he was a VIP. ”
As well as, “He is my jackpot. Soon, we’ll get out of that hellhole in Jersey. I promise, babe!”
But the detective doesn’t need to know that.
I’m still hungover from yesterday, and Cara… Well, Cara went home with a stranger and was found unconscious at a bus stop early this morning.
“So, let me get it straight,” the detective says calmly. “She’s been drinking. She’s just met this guy. She doesn’t know him. You don’t even know his name. And you let your friend go home with him without a second thought?”
“Listen…” I close my eyes, trying to get my thoughts in order.
How do I explain without getting judged that Cara liked
to party, liked sex, liked money? She enjoyed hooking up with men.
Of course, the detective won’t understand it. Her next words prove it.
“That’s how young ladies end up unconscious at public bus stops at dawn. I’ll tell you one thing, that was probably a lucky scenario for her, considering…”
I look at her over my shoulder, running into her indifferent gaze. “Considering what?”
“Considering she wasn’t raped, as per the rape kit. No sexual intercourse in the last twenty-four hours. So why was she spiked with such a heavy drug? I have a feeling there’s more to this story, Miss Olsen.”
“Can’t you check the club’s cameras?”
“There’s no crime, per se. There’s no evidence pointing to the man from the club.”
“So you are not investigating this?”
“We are interested for a different reason.”
“What other reason can there be?” I snap, though there’s no point arguing. I get it. No crime, per se.
“There’s another young woman in this very hospital in a similar condition,” the detective says. “Which was the result of the exact same drug. Except she has no brain activity.”
My insides turn. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Recently, there were two similar cases of women poisoned by the same drug. No leads. No evidence of what happened. The substance we are talking about is not a prescription drug. It’s illegal in the States.”
“Those other women didn’t say what happened?”
“They never recovered.”
Bile rises to my throat, but I push down the dread. It takes
me a moment before I speak again. “What’s the verdict on Cara’s current state?”
“The doctors can’t say yet. It hasn’t been long enough. She needs to come to, talk, and go through a number of tests. It’s fifty-fifty.”
“What does that mean?”
“She recovers without a clear memory of the last several days. Or…”
It’s the or that makes my stomach turn again.
Cara looks peaceful on the hospital bed, her heart monitor quietly beeping. Just like Lindsey before she passed. This is a screwed-up déjà vu that grips my emotions in an iron-like hold.
But hope is a trickster, often making us believe that we can beat the odds. Cara will. She will. You’ve got it, babe.
“Or she will have permanent brain damage,” the detective says.
I bite down on my lower lip to stop the tears welling up in my eyes.
“We need to find the person responsible,” I say, despite no crime, per se.
“Are you telling me everything, Miss Olsen?” the detective insists, making me feel as if I’m the criminal here.
She waits for the answer, but I’m done with this conversation.
“Well, think it over. Call me if you think of anything.” I ignore her and grit my teeth as she passes me her card and leaves without saying goodbye.
Detective Lesley Dupin, Jersey City Police Department, her card reads.
Whatever.
It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Only now do I realize that my best friend might never recover. We might never have
night-long chats again. No clubs. No dress-ups. No dreams of traveling the world. Or going to Greece. Or doing a road trip and camping out in the Appalachians.
First Lindsey. Now Cara. What have we done to deserve this?
I wipe away tears and pray for Cara to wake up. I have no clue who the man is that did this to her. He’s a needle in the middle of the haystack that’s New York City. So, how do I find a red-haired stranger who possibly injected my friend with a dangerous drug and dumped her at a bus stop?
2
NATALIE
On any given day, in a matter of seconds, Manhattan can become a death trap.
Both sides of Thirty-Fourth Street are packed with New Yorkers, already inching onto the pedestrian crossing, into the steady bumper-to-bumper traffic, despite the pedestrian signal still being red.
That’s Manhattan. People and cars navigate the streets with jarring impatience.
My crappy mood doesn’t match the sunny weather. The interview for the bartending position at the Hyatt went well. But despite my stellar résumé, my frequent job changes are a red flag.
The traffic light turns yellow, and someone is already pushing against me from behind, nudging me into the back of a young man in front of me. He’s holding a coffee, his attention on the phone in his hand. His cologne is seductively bitter. Neatly combed light-brown hair, crisp white shirt, dress pants, and pointy leather shoes—he’s probably a
banker or something of the sort. He looks pristine even in the early September heat. Judging by how little attention he pays to the traffic, he is a native New Yorker.
