Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Arincisindenly, a violent blast of icemold waterterthit meistraight in the facece. I stcscreanted. Asharp started screanarfreezingavate scaled my hair my blouse severelyttingh@he handiidid showeri'd accidentally activatededasasconded directly at me and the pressurewas str enenato tratockmefoff balancece. Itrictecotstspeparack, but my foot stippedachtheheavétotoor. didn't they? Maybe I'd find photos. Maybe I'd find information about my daughter. About where I worked. About my life before this black hole that now existed where my memory should be. But for now...

for now I needed to do exactly what Nick had suggested. Take a hot shower. Sleep. And hope things would sort themselves out. I pulled a clean nightgown from my suitcase and headed into the bathroom. It was small. Old. Rustic in a way that was probably considered charming, but to me it just felt... tight. The walls were white tile with faded blue details. The ceramic floor had cracks that spoke of decades of use. And there was a narrow little window that looked out over the back courtyard. In one corner there was a simple white porcelain bathtub with one of those old-fashioned shower setups.

the wall, the kind with a hose you can pull off and aim anywhere. The faucets were confusing. They weren't the modern, intuitive kind I apparently was used to. There were two separate knobs. One marked with a C for Calda (hot) and the

modern bathtub that could almost pass for a small pool. Recessed lighting. Massive mirrors. Luxury in every detail. Was that... my home? My apparently expensive clothes matched that image. So did the fact that I clearly had no idea how to wash dishes. But my profession, a freelance consultant struggling to build a portfolio, didn't fit at all. Another inconsistency to add to the growing pile. I

straight in the