A faint knocking roused her from sleep. Still groggy, she mumbled a few refusals and drifted off again.
Some time later, a shaft of sunlight slipped through the curtain gap and landed on the bedside table. She waved it away irritably, then remembered she had commitments that morning. Sleepiness vanished instantly.
She reached for the alarm clock: 8:50.
This clock isn't broken, is it?
She shook it, held it to her ear.
Tick, tick, tick...
With a defeated sigh, she buried her head back in the pillow, squirmed for a moment, then faced reality.
She picked up the bedside phone, dialed a number, and adopted a listless tone to claim illness. After some vague explanations, she managed to wriggle out of it.
Successfully dodging work lifted her spirits immensely.
She could not help thinking: If only it could always be like this.
There was a chance of that.
But what she wanted was true independence, not becoming some man's private possession.
A quiet sigh escaped her.
Her mood dipped again in an instant.
She dressed and washed mechanically. Leaving the bedroom, she encountered the ponytail girl carrying a stack of files from a room. Seeing her, the girl greeted politely, "Good morning, Ms. Kinski."
Glancing at the door behind Jennifer, she nodded. "Morning. Where's Janet?"
Jennifer approached. "She went shopping. Should be back around noon. Would you like breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you."
"This way."
In a small dining room downstairs, Jennifer brought a plate and set it before her. "Ms. Kinski, just leave the dishes here when you're done. Call if you need anything."
Watching Jennifer leave, Natasha Kinski picked up her utensils and ate leisurely. The villa felt peacefully quiet; strangely, she enjoyed it.
Of course.
It would be even better with a butler and maids.
The man who could casually buy such a vast house yet hired no staff was truly odd.
And the matter of staying longer.
She had no idea how to persuade him. What a hassle.
Having skipped her morning obligation, there was no rush to leave. After finishing breakfast, she recalled the earlier scene and went to a door on the second floor. She knocked.
At the response, she entered.
A massive study, over two hundred square meters, lined with easels. It resembled an art classroom more than an office.
The man at the desk typing merely nodded at her arrival, then returned his focus to the screen. She said nothing, prowling silently like a cat, admiring the concept sketches on the easels.
Batman.
She knew of him.
But...
Flaming bat symbols, flipping heavy trucks, exploding buildings, ruined cities... Could these really be realized on film?
Unknowingly, she reached the desk opposite him. Glancing at the engrossed man, she dragged over a chair, straddled it backward, rested her arms on the backrest, and studied him curiously before speaking. "This study of yours is certainly unique."
Without looking up, Simon continued typing. "Perks of money. I mentioned wanting easels; they delivered a truckload. The room's big enough, so I kept them all. Speaking of which, as a festival juror, don't you have duties?"
"I was supposed to attend a morning premiere. Overslept, so I bailed."
"The organizers will think twice about inviting jurors like you next time."
"Who cares," she said, reaching for some sketches on the desk and flipping through them. "Does a perfectly sane billionaire really go out fighting crime every night?"
"In reality, probably not."
"Definitely not. Like that Patty Hearst film we screened the girl gets kidnapped and, instead of turning into some hero, joins the criminals. She's an adult. By comparison, I don't buy a child witnessing his parents' murder and vowing to become a vigilante, unless he's already unhinged."
Simon glanced up at her. "Your assessment is spot on. I agree: Gotham is one big asylum. Batman and the Joker included. The difference is Batman compulsively does what people consider right; the Joker compulsively does what people consider wrong."
"Oh."
Natasha Kinski responded indifferently, clearly uninterested in his view. Simon did not mind and resumed typing.
Silence settled for a moment. Then, gazing at the man across the desk, she asked suddenly, "What about you, Westeros? What kind of person are you? I heard you once broke five people's legs."
"Self-defense."
"That's not what I'm asking."
"I decline to answer."
"Fine," Natasha said, still watching him. "Then what kind of person do you think I am?"
"Any prize for guessing right?"
"Guess wrong, and you let me stay here."
Simon eyed her face—at the peak of her stunning beauty—and said casually, "You're someone who lacks security."
"Hmm."
"Because of that, you gravitate toward older men. You want dependence but also independence, terrified of becoming a mere appendage."
Natasha's gaze froze briefly, then she shrugged. "Anything else?"
"You crave attention deep down, yet convince yourself you don't care. When you truly become the center of it, you grow anxious and act out inappropriately. To many, that makes you seem aloof and eccentric."
Natasha stared at him silently.
Simon continued without pause. "It's a self-destructive streak, perhaps from childhood. You see yourself as unfortunate; the world feels unworthy of preservation. If it all ended, so be it. Too small to destroy the world, you destroy yourself instead. If I'm right, you steal things—even after fame, you haven't stopped."
Feeling the teasing curve of his mouth, Natasha pressed her lips together, fished a pen from her pocket—the one she'd palmed while handling the sketches and tossed it onto his desk. "Fine, you caught me. What are you going to do about it?"
"That? Your technique's impressive. I was only guessing; I didn't actually catch you," Simon said with a smile, pushing the pen back. "Keep it if you like. I rarely use fountain pens."
Natasha snatched it and flung it at him, half-embarrassed, half-angry. "Westeros, you're a real bastard."
Catching the pen, Simon sighed helplessly. "Ms. Kinski, perhaps you should go. I'll have someone drive you back."
Natasha stayed put, staring intently. "You got it all right. So, what reward do you want? Do I sleep with you?"
"Regrettably, I'm not interested in a woman deep in self-destruction."
"Oh, really not interested?"
As she spoke, Natasha stood and began unbuttoning her shirt.
Seeing this, Simon calmly saved his document and shut down the computer.
Then he fled the room.
Can't afford to provoke a madwoman.
Who knows if she'd actually bite his dick at the crucial moment.