Page 2 of His for Christmas
Ms. Winters' lips curve in what might almost be a smile. "For your sake, Ms. Parker, I hope not." She glances at her watch."You have the rest of today to take measurements and photos. I'll expect your preliminary budget by tomorrow morning."
As she clicks away down the hall, I turn slowly in place, taking in the soaring architecture around me. The mansion waits like a sleeping giant for me to wake it with ribbons and fir and twinkling lights. Despite my nerves, a smile spreads across my face. This is why I love what I do – transforming spaces into something magical.
I lose track of time measuring the library's alcoves. The mahogany bookshelves with their leather-bound treasures make me want to curl up and forget the world exists. But I have a job to do. My measuring tape snaps back into its case with a satisfying zip as I jot down the final dimensions. The east wing is next, according to my hastily drawn map, though honestly, I'm starting to doubt my navigation skills. This place is a labyrinth of hallways and staircases that all look frustratingly similar, despite their obvious luxury.
I pause at an intersection of hallways, tapping my pencil against my bottom lip. The corridor to my left leads to guest rooms I've already measured. The one ahead should take me to the east wing parlor, if I'm remembering correctly. I turn right instead, following a narrower passage I don't recall Ms. Winters showing me. My curiosity wins over my sense of direction. I can always backtrack if needed.
The hallway curves slightly, its walls adorned with paintings that look like originals rather than reproductions. My fingers itch to touch the ornate frames, but I keep my hands firmly at my sides. Each step on the plush carpet is silent, making me feel like an intruder despite my security badge.
At the end of the hall stands a door, different from the others I've seen. Taller, with dark wood so deeply polished it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. It's cracked open just an inch, a sliver of golden light escaping into the hallway.
I hesitate, glancing down at my map. This room isn't marked. Ms. Winters' words echo in my mind: "Some rooms are private and off-limits." My professional side argues that I need to see every space to create a cohesive design. My sensible side warns me to turn around immediately.
I take a step closer, then another. Just a quick peek to determine if this is a room I should include in my plans. That's all. I'm not snooping – I'm being thorough.
The door glides open on silent hinges when I push it, revealing a space that makes my breath catch. The room is circular, with a domed ceiling painted with celestial scenes that remind me of Renaissance chapels. Unlike the rest of the mansion's bright, airy spaces, this room is intimate, with walls of deep burgundy and lighting that creates pools of warmth rather than stark illumination.
But it's what fills the space that makes me freeze in the doorway. Display cases line the walls, each containing objects so beautiful they seem to demand reverent silence. I step inside, drawn by the collection before my better judgment can stop me.
This isn't just storage – it's a private museum. Some pieces are displayed under glass, others rest on pedestals with custom lighting that highlights their uniqueness. I recognize an ancient Greek amphora, its black figures dancing eternally against the terracotta background. Nearby, a jade carving so delicate it looks like it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.
I move deeper into the room, my professional eye noting how the space is organized not by time period or culture, but seemingly by the collector's personal aesthetic. Bold pieces neighbor delicate ones. Ancient artifacts sit beside modernsculptures. It's the collection of someone who chooses with their heart rather than an investment portfolio.
This glimpse into the private tastes of Dominic Sterling fascinates me more than it should. The ruthless businessman the world knows seems at odds with whoever assembled this deeply personal collection.
I'm drawn to a piece near the center of the room, displayed on a pedestal of its own with lighting that makes it appear to glow from within. It's a music box, I realize as I draw closer. But not like any I've ever seen. The base is carved from what looks like rosewood, with intricate inlays of mother-of-pearl and gold that form patterns I can't quite decipher. They might be constellations or perhaps ancient script.
My fingers hover just above its surface, not quite touching. The craftsmanship is extraordinary – each inlay fitted so perfectly that the seams are nearly invisible. Atop the box stands a small figure of a woman with her arms outstretched, crafted from some pearlescent material that catches the light in ways that make her seem almost alive.
Without thinking, I reach for the tiny golden key protruding from one side. My fingers brush the cool metal, and I hesitate, suddenly aware of how inappropriate this is. I'm alone in a private room, about to handle what must be an extremely valuable item that doesn't belong to me.
But my curiosity wins. I turn the key gently, just a quarter turn.
The box comes alive under my touch. The top sections unfold like petals of a mechanical flower, revealing intricate gears of gold and silver beneath. A melody begins to play – haunting and somehow familiar, though I can't place it. The figurine begins to turn, her arms rising and falling as if conducting the music herself.
The melody wraps around me, unexpectedly intimate in this secret room. I lean closer, watching the precision of the gears, the delicate movement of the figure. This isn't just a collector's item – it's something beloved, something personal.
The thought strikes me suddenly: I'm intruding on something private. This room isn't just a storage space for expensive things; it's a sanctuary. These objects aren't displayed for visitors to admire – they're here for one person alone.
The music continues its melancholy tune as I carefully close the petals of the box, silencing the melody mid-note. My heart pounds with a mixture of guilt and something else I can't name. I should leave before someone finds me.
I back away from the pedestal, hoping I've left everything exactly as I found it. As I turn toward the door, my elbow brushes against a small framed sketch I hadn't noticed. It rocks precariously, and I lunge to steady it, my breath caught in my throat.
When I've righted it, I pause to look at the drawing – a simple pencil sketch of a woman's profile, her expression peaceful, almost dreaming. The artist captured something profound in just a few lines. It's signed with just a small "D" in the corner.
D for Dominic? The thought that he might be the artist behind this delicate work is startling. Another piece of the puzzle that is Dominic Sterling – businessman, collector, and perhaps artist.
I force myself to turn away, to head for the door. I've already stayed too long, seen too much. This glimpse into the private world of my employer feels like I've read pages from a diary I was never meant to see.
As I reach the doorway, I cast one last look at the music box, still feeling the ghost of its melody in my ears. Whatever I expected from the infamous Dominic Sterling, it wasn't this room full of beauty and sentiment.
I slip back into the hallway, carefully pulling the door nearly closed behind me, leaving just the inch of space I found it with. My heart continues its rapid drumming as I hurry back toward the main part of the house, hoping no one has noticed my absence – or my trespass.
I've barely taken three steps down the hallway when a deep voice freezes me in place. "I don't recall giving tours of my private collection today." The words aren't loud, but they resonate with authority that makes my skin prickle. I turn slowly, my clipboard clutched against my chest like a shield, and find myself staring up at the man whose house I've been wandering through all day. Dominic Sterling. In person. My mouth goes dry as the Sahara.
He fills the hallway with his presence, making the spacious corridor feel suddenly cramped. Tall – taller than I expected – with shoulders that strain the seams of what must be a bespoke suit. His dark hair is styled in a way that suggests he ran his fingers through it in frustration not long ago, yet somehow it looks perfectly deliberate. But it's his eyes that pin me in place – blue so intense it's almost cruel, like looking at winter sky right before a storm breaks.
"I—I'm so sorry," I stammer, my voice emerging higher than normal. "I was measuring rooms for the Christmas decorations and I got turned around and?—"