He starts walking, drawing my attention to the green pedestrian light.
By instinct, I step forward.
Just then, the sound of screeching tires makes my head snap in the direction of a red Oldsmobile, which is making a sharp turn on a red light at full speed into our street.
Like ants, the pedestrians split in half, jumping back or jolting forward.
Except for the young man.
Without thinking, I grab him by the arm and yank him back out of the way of the car that misses him by an inch.
His coffee goes flying into the air. The car swipes the curb but, without stopping, speeds away.
“Jeez,” he blurts out, turning to me with wide eyes. The crowd surges forward, shouldering us, unfazed by the accident that was just prevented. But the strikingly blue eyes of the stranger hold me hostage.
He is charmingly handsome.
“Phew,” Mr. Handsome exhales, his eyes roaming my face. “I think you just saved my life.” He chuckles, his lips spreading in a gorgeous smile.
“Or spared you a hospital bill,” I say.
Someone shoulders me, and I start walking, the man following alongside.
“At the very least!” he says excitedly, as if we have just witnessed a miracle. “Freaking drivers here. Insane, huh? I guess I need a new coffee,” he says as he checks his empty to-go cup, walking with me shoulder to shoulder. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I murmur.
But a coffee sounds good. I don’t have a job. I can’t splurge, or I won’t have money for rent.
“Nick.” Without stopping, the handsome stranger offers his hand for a shake.
“Natalie,” I say as I shake it.
He nods toward a Starbucks. “Come on. Please, let me buy you a coffee.”
He quickly checks his watch, and I have a feeling that this is not an invitation for a date, just a courtesy. But why not?
“There is better coffee than that,” I say. He might not be a native New Yorker after all. I nod toward the PapaBean street stall. “Best coffee around. Ethiopian. Light roast.”
He grins at me. “Oh, yeah?” His blue eyes seem even more vibrant as they catch the sunlight. “Whatever you say, boss. Come on.” He beelines through the crowded street toward the kiosk. “I’ll have whatever she does,” he tells the middle-aged man with a mustache and an apron, and I place the order. “So, Natalie, what are you doing on this fine day? Besides saving lives and trashing my coffee taste?” he says in a smooth voice that could melt chocolate.
That grin of his is contagious, and I smile back. “Actually, I just left a job interview. I’m better at saving lives than keeping a job.”
Nick laughs, the sound of it making my smile grow, even though by any definition, this is a crappy day for me. Not to mention my best friend has been in a coma for three days now.
“What kind of job are you looking for?” Nick asks. I shrug. “At this point? Anything. Degree, no degree. Qualifications, no qualifications.”
I gave up pursuing jobs for my business degree several
years ago. Turns out, bartending at upscale places pays better. That is, if you can keep the job.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
It’s my own fault that I lost my previous gig at a tapas place for being too abrasive and rude—get that—to the rude Wall Street assholes who made sexist comments. On top of that, Cara hasn’t shown any improvement. She is lucky, the doctor said, though she still hasn’t come to.
Looks like I have to pay rent all on my own this month.
At the thought, my smile falters. I absently study the magazine stand on the side of the coffee kiosk, trying to stay away from negative thoughts.
That’s when I see him.
There are plenty of red- haired men in New York. Forgettable, sure. Just not this face, with the peculiar tick of his right eyebrow, his green eyes staring at me from the cover of the magazine.
I swallow hard, frozen to the spot—it is him.
“Your coffee, young lady,” Nick says next to me.
But my eyes are glued to the magazine, and I slowly pick it up from the stand.
There’s no mistake— the face on the cover of the Tech Weekly magazine belongs to the guy Cara went home with after the club. He has a name— Geoffrey Rosenberg.
MAN OF THE YEAR.
THE CEO OF IXRESEARCH.
AND THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE FORBES 40 UNDER 40.
Cara’s words ring in my ears. “He’s my jackpot.”
And possibly a predator, I add silently.
3
NATALIE
“Wow, so smitten you don’t even want your coffee?”
The voice pulls me out of my stupor. Mr. Handsome is smiling at me, his eyes shifting from the magazine cover to me as I take the coffee from him.
