The week passes quickly and painlessly. Cal leaves for business the following morning, and Camille and Rose have the house to themselves. The maintenance staff—two maids, two valets, a chef, and several gardeners, as far as Rose has been able to count—come and go. They pay little attention to her, and she's been instructed not to speak to them but instead to go to Camille if she needs something.

Rose is free to explore the house and does so with enthusiasm, eager to map out her new residence and rob it of its mystery and intimidation. She loves the cool wine cellar below, as well as the cozy window seats in the crooks and turns of the back staircase, and, of course, she loves Cal's study, with its towering walls of books. The only part of the house that's off limits is Cal's master suite. "You have to be invited inside," Camille tells her.

Camille seems friendlier as the days pass. She's busy—working at the desk in Cal's study, meeting with clients while Cal's away, as well as attending to the hundreds of details around the house, from drawing out meal plans and shopping lists with the chefs to teaching a new maid how to properly make a bed. She finds time to talk to Rose in her spare time, taking her out shopping and paying for everything using a sleek black card with Cal's name. They go out for brunch, for jogs, even to drive up and look out at the views.

Rose spends the evenings dancing. Camille showed her the gigantic circular ballroom, with three crystal chandeliers, shiny marble floors, and no less than five staircases, and it is love at first sight. All alone, with only her mirrored reflection for company, Rose practices to the tunes playing inside her head.

Camille can't stop smiling on Friday. She doesn't even notice or reprimand Rose for leaving half her breakfast on her plate.

"Why are you so happy?" Rose finally asks. Despite a cool breeze, the sun is out, and they walk through the winding pathways in the gardens, looking for signs of life among the bare trees and frozen flowers.

"He's coming back today," she murmurs, eyes glistening.

Rose doesn't have the opportunity to see him. He comes back tired and jet lagged, rests in his room, then takes Camille out for wine and dinner downtown.

"How do I look?" Camille comes into Rose's room and asks her, giving her a 360 look at the clinging black satin dress.

"Goddess supreme," Rose says with a smile.

"No, really."

"You look incredible," Rose truthfully answers her.

" And the hair?" she puts a hand to the sleek updo, a string of pearls cascading through the twisting chignon.

"Like the women in the movies."

Rose is already in bed, nearly asleep, when Camille comes into her room again. Her skin is warm, her hair falling a little in back, and she smells like expensive red wine and Cal's cologne. Her heels are in her hands, so that the black dress pools and trails behind her as she comes to the bed and shakes Rose completely awake.

"What's wrong? Did you have a good night?"

Camille turns on the bedside table lamp, bathing them both in a golden light, and Rose sits up. Camille sits down beside her. "Yeah, it was wonderful. He outdid himself."

"Then what's wrong?" Rose scoots closer so that their shoulders touch.

Camille raises her hands and then drops them back down in her lap in defeat, "I'm not with him. Rose," she turns to face the girl, "he wants you to come to his bedroom tonight."

Rose looks away. "What?"

"Don't act the innocent little princess."

"I'm only sixteen."

"That's plenty. By your age . . . well, let's not talk about it. Rose, you have to go."

"I'm tired. I'm sleeping."

"Rose, it's not a question. If you want to stay in this house, you have to do as you're told."

"I . . ." she falters. "I don't know what to do with him."

"I know." She chuckles, but the laugh is tinged with bitterness. "Men don't realize . . . they see a pretty girl and just assume she's been round the block, at least a few times. I told him. I told him you're an absolute child about some things."

Rose wants to protest but lets Camille go on, knowing she's hurt that Cal doesn't want her that night. "Just do what he says, Rose. I assume he'll be gentle, but . . . Cal likes intimacy, and it's been a week. I don't know what he's going to be like. I wanted to warm him up for you. Make him less needy, but," she shrugs, "he didn't want me." She glances over at Rose. "Okay, let's get this over with." Her tone becomes matter of fact, like a teacher correcting a homework assignment with grammar errors. "Lose the pajamas," she says, indicating the t shirt and cotton shorts Rose sleeps in. "Put on a nightie or something. Heels," she waves the stilettos in her hands, "are your choice. He never notices. You can go in barefoot if you want. You need a little makeup, but nothing that'll rub off and stain the sheets."

Rose finds the last bit hysterical. "I'm not allowed to get the sheets dirty? Perfect."

Camille ignores her comments, instead dragging her into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, and running a comb through her long, soft hair. "God, he always wanted me to grow my hair out, nice and long like this," Camille muses, touching her own shoulder length hair.

"Why don't you?"

"Too thick. It wouldn't look good." She breathes deeply. "Rose, you have to know yourself. You have to know what will work and what won't. You need to know who you are—what you need, what you want, what you dream of, and what you deserve."

"Camille, how long have you known Cal?"

"Almost five years now. He was my boss before he invited me to stay with him."

"But what are you? Are you dating? Lovers? What?"

She shrugs. "I'm whomever he wants me to be."