At first, I cry uncontrollably.
Nero gently strokes my back and rocks me with every wail, sob, and sniffle—which makes me feel a fraction of a percent better.
When my voice goes, the sobs turn into hoarse gasps, and I squeeze Nero’s shirt with my last remaining strength.
He massages my shoulders and whispers reassuring nothings into my ear.
I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but when I eventually pull away, there’s a large wet spot on his chest.
Oblivious to it, Nero strides to the chair nearest me, pulls it away from the table, and gestures for me to sit with all the grace of a maître d' at a fancy restaurant.
I plop my butt down and wipe my face with my sleeve.
As if in one of my illusions, a glass of water appears in Nero’s hand. He places it in front of me, and I gulp it down.
Seems like crying and drooling on my boss is quite dehydrating.
Nero walks up to the gigantic kitchen counter and fusses with the state-of-the-art teakettle sitting there.
“Drink this too.” He puts a steaming cup in front of me. “It’s lemon balm and chamomile.”
I gratefully pick up the cup with my icy hands, blow on the top, and take a careful sip.
“It’s nice,” I say hoarsely. “Thank you.”
Nodding, Nero heads for the industrial-sized refrigerator and takes out a couple of perfect-looking avocados, a bag of berries, and some leafy greens.
My phone rings.
I take it out and catch Nero frowning.
It’s Felix.
I pick up to yell at him for leaving the house.
When I’m done, he yells back at me for going on another rescue mission by myself.
We make peace quickly, though: he’s home and safe now, and I explain the strict deadline that I was working under.
“I think you should stay with Nero until we figure out what’s happening,” Felix says. “I can’t think of a safer place for you to be.”
And before I can express my thoughts on the matter, he hangs up.
I sip my tea and ponder the reality of my situation.
I am at Nero’s place.
Which is a confusing situation, to say the least.
As though in an effort to befuddle me further, Nero places a bowl of freshly made salad in front of me and goes back to the fridge.
“I’m not hungry,” I say but examine the gorgeous-looking dish.
“Just eat as much as you can,” Nero suggests, opening the fridge.
I spear some salad with a fork and gingerly put it into my mouth.
Wow.
Either I’m hungrier than I realized, or this is the best salad I’ve ever tasted.
I wolf down my bowl to the sound of something sizzling on the stove.
“Potatoes with mushrooms,” Nero explains when he spots me glancing furtively in his direction.
“Smells delicious,” I mumble, swallowing the last of my salad.
Nero brings over the whole skillet, puts down two plates, and ladles a huge serving onto mine.
Despite the salad, my stomach angrily growls at the sight.
How unladylike.
And he heard it.
How else can I explain the smile that’s touching the corners of Nero’s eyes?
Stabbing a few bits of potato and mushroom, I jam the forkful into my mouth.
A moan of pleasure accidentally escapes my lips.
The smile is gone from his eyes, but their limbal rings thicken. To his credit, Nero doesn’t say or do anything to indicate that he heard me.
“You eat, I’ll be right back,” he says, and before I can argue, he walks out of the kitchen.
By the time he’s back, I’ve finished half my plate.
He plates some food for himself and attacks it with the gusto of a hungry street dog.
“Some music?” He points at the smart speaker nearby.
Since my mouth is full, I just nod.
“Alexa,” Nero says in his deep voice. “Play ‘Gangnam Style.’”
I’m so surprised by his choice that I nearly choke on a mushroom.
The beats of the most-watched YouTube video ever made begin too loudly, so Nero asks the speaker to lower the volume.
I swallow and say, “I thought you’d put on Johnny Cash or Leonard Cohen or something. Not—”
“Because if my voice is deep, I must like singers with deep voices?” The smile is back in the corners of Nero’s eyes.
“Well, no, but I didn’t exactly think you’d like K-Pop.” I pointedly spear more potatoes with my fork. “Unless you just like this one song?”
“K-Pop seamlessly mixes some of my favorite genres,” Nero says and puts on another, less familiar-to-me song. “The lyrics for this are—”
“Wait, you speak Korean?” I know I shouldn’t be surprised by anything when it comes to Nero, but the words of the current song are so incomprehensible that—
“I work closely with Lee Kun-Hee,” Nero says. Then, perhaps mistaking why my eyes widen, he adds, “He’s the chairman of Samsung Group.”
“I know that,” I say. “I’m just shocked you learned Korean to speak to a client, no matter how rich.”
“I know the language of everyone I interact with.” He forks the last remnants of potato into his mouth. “When someone speaks to me with an interpreter, they can lie.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know that.”
The topic of lying to Nero is a sensitive one. It reminds me about his assertion that Baba Yaga isn’t trying to kill me. Allegedly, she didn’t trigger his lie detection alert when she made that claim, even though her goons came to kill me in the hotel bathroom.
Then again, Koschei very pointedly left me alone after he—
No. Better not go down that path; else I’ll start crying again.
Though it now lacks any flavor, I finish the rest of the food on my plate.
When I look up, I catch Nero staring at me with what can only be sympathy in his gaze.
That’s a first. Is the Pope about to become a Buddhist?
“It will get better one day.” Nero reassuringly places his palm on my wrist.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“I promise you it will,” he murmurs. “You learn to live with it, over time.”
I blink away the errant tears and stare at him.
The way he said it makes it seem like he’s speaking from personal experience.
Lucretia did mention something about Nero’s fear of losing someone he cares about. It must’ve happened to him in the past.
But who?
And when?
I’m not suicidal enough to ask, so I just put my other palm on top of his.
We sit like that for a few long seconds; then he pulls away and asks if I want dessert.
“No, thank you,” I say, unsure what to do with my hands now that they’re not touching his. “I’m stuffed.”
“In that case, follow me.” He gets up. “I set something up for you earlier. It should be ready now.”
I stand up, and he leads me through a multitude of rooms until we enter a giant bathroom that looks like a showroom for extravagant spa equipment. Lit candles are everywhere, and an enormous tub stands in the middle of it all, with water cascading into it like a waterfall into a canyon.
Nero eyes the water level and checks the temperature with his hand. “Perfect.” He turns to me. “This is for you.”
My heartbeat speeds up.
He presses a button, and the water bubbles up as the Jacuzzi jets come to life.
Does Nero expect me to get naked and get into a hot tub in front of him? Is that what the romantic candlelight is about?
A part of me wants to do exactly that for some reason. But another part knows I might not be in the best state of mind to make any choices right now—especially when those choices include getting naked in front of my boss, full-time Mentor, and part-time tormentor.
Unsure what to do, I walk up to the water and let my fingers trail through it.
The temperature is perfect, and nothing has looked so inviting in a long time.
“There are fresh towels over there.” Nero points at a huge rack. “Enjoy.”
With that, he solves all my dilemmas by striding out of the room and leaving me to stand there, confused by the disappointment I feel at his departure.
Oh well.
I strip and get into the tub.
The jets hit me from every direction—producing a relaxing, massage-like effect.
I sigh in pleasure.
There must be warm water in Heaven.
In fact, I feel so good that I’m starting to feel guilty. How can I be so relaxed after all that’s happened?
The heavy pressure on my chest returns, but before long, the food coma conspires with the bubbling water to soothe me again.
After a few minutes, I get so chilled-out I feel loopy.
Who needs Xanax when there are carbs and hot tubs around?
My eyelids get heavy, and I give in to the strong temptation to close my eyes.