He tips his chin at the cover. “You into cryptocurrency?”
“No, no,” I respond.
I want to say that the man on the cover might have something to do with poisoning my best friend and possibly other women, but I hold my tongue. My heart starts pounding as my hand slides into my purse to search for my phone—I need to call the detective.
“My boss,” Nick says.
“Huh?” I freeze, staring at him with a momentary shock.
His eyes motion toward the magazine cover. “That’s my boss,” he repeats with pride.
I knew he had something to do with the über-rich. “No way,” I blurt out.
“Yeah. I’m his personal driver.”
Oh. So, not a banker, after all.
“Must be nice,” I say, shoving the magazine back onto the stand, intending to research the Man of the Year online as soon as I get home.
“Nice what?” Nick’s brows draw together.
Driver or not, Nick must be making big bucks, judging by his crisp outfit and polished shoes.
“Working for a millionaire,” I say. “Pays well?”
Nick chuckles. “I guess. He’s a good guy. Filthy rich too.”
The last words turn my thoughts by 180 degrees.
There’s one thing that history has proven—the rich often get away with their crimes. Mr. Crypto- King- Rosenberg probably has enough funds to bribe the police and the entire justice system. Me calling the detective won’t change a thing. Absolutely nothing will come out of it. Except— the thought sends shivers down my spine—I might end up just like Cara.
Right away, doubt creeps into my head. Why would a guy who is rich and famous, who is on the cover of a magazine, take a girl home and pump her with drugs, then let her go? According to the doctors, Cara had no signs of physical or sexual assault, not even a scratch. And that makes me wonder if this man on the cover has anything to do with it at all.
“Is the good guy hiring?” I joke without thinking, not sure why I even said that.
“No.” Nick chuckles, but his expression instantly changes, as if a lightbulb has gone off in his head. “You know what? What job were you interviewing for?”
A bartender, I almost say, though I have a degree in business, but that doesn’t pay the bills too well these days.
“Why?” I ask instead, so as not to give away too much.
“My boss is having a business party this weekend. With catering services and all that stuff. But one of his housekeepers is on emergency leave.”
Nick scrunches up his face in what looks like pity. Oh, wow. So he thinks I’m looking for that type of job.
I’m about to say something bitter to Nick, the hotshot driver. Sure, my simple white button- up, jeans, and my hair pulled back in a ponytail don’t give the impression of me interviewing for a CEO’s assistant. But a cleaning lady? Really?
I don’t say that. Nick’s gaze is not arrogant, not even a bit. It’s sweet and expectant, and I realize he’s actually trying to help.
“Are you asking me if I want to interview for a cleaning job at your boss’s office?” I probe, wondering if he is joking after all.
“Not his office—his residence. It’s in Jersey, twenty minutes or so outside the city.”
Nick scrunches up his nose again. I get it—that’s across the river in a different state. Coincidentally, I live in Jersey City, just across the river.
Nick shrugs. “It’s a staff of six people plus me. A temporary position anyway. Just trying to help if you are interested.”
I desperately need money. Like yesterday. “Won’t it take forever for a background check?” I ask carefully. “An interview? A résumé?”
I really don’t have time for that.
“Not if you know the right people,” he says with a wink. “The least I can do for someone who saved my life. Would be nice to have a pretty face around.”
I don’t know what to say. This morning, when I left my apartment to take the train to Manhattan for an interview, a
cleaning lady position wasn’t even remotely an option. But this is not just any position. It might be fast money. And that’s not even the draw. It’s working for Geoffrey Rosenberg, the man who may or may not be involved in Cara’s poisoning. If there’s a chance to find out, it’s right now.
I chew on the inside of my cheek in contemplation. “You are saying I can get a job before the weekend and get paid right after?”
Nick checks his watch. At that very moment, his phone rings, and he switches the coffee into his other hand to pick it up.
“I’m here,” he answers, his face immediately acquiring a stern expression. “Yes, I’ll be there in five. Had a little delay… Yes. No problem, boss.”
His boss! He must be talking to the Man of the Year! It does something to my insides, which twist in unease.
“What time is the conference call?” He motions with two fingers for my phone as he keeps talking to his boss on the other end. I pass him my phone, and he types in a phone number and sends a text, Natalie, to himself.
