I tend to wake up fast, a habit from the days of caring for my mother. I was out of bed and halfway to the bathroom before it hit me that this wasn’t my room, and that the door I’d just opened wasn’t for my familiar, pint-sized bathroom back in San Francisco, but to the dressing room that was attached to my bedroom in the Palazzo Santelli. That’s right, my new employer had an entire palazzo named after him. And even the dressing rooms in it were larger than my entire apartment.
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