My knees buckle, forcing me to kneel for balance.
That’s not possible… I blink at the empty trash can.
It can’t be. Someone from the house staff must’ve come in while I was asleep and cleared it out. Weird that I didn’t hear anything—weirder that anyone would get in while I was sleeping—but sure, that explains it.
A logical explanation.
And yet, the icy knot in my stomach won’t loosen. I swallow hard and close my eyes, trying to calm down. With my vision gone, everything else becomes more vivid. The chill from the tiles seeps into my skin, making me shiver. I attempt one of those breathing tricks meant to help, but give up almost at once. Every inhale intensifies the scent—vanilla and blood, thick in the back of my throat.
Suddenly, the bathroom isn’t a bathroom anymore. It’s a schoolyard. I’m on the ground, and the asphalt digs into my knees. Tears sting my eyes, and humiliation wraps around my lungs like a snake, squeezing tight.
Don’t cry. Don’t let the last drop of your pride slip away.
With effort, I shove the memory away and pull myself back into the present.
I open my eyes. Scan the trash can again.
And then a shadow stirs along the wall, just at the edge of my vision.
I spin around.
Nothing.
Shivering, I rise to my feet.
I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Uni exams were a nightmare, and I spent most of my time running errands for my dad. Maybe Boyana’s right. A ridiculous costume party could be just the distraction I need.
* * *
I rummage through my wardrobe, but there’s nothing suitable for tonight—except for that old “bunny” costume I wore to a Halloween party in tenth grade. A revealing black corset, paired with satin shorts featuring a fluffy white tail. The outfit includes a crisp white collar, a tiny black bow tie, and velvety ears attached to a headband.
I hold the hanger up in front of me, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe. The “bunny” brings back memories, like when half the partygoers’ jaws literally dropped as I strutted in dressed like that. The other half were girls. Not that the swarm of sycophants and desperate copycats didn’t fall over themselves showering me with compliments. No need for flattery, girls. I’mwell aware.I’ve spent years polishing this armor until it reflects nothing but awe.
The bunny costume is put away. I need to make a quick trip to the mall to find a more suitable outfit for an architecture student—a costume that says “seductive,” but not “slutty.”
I slip into a chic summer dress from Valentino’s latest collection, in my signature midnight blue shade. Clutching a pair of heeled sandals and my handbag, I step into the hallway.
I tiptoe down the stairs to the ground floor. Shoes on, I step inside the garage andfreeze midway across the space.
My Mercedes is gone. So is my father’s S-Class. The only cars left are the convertible he occasionally takes for a spin, and that ancient Golf he refuses to part with, out of some sentimental attachment to the days when he couldn’t afford better.
I race back into the house, storming into the living room. Our newest maid—a Ukrainian woman whose name I’ve already forgotten—is wiping down the kitchen counter.
“Where’s my mother?” I snap.
She blinks at me wide-eyed and lifts the cloth with a vague gesture, pointing at the garden. I cross the living room, rummaging through my bag for my phone, about to call the police. There was a news report just the other day, saying some gang of car thieves was targeting the area. If those same idiots broke intoourgarage…
But it’s not my mother I find. My father is at the table by the pool, deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize.
“Someone’s stolen my car!” My voice rises.
He peers at me over the rim of his sunglasses and waves a hand. “Relax, sweetheart. The S-Class is getting an oil change. Georgi took it in this morning, so I used yours to head to the office. It’s parked on the main driveway. Youdoknow the spare key is in my safe, don’t you?”
I scan the salt-and-pepper streaks in his jet-black hair, holding back the urge to frown. I could ask why he didn’t take his convertible or that rusted old Golf, but the answer is clear in my mind: because everything in this house, including my mother and myself, belongs to him.
The other man smirks. “I’d say she gets her looks from you, but I’d rather not start our partnership with a lie.”
“She takes after me in many ways, just not in the looksdepartment. Thank God for that.” My father chuckles. “Nicole, this is Mr. Tolev, Senior Building Inspector of Sofia, and my new partner on the Livadi skyscraper project. This”—he tips his chin at me—“is the future Director of Urban Design.”