“Call me later today,” he mouths to me as he answers into the phone. “Understood… Yes… Yes. No problem.”
He winks at me and starts walking away, disappearing into the sea of people.
If this isn’t luck, I don’t know what is. I have a chance to meet the Man of the Year in person, maybe get to know him, maybe find out what happened the night Cara was drugged.
Cleaning trash will be temporary. And if Rosenberg turns out to be trash? I’ll figure out how to deal with him.
I just have to be very careful.
4
NATALIE
Despite having to save every penny for rent, I do end up buying the magazine with the red-haired devil on its cover. I need the picture of the Man of the Year to remind me that I can, in fact, track that predator if he turns out to be one.
Jersey City Heights is across the river from Manhattan. That’s a fifteen-minute train ride. Cara and I have a car that we drove to the city from back home, but we only use it for out-of-town trips.
On the short train ride, I scan the article about Geoffrey Rosenberg. There’s nothing much about his past, except that he dabbled in crypto and digital ventures after he dropped out of college. He reemerged on the cryptocurrency scene about a year ago. Since then, his company, IxResearch, has become the most successful cryptocurrency exchange in the US.
I don’t know much about digital currency. And I definitely don’t know how one starts a company that a year later is backed by investors from around the globe and valued at ten figures. Apparently, at the age of thirty-four, Geoffrey
Rosenberg is an entrepreneurial mastermind. He lives in Jersey. He rarely makes public appearances. He’s charming, private, extremely intelligent. And his company is soon to go public, which, analysts project, will multiply its value by ten. That’s tens of billions of dollars.
Apparently, just like many young millionaires, Mr. Rosenberg doesn’t shy away from clubs or spiking young women.
Why?
The incident with Cara still doesn’t make sense, but I’m itching to find out more about the man I suspect is responsible.
As soon as I arrive to my apartment, I move the Styrofoam wig head on the coffee table to the side and open my laptop, then clear the clothes off the couch to make room for myself to sit.
Our place is a tiny two-bedroom on the ground floor of a three-story brick row house. If it were me, this place would be pristine. But Cara is a costume designer. Every space in our apartment is occupied with fabric swatches, garments, and sequin strips. A pincushion model and a tailor’s dummy stand in one corner, a mannequin in another. Cara is talented, but I wish she didn’t have so many side hustles that make our apartment look like a dressing room for a burlesque show.
A scratching noise draws my attention to the cage sitting in the corner.
“Ugh, Trixy.” I rise with a sigh and walk to the kitchen to grab a piece of lettuce and zucchini. We get the battered veggies for free from a small grocery store around the corner, just for Trixy.
Trixy is our pet rat. Smart, feisty, and honestly, quite useless, but I love her to death. She’s entertaining to watch. The
cage door lock broke some time ago, so now we have a treasure box holding it closed.
I feed Trixy, then hurry back to the computer.
“Geoffrey Rosenberg,” I whisper as I search the internet. There are dozens of articles about him, most only in connection with his venture, as well as several pictures of him from conferences and interviews with bloggers. All his social media accounts post strictly business info.
I spend two hours reading anything I find about the mysterious millionaire. I make myself instant noodles and absentmindedly eat them as I scroll the internet.
There’s very little info about Rosenberg’s school and college years. He was raised by a single mom in Vermont. She passed away when he was a freshman in college. He dropped out, started exploring the digital currency world, and recently took the financial world by storm.
Someone on an online crypto forum thread posted a picture of him from his college years.
“Well, hello,” I murmur as I study the twenty-year-old Geoffrey Rosenberg. He’s come a long way from the skinny, unremarkable redhead he used to be.
But Rosenberg’s past is not of much interest to me. His present is.
Trixy starts loudly rattling the cage. She does that often. She has a temper.
Cara jokes, “She’s just like us back home. Trying to break out of the cage. Maybe, one day we’ll set her free.”
I close my eyes and hold my breath, feeling the tears coming on.
Cara, Lindsey, and me. We were so young when we moved to New York City. We tried so hard to make it big, to forget the gloomy little life we had in a small town in the crack of nowhere.
Cara has always been a troublemaker. Lindsey was the smartest of us three. A straight-A student in school. A fullride college scholarship, unlike the low-income financial aid that Cara and I got. Unfortunately, terminal cancer has no regard for merits or lifetime goals.
