Page 9 of Santa Daddy
A little girl waved from a window.
I didn't wave back.
Couldn't.
Because I was already gone.
2
THE GILDED CAGE
DANI
The lobby tasted like money.
Not metaphorical money. Actual metal on my tongue. Like if you licked a platinum Amex and then chased it with Dom.
Marble floors reflected me back in humiliating high definition. Candy cane tights, borrowed velvet coat, bell collar still around my throat like some kinky dog tag. My reflection looked like PornHub had done a crossover event with a Hallmark movie.
The doorman’s spine snapped straight when he saw Konstantin.
Not straightened. Snapped. Like someone yanked an invisible string at the base of his skull.
“Mr. Zverev.” The words tumbled out like he was choking on them. “We weren’t expecting you this evening, sir.”
Konstantin lifted his hand.
Just his hand.
The doorman’s mouth clicked shut so hard I heard enamel protest.
Behind the sleek marble desk, a woman in a black Chanel blazer half-rose from her chair. Her glossed lips parted. His gaze slid to her, cold and lazy.
She sat back down. Quiet.
Everyone in that lobby orbited him like planets around a black hole. Dragged in whether they wanted to or not. Crushed if they got too close.
My bells jingled with each step. The sound bounced off the stone and glass, multiplied, broadcasting exactly what I was. A clearance-rack elf in a building where everyone smelled like old money and fresh Botox.
We crossed to a bank of elevators that did not have buttons for regular people. There was a separate panel, metal and discreet, requiring a key card and code. The security guy’s hands trembled as he used it.
No floor numbers lit up.
Of course not. Why would hell have a public directory.
The doors slid shut. The elevator lurched upward, smooth and silent. Too quiet. Only our breathing and the soft chime of my collar filled the space.
I stood as far to the side as I could. It did nothing. He still swallowed all the oxygen.
The coat I wore smelled like him. Wood and smoke and something sharp, like clean snow over gasoline. My world had shrunken to that scent. Every inhale was him invading my lungs.
He didn’t look at me. Hands in the pockets of his black coat, shoulders loose, relaxed. Like dragging bloody elves through luxury buildings was just his Tuesday.
“Stop fidgeting,” he said without glancing over. Voice low. Rough. Light accent clipping the edges of his words.
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You are vibrating like cheap sex toy. It is annoying.”
