The scissors in my hand went snip—and sliced through the fabric at the wrong angle.
The man standing before me, radiating confidence and wealth.
It was my boyfriend. The one who was supposed to be in his basement studio right now, gnawing on cold bread.
Dirk Harding.
He wore an impeccably tailored suit, and on his wrist gleamed a Patek Philippe worth millions.
That watch—I'd seen it in magazines countless times, never daring to even dream of touching one.
Amy clung to his arm and pouted up at him.
"Look, this lady ruined one of your shirts."
Dirk's gaze landed on me.
No surprise at seeing me again.
No panic at being caught.
Just the kind of disgust reserved for something crawling beneath his shoe.
"Someone at this level was allowed into my home?"
His voice was cold enough to freeze.
My hand trembled around the scissors.
"Dirk, didn't you say you were holed up in your studio?"
Amy let out a laugh.
"Dirk, you know this maid?"
Dirk unfastened his cufflinks with unhurried precision.
"No."
"Probably some debt collector from one of the studios."
He pulled Amy close and walked deeper into the house without sparing me another glance.