Lindsey never made it to her twenty-third birthday.
I’d never been to a funeral until the day we buried Lindsey, back in our hometown, where the few people present glared at Cara and me as if we had stolen her away. Before leaving the cemetery, Lindsey’s father paused in front of Cara and me and said angrily, “That city killed her.”
Tears burn my eyes. Trixy goes still in her cage, as if feeling my sadness.
I can’t lose Cara too. I don’t want to be the only one. The only one to be alive. The only one to “take the world by storm,” as we pledged nine years ago, driving the beat-up Toyota across the States on our way to the Big Apple. God, we were so naive.
I might be naive right now, but I need to figure out why Rosenberg did what he did to Cara. I need closure. I want revenge for Cara. That means I have to get to Rosenberg.
I pick up my phone and dial the handsome stranger, Nick. My call goes straight to his voicemail, so I send a text instead.
Me: Any update on the potential job for me? Thank you again for doing this. Hope to hear from you soon.
Nick responds in two minutes.
Nick: I’ll let you know soon.
My optimistic mood deflates. “Soon” can’t come soon enough, so I start cleaning the living room, moving Cara’s
current projects to her bedroom that barely has space. Even Lady Bunny and one of Alexander McQueen’s models’ poster on her bedroom wall have tchotchkes hanging around them.
When my phone dings with a text message notification, I dart toward it like a ninja.
Nick: Tomorrow. 9 a.m. You will meet with Julien, the house manager.
An address follows, near Alpine, a wealthy area in Jersey—no surprise.
Nick: The security guard at the gate will know who you are.
Security? I guess that makes sense, considering Rosenberg’s wealth.
Nick: See you tomorrow.
I dial his number, but he cuts the call.
Nick: Can’t talk, doll;)
Me: Thanks, handsome! I really appreciate this! Anything else I need to know before I start?
Nick: That place is a little uptight, but you’ll be fine.
I’ve worked at plenty of uptight places that cater to the rich. It’s the subtle undertone of the next message that makes me uneasy.
Nick: Make sure you follow the rules.
DAY 1
5
NATALIE
The Splendors Mansion, says an elegant sign on the giant gate that conceals Geoffrey Rosenberg’s house.
I stop my car in front of it. I didn’t get a code to get in, so I pick up the phone, intending to text Nick, when the door of the security booth on the side of the gate opens and a large guard steps out.
I roll down the window. “I’m here for the job interview.”
Close-shaven beard, square jaw that could crack walnuts, thick eyebrows just below a baseball hat—the security guy looks like a bulldog.
He stares at me with unmistakable disapproval, like I’m here to replace him.
“I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “Wait here.”
He squeezes his six-foot bulky frame back into the security booth, checks something in a notepad, then steps out and shakes his head. “There’s nothing about you or any interview in my memo.” He swings his forefinger in the air. “Turn around.”
“This is a misunderstanding,” I say, then dial Nick. He picks up right away. “Hey, doll.”
“Nick, I’m here, at the mansion, but the security guy says he doesn’t know anything about the interview.”
“Ugh, give me a sec. Stay there.”
He hangs up, and I apologize to the hostile security guy. “Give me a moment, please. I’m Natalie, by the way. What’s your name?”
He stalls, his iguana gaze on me like I just personally insulted him. “Dave.”
I tense and stare at my hands on the steering wheel, waiting.
His phone rings. “Understood,” he answers curtly. “Yes. Yes. No problem, sir.” He hangs up and shifts his glare to me. “Park on the west side of the building. Use the staff entrance. You are going to talk to Julien,” he says with reluctance as if I’m in the wrong here. He squeezes himself back into the booth and opens the gate.
“Thank you, Dave!” I call, hoping that this is the only hiccup at the job that hasn’t even started yet.
I drive in slowly through the opening gate, checking the rearview mirror, and see Dave on the phone again, his head turned toward me as he watches me drive.
“Whatever, man,” I murmur. “I’m here for a job, just like you.”
But my mood lightens when I drive up to the mansion. Well, well.
The Splendors is a two- story modern mansion with a fountain at the front and a vast lawn manicured to a perfection I’ve only seen in lifestyle magazines. A black Maybach with tinted windows is parked out front— this must be Rosenberg’s car that Nick drives.