The dining room with its imposing twelve-person table where no one has ever dined or gathered.
My office—the public one, not the real one—with its carefully arranged props suggesting importance without revealing substance. Books positioned but never read. Awards displayed but meaningless.
She touches nothing. Just observes, catalogs, and continues her exploration. Her eyes miss nothing.
Then she finds the library.
I switch to that feed immediately, watching her face transform in real time. Her lips part slightly in unmistakable surprise. Her shoulders visibly lower from their defensive posture. The tension that has characterized her frame since arrival dissipates like smoke in a sudden breeze.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice perfectly captured by the high-definition microphones embedded in the ceiling trim. “Look at all of you.”
The library is the only room in the entire house I didn’t renovate to match my minimalist aesthetic. The original shelves remain intact—dark oak, floor to ceiling, with brass rolling ladders mounted on rails along each wall. Edison bulbs in antique brass fixtures cast warm, amber pools of light across leather reading chairs I’ve never once sat in. The mahogany tables hold leather-bound volumes whose pages I’ve never turned.
When I purchased the house, the shelves were filled with moldy, water-damaged books—worthless remnants of the previous owners. I had them removed without a second thought, but later discovered several dozen boxes of additional volumes stored in the attic. Rather than dispose of them as unnecessary clutter, I instructed my staff to unpack and arrange them throughout the library. It made the room look complete. Inhabited. Used. Like someone with substance and depth lived there.
It’s all theater, of course. Carefully constructed illusion. I don’t read fiction.
Emmaleen approaches the nearest shelf, her fingertip tracing along the spines with unexpected reverence, like she’s greeting old friends. She selects one volume, carefully, delicately, as if handling something infinitely precious and fragile.
The book is visibly old, its binding worn with age and handling. She opens it with practiced care, examining the title page with the attention of someone who knows what she’s looking for. Her face softens further, a private smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She returns it to its exact position with the gentle precision of someone who respects what she holds.
I make a mental note to check which volume captured her attention so completely.
The limo turns into the circular driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. When we stop in front of the house’s imposing entrance, I exit the vehicle with only my phone in hand, still tracking her movements through my home with unwavering focus.
The feed changes as she moves. Emmaleen has realized Dom’s directions were deliberately misleading. She’s discovered the staircase—the grand spiral that winds through the center of the house like a vertebral column supporting the entire structure. She looks up, taking in the architectural flourish of the third-floor turret with its lighthouse-style windows that catch the afternoon light.
Her face is a fascinating study in calculation and intelligence. She’s connecting the pieces—understanding that if she wants to find suits and the men who wear them, she needs to go up through the house, not across it.
I enter silently through the front door, catching Dom’s eye as he lounges with Ricky amid their glittering conquests. One look from me is sufficient communication. He immediately begins herding the naked, sparkle-covered women toward the basement rooms where such activities belong. No words needed. We established this hierarchy years ago, and it functions without verbal reinforcement.
This party house arrangement has outlived its usefulness. What once served as cover now creates complications. It’sbecome a distraction rather than an asset. I’ll need to recalibrate the living situation soon, establish clearer boundaries.
I move toward the stairs without acknowledging the others, my attention fixed on my phone screen where Emmaleen’s exploration continues. She has already ascended to the second floor and assessed the situation quickly—most of the rooms are empty and impersonal, save for Ricky’s chaotic space with its unmistakable evidence of occupation. And there is no way in hell anyone with functioning eyes could confuse my personal space with the disaster zone that is Twitchy Ricky’s domain.
She shakes her head slightly, a gesture of determination, and keeps climbing toward the third floor where my bedroom suite occupies the northern wing in splendid, cold isolation.
I ascend the stairs silently, following Emmaleen’s digital ghost while closing the physical distance between us. Her trail is easy to track—the security system registers her movement through infrared sensors, mapping her path with clinical precision. Each step she takes triggers a silent alert on my phone, a breadcrumb trail leading me directly to her. The house may be large, but technology makes it impossible to hide.
She’s found my bedroom suite.
I pause in the hallway, watching her on the phone as she navigates my private space. She moves with surprising respect, touching nothing, disturbing nothing. Her eyes catalog everything—the stark bed with its military corners, the absence of personal effects, the single beer bottle on the nightstand. Each detail filed away, analyzed, categorized. I recognize the methodical way she absorbs information—similar to how I process my surroundings, though her purpose remains unclear.
The walk-in closet door is open. She goes inside.
I approach without sound. The floor doesn’t creak, my breathing doesn’t change, my presence remains undetectable. Her attention is fixed on the row of suits hangingwith mathematical precision—charcoal, navy, black, graphite. Identical cuts, minimal variation. The uniform of a man who wants to be seen but never truly known.
Emmaleen reaches out, fingers hovering just shy of touching the fabric of a midnight blue Tom Ford. Her hand withdraws without making contact. Disciplined. Respectful. Unexpected. Most people would have indulged their curiosity, running fingers along the expensive fabric, checking price tags, or worse—rifling through pockets. But not her. She observes boundaries even while trespassing.
I clear my throat.
She startles violently, spinning around with wide eyes, her hand flying to her chest. The color drains from her face before flooding back in a rush of pink. “Holy fucking shit, Batman! My heart can’t take that kind of surprise when I’m knee-deep in naked glitter girls and well-packed mobsters!”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. The absurdity of her exclamation disrupts my carefully constructed intimidation sequence. People typically respond to my sudden appearances with fear, apologies, or nervous babbling. Not... whateverthatwas.
I recover quickly, reassembling my mask of controlled indifference. The momentary crack in my composure seals itself shut, like concrete hardening over a flaw. “Five reward points for tenacity, Miss Rourke.” The words emerge measured and precise, a calculated response to her unexpected outburst.
We haven’t formally discussed the demerits and rewards systems yet—the dual notebooks that comprise my behavioral architecture for her. But she knows of them.