– Miss!

The driver's loud voice took me by surprise.

– Are we there? – I asked tiredly, opening my bag and looking for cash.

– Yes. Your hotel, as requested. The Laslett.

I glanced at the taximeter and paid silently, leaving a good tip, which caused the cabbie to change the scowl on his face into a friendly, barely perceptible grin. Grabbing my cardigan, I got out of the car, but suddenly, against my better judgement, I knocked on the window of the taxi that hadn't left yet. The driver rolled down the window. I leaned forward.

– What time do the nearest nightclubs open?

My question caused the cabbie's face to flush with displeasure.

– The nearest one opens at eleven. But it's rubbish, miss, even though it's close to such an expensive hotel.

– Thank you. What's your name, nice man?

– Erm, Harvey.

– Here, Harvey. – I took out another of my big wallets – a twenty, the first one I could find. – Buy yourself some tea.

– Miss, have you already…

– Take it. That's for tea. You can spend that money on something else," I said insistently, and handed the taxi driver the note.

– Erm… Much obliged, Miss. Have a nice evening! – Harvey took the twenty and smiled.

– You too.

I waved him off and headed for the hotel.

In fact, I knew what time nightclubs opened without Harvey. My favourite club in London was near my hotel. That was the reason I always stayed here – to bring another victim with me. Use it. Throw it away. To forget. Forget the real thing. At least for a couple of hours.

Of all the people who come to the club, I always pick the prettiest. By human standards. When it comes to female visitors, no one compares to me, and I rule the ball. I just walk up to my victim and say, "Hi. "I'm bored. Would you like to walk with me to my hotel?" Works like a charm. It works most of the time, but sometimes I like to act out a whole story, a tragicomedy, for fun. But not tonight. I don't have time for that. All I want is to get through the next night without thinking about Brandon.

We're going to the hotel. Me and Adam. Adam is a young vet, I think he said he was 26. His eyes shine with admiration for my beauty. My short black dress proves to be a wonderful lure. Tall, slim, handsome, dark-haired Adam. Loves dogs. Excellent quality. Even though I don't like dogs. Or cats. I'm indifferent to animals in general.

– Do you like being a vet? Sewing on tails and whiskers, putting the sick and old to sleep, sewing up wounds? – I asked, looking into my victim's face.

My heels distinctly ticking off my every step. In five minutes, we'll be in my hotel room.

– Yeah. I love saving lives. – Adam smiled modestly and shifted his gaze to his boots.

'And I love taking away,' I thought with a grim chuckle.

– Are you afraid of blood? – He asked suddenly.

– Hmm, let me think about it. – I put my finger to my lips and furrowed my brow, hesitating – should I tell him the truth? Or stay in the game?

– Most girls are afraid of blood. That's why it's so hard for me to find an assistant. – Suddenly Adam didn't wait for my answer. – One of them quit right during surgery. Bad case. The cat was torn up by a pack of dogs, they were picking it up piece by piece. And the owner was sobbing in the corridor. And then Nancy ran out of the O.R. and never came back. I had to do it all myself. Terrible day.

– Idiot. And she didn't feel sorry for the cat? – I muttered thoughtfully, turning my face away from him.

Great conversation. I'm taking this jackass to a hotel to have fun with him, and he's telling me about the cat and its sobbing owner! That's nice.

– I know, it's not the best story, is it? – Adam grinned as if he'd read my thoughts. – I'm sorry.

I looked at him with interest. It suddenly struck me that Adam wasn't the kind of guy I liked to use. Was he really a nice guy? Shit.

– Yeah," I answered honestly.

– I don't go to clubs much either. I don't like all that noise. But I had a very complicated operation today. I had to stitch it up. I'm sorry, I'm going back in there again.

– Shit," I mumbled.

Yeah. That's right. He's a good bloke. That's unfortunate.

– I needed to forget that picture. At least for a little while. I love my job, but sometimes I wish it would go away," Adam said quietly.

– I understand. – I stared into his tired face. – That's why you're going to walk me back to the hotel and go home to bed.

I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn't use him. He was so unlike me. Too good. Too much.

– Yeah, whatever you want. But you… Will you leave me your number? – He asked with hope in his voice.

Didn't even ask why. Why I invited him to my hotel room and now I'm saying no. Dandelion. Dove. For the first time in all my years of debauchery with mortals.

– I'm sorry. No. I just wanted to fuck you," I answered honestly. Adam grinned. I ran my index finger along his cheek. – But I can't do that to you, boy. You're a miracle. And I'm a dirty sinner.

– I don't think you are. But even if you are, it doesn't matter. I like you. I like you a lot. That's why I followed you.

His honesty only hurt me: with every word he said, he became purer, lighter, almost as pure and innocent as Misha. And I was drowning in my debauchery. The abyss of my lust. Covered in the stigmata of blasphemy.

– I'm a simple whore, Adam. And you're probably the only bright spot in my shitty life. I'll take it from here. Go home.

– No, I'll take you to the hotel. For your own safety. Don't say no.

I smiled. For my safety! He's so sweet after all!

– You're so cute. All right, then. Let's go.

We walked in silence to my hotel.

– Goodbye, Adam. Good luck with your good work. – I reached up and kissed his cheek. Lamb of God. Adam.

– Thank you for a lovely evening, Maria. If you'll allow me, I'd like to kiss your hand. – He smiled modestly and held out his hand to me. I gave him mine. His lips touched my icy skin.

– Go to the hotel. You're freezing," Adam said.

– Good night," I smiled sweetly. – And what a beautiful name you have.

– Biblical. Like yours.

We parted ways. Strangely enough, I felt good. Even though my plan had gone wrong, Adam had turned the evening into something sublime.

That said, there was only one thing I wanted to do – sink headfirst into a tub full of water and not breathe. Just lie at the bottom like a corpse. It wasn't me. It was someone else.

***

Eight zero seven. Evening.

I knew Brandon was here: the windows of my suite faced the road. His black Bentley was parked in the guest car park. As ravenous and lustrous as its owner. Brandon's a Bentley nut.

He was waiting for me at the restaurant. But I was in no hurry to show up. Let him wait like kids wait for Christmas. If Grayson wants his purchase, he'll wait as long as I deign not to show up. It's my whim. Oh, damn it. Who am I kidding? Myself? No, it's not wanting to see Brandon, talk to him, sit at the same table with him. My fear. I was scared. Being alone with him. Trying to remain cold and ironic while a fire burned in my soul, burning everything around me.

I looked in the mirror: big, perfect, even. My reflection. Perfect, too.

But no. I am not embraced by the flames burning inside me. I am calm. My lips are tighter than usual. I adjust the pearl bracelet on my left hand, run my fingers over the contours of my face. My hair lay in perfect order. So beautiful, well-groomed, shiny. Curling like sea waves. It was a waterfall, covering my narrow back with its luxury. A tight black skirt, a palm above the knee. A translucent white shirt with tapered sleeves. Three-quarter. You can see my beautiful white bra through the fabric. New, bought today, white shoes with a high thick heel. I look like a secretary. An angelic, devilishly seductive, cunningly beautiful secretary.