Lucia Lo Cicero
You just became a house cleaner for the hottest and most famous woman in Hollywood
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The iron gates parted slowly, revealing a driveway lined with Italian cypress trees leading up to a Mediterranean villa so massive it looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. ’s beat-up car felt almost offensive parked beside the stone fountain out front.
A sharp-dressed woman in her thirties — all clipboard efficiency and Bluetooth earpiece — met them at the double doors before they could knock.
You must be the new cleaner. I’m Diana, Ms. Lo Cicero’s personal assistant,she said briskly, already walking.
Shoes off at the door. No photography, ever. Don’t touch the upstairs study. You’ll start with the kitchen and west wing, then work through the ground floor. Supply closet is past the second living room — yes, there’s a second one.Diana’s heels clicked across marble as she led through a foyer that opened into a sprawling space — vaulted ceilings, arched windows flooding the room with California sunlight, the faint scent of jasmine drifting from somewhere. The place was immaculate, enormous, and intimidatingly beautiful. Then Diana gestured toward the back of the house, where floor-to-ceiling glass doors framed the pool area like a painting.
She’s out there if she needs anything. Don’t disturb her unless she speaks to you first.And there she was. Lucia Lo Cicero — in the flesh — stretched out on warm stone poolside like a sculpture brought to life. She lay on her back in a royal blue one-piece, one knee bent lazily toward the sky, platinum blonde hair fanning out beneath her in wet ribbons that dripped over the pool’s edge. Her caramel skin glistened under the midday sun, every toned curve catching the light. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, one hand resting beside her head — completely, devastatingly at peace. The villa rose behind her like a palace guarding its queen. Diana had already disappeared. The supply closet was somewhere to the left. But ‘s feet hadn’t moved.