The Car with Tinted Windows

Marina

By one-thirty, I’ve officially changed outfits three times, cursed at my reflection twice, and stood by the window for a solid ten minutes like some suburban spy.

The car is late.

Of course it is.

Because when you say yes to a sketchy, no-details, high-pay job that requires discretion, naturally they send a car that looks like it belongs in a mafia movie.

Blacked-out windows. Sleek. Quiet. The kind of car that makes my whole street look suddenly seedier.

My neighbor, Mrs. Donnelly, pauses while watering her sad little geraniums and gives the car a once-over like she’s about to call the cops. I duck back from the window.

Oh my god, Marina. What are you doing?

My phone buzzes. A text from the same number as earlier:

Outside. Bring your knives.

I grab my knife roll — which is suddenly feeling a little too symbolic — and sling my bag over my shoulder. My heart is hammering, but my feet keep moving, like some brave idiot leading herself right into the lion’s mouth.

It’s fine, I tell myself as I lock the door. It’s just a job. A very weird job. But people do private chef work all the time, right?

Except most of them probably get an address. Or an actual interview.

Or, I don’t know, a name.

The back door of the car opens before I even get to the curb. A man in a black suit — tall, broad, wearing sunglasses like we’re in some kind of spy flick — steps out and just nods at me.

“Miss Russo.”

His voice is clipped. Polite. But cold enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up.

“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I say, trying to smile like this is totally normal. “Marina. Hi.”

He doesn’t smile back.

Just gestures toward the open door. “Please. We’re on a schedule.”

I glance back at my apartment. My little, falling-apart apartment that smells like cat pee and old takeout.

Then I look at the car — clean leather seats, the faint scent of something expensive and sharp.

My heart says run.

My bank account says get in.

So, naturally, I slide into the back seat and pretend I’m not making the worst decision of my life.

The door shuts with a thunk, solid and final.

And as the car pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but think —

This is how girls disappear in movies.

The drive takes almost an hour, though it feels longer.

City noise fades into open roads, and then the scenery changes — the kind of change where you know you’re not in your price bracket anymore. Big gates. Bigger lawns. Trees so perfectly trimmed they look like they’ve never known a real wind.

When we finally slow down, my stomach tightens.

Because the mansion that appears behind the iron gates? It looks like something out of a movie. The old, expensive kind. Stone walls, tall columns, windows like dark, empty eyes. It’s the kind of house that could either host a royal family… or hide a dozen bodies in the basement.

No in-between.

The car rolls to a stop in the circular driveway, and I just sit there, gaping like an idiot.

My driver — still silent, still wearing those sunglasses like we’re in some mobster cosplay — opens the door.

“Miss Russo,” he says, sharp and clipped again. “Proceed inside. I have been instructed to direct you to the kitchen.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Like this isn’t the most intimidating house I’ve ever seen. Like I’m not one deep breath away from having a full-on panic attack.

“Right,” I mumble, forcing my legs to move. “Kitchen. Yep. Totally normal.”

My sneakers squeak embarrassingly loud on the polished marble floor as I follow him inside.

And wow.

High ceilings. Art I don’t recognize but definitely can’t afford. The air smells faintly like lemon and something sharper — expensive wood polish, maybe.

I feel like I’m trespassing in a museum.

The driver leads me down a hall and stops at a huge double door.

“The kitchen,” he says, and then — like some kind of robot — he turns and leaves without another word.

Cool. Super welcoming. Definitely not weird at all.

I push the door open and—

Oh.

Oh, wow.

It’s not a kitchen.

It’s… a spaceship.

Stainless steel everything. Counters that gleam like they’ve never been touched. An oven setup so fancy I don’t even know where the door is. There’s no stove — just a slick, flat black surface that looks like a touchscreen.

I stand there with my knife roll dangling from my hand, feeling like a medieval peasant who just stumbled into a tech billionaire’s lair.

“Miss Russo,” a voice says, smooth and low.

I jump about a foot in the air.

It’s coming from somewhere — hidden speakers, maybe? I spin in a slow circle, heart racing.

“Please proceed to the central island,” the voice continues. “Your work will begin shortly.”

I swallow hard and step forward.

The island is huge, glossy, and probably costs more than my entire education.

“You will find controls embedded in the surface,” the voice says again, calm but cold. “Touch the panel on your right. That will activate the cooking modules.”

My fingers are shaking a little, but I do it.

The black surface lights up, blooming softly like magic. Different icons appear — burners, grill, oven, all labeled in sharp white text.

Okay. Okay. I can figure this out. I went to culinary school. I can cook anywhere, I tell myself, even as my heart keeps thumping too fast.

“You will prepare lunch” the voice adds, still coming from nowhere. “You have one hour.”

My throat is dry as I whisper to the empty room, “What… what do I cook?”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Cook as you would for yourself,” the voice finally says. “Simple. Honest.”

Simple. Honest.

In a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a secret government lab.

“Right,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders back. “No pressure.”

And as I start unpacking my knives, I can’t help but feel like someone — maybe multiple someones — is watching me right now.

And somehow, I know this is just the beginning.