Portraits of stern-looking ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following our progress with aristocratic disapproval. Vases on pedestals. Sculptures in alcoves. More wealth per square foot than I'd see in a lifetime.
And in front of me, Cassidy Valentine walked.
Walked was perhaps the wrong word.
She moved like a runway model. No, that wasn't quite right either. She moved like a cat who knew exactly how much space she occupied and wanted you to notice every inch of it. Her hips swayed with each step, the short hem of her skirt catching the light, her wine-red hair with its black streaks bouncing against her shoulders.
She's doing that on purpose. The sway. The deliberate slowness. She wants me looking.
I was looking. I wasn't dead.
But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing it.
"Keep up, Scholarship Boy." Her voice echoed off the marble floors. "I don't have all day."
"You literally have all day. It's Saturday."
"My TIME is valuable."
"More valuable than mine?"
She glanced back at me. Those purple eyes, sharp with challenge. "Obviously."
Troublesome.
We passed a set of double doors. Then another. Then a sitting room that could have housed my entire apartment building. The scale of this place was absurd. Cartoonish. The kind of wealth that stopped feeling real after a certain point.
Cassidy stopped.
We'd reached a particularly ornate table, set against the wall beneath a portrait of someone who looked like they'd never smiled in their life. The table was dark wood, carved with intricate patterns, probably older than my entire family tree.
She turned. Leaned back against it.
The pose was deliberate. She rested her weight on her palms, which pushed her chest forward. Her head tilted, exposing the line of her neck. One leg crossed in front of the other, making her skirt ride up just slightly.
She's trying to intimidate me. Or seduce me. Or both. Hard to tell with this one.
"So." Her voice dropped. Lower. Huskier. A practiced sultriness that she probably used on boys who didn't know better. "You really think you can handle this place? It's a lot to take in for someone from... wherever you're from."
"Philadelphia."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
She pushed off the table, taking a step toward me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something that made me think of dark rooms and bad decisions.
"Seven assistants, Isaiah." She said my name like she was tasting it. "Seven professionals. All of them ran. What makes you think you're special?"
"I never said I was special."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because the pay is good and I have bills."
She blinked. Whatever response she'd been expecting, that wasn't it.
"That's... that's it? Just money?"
"What else would there be?"
Her jaw tightened. The seductive pose faltered. I could see the frustration building behind her eyes, the realization that her usual weapons weren't working.
"You're supposed to be nervous." Her voice had lost its sultry edge. "You're supposed to be flustered. Why aren't you flustered?"
"I've handled Penn Station at rush hour. This is manageable."
"Manageable?! I'm not MANAGEABLE, I'm—"
She spun away from me with a theatrical huff, her heel catching on the Persian rug beneath us.
Time slowed down.
I saw it happen in fragments. The way her body pitched forward. The way her arms pinwheeled. The way her trajectory was taking her directly toward a marble pedestal holding a vase that probably cost more than my entire existence.
My body moved before my brain could object.
---
One step closed the distance.
My right arm wrapped around her waist, catching her momentum, pulling her back from the collision course with the priceless antique. My left hand reached for something to brace against.
It found something, alright.
My brain supplied the word 'breast' a half-second later, clinical and useless.
Useless because it didn't describe the way my fingers sank slightly, the frantic, trapped-bird rhythm of her heart beating against my palm.
A jolt went up my arm, a current of something hot and unfamiliar.
This was a problem.
A five-foot-something, wine-haired, screaming problem currently plastered against my body.
And she wasn't wearing a bra.
Cassidy was frozen in my arms. Her back against my chest. My arm around her waist. My hand exactly where it shouldn't be. Her face was inches from mine, turned slightly, those purple eyes wide with shock.
I should have let go immediately.
I didn't.
Instead, I assessed the situation. Made sure she was stable. Made sure the vase was safe. Made sure we weren't about to topple over together.
Professional concerns. Entirely professional.
The fact that I could feel the warmth of her skin through her thin top, the way her body trembled against mine, the small gasp that escaped her lips. All of that was secondary data.
She stopped breathing. That's probably bad.
"You alright?"
My voice came out calm. Conversational. Like I wasn't currently cupping her chest in the hallway of her family mansion.
The question seemed to snap her back to reality.
Her face went red. Not pink. Red. The kind of red that started at her cheeks and crawled down her neck like wildfire.
"WH-WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"
Her voice cracked on the last word. She shoved away from me with enough force to nearly send herself stumbling again. I let her go, holding up both hands in the universal gesture of innocence.
"I was preventing you from breaking your face on a priceless vase."
"YOUR HAND WAS ON MY— ON MY—" She couldn't even say it. Her arms crossed over her chest protectively. "YOU PERVERTED CREEP!"
"You tripped."
"YOU GRABBED ME!"
"To stop you from falling. The grabbing was incidental."
"INCIDENTAL?! You GROPED me! That's sexual harassment! I could have you arrested! I could—"
"You could also say thank you for saving you from a concussion and your family from explaining to your mother why her assistant candidate destroyed a Ming Dynasty vase on his first day."
She sputtered. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
No words came out.
Interesting. She doesn't know how to handle someone who doesn't panic when she panics.
I lowered my hands. Straightened my tie. The one Iris had given me. At least that was still intact.
"The guest suite. Which way?"
Cassidy stared at me. Her face was still burning. Her arms were still crossed. But something had shifted in her expression. The anger was there, sure. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like curiosity.
"...This way."
She turned and started walking again.
Her hips didn't sway this time.