The Contract

Cassie

I’ve never been to a café like this before.

White marble tables. Gold accents on everything. The kind of place where the lighting is soft enough to make everyone look expensive. There’s a glass case near the counter filled with pastries that probably cost more than my grocery budget for a week.

I’m sitting by the window, both hands wrapped around a water glass because I need something to hold onto.

The waitress brought it in a bottle. An actual glass bottle with a label I couldn’t pronounce and a slice of lemon balanced on the rim.

My phone says 1:58 PM.

She said two.

My leg is bouncing under the table. I try pressing my palm against my knee to stop it but my whole body feels like it’s vibrating. Like I’m coming apart at the seams and the only thing holding me together is the fact that I’m sitting in public and can’t fall apart here.

The door opens.

A woman steps inside and I know before she even looks around. That’s her.

Katrina Petrova.

She’s wearing a long coat. Navy blue. The fabric looks heavy and expensive, tailored so perfectly it doesn’t move when she walks. Her hair is pulled back, dark brown with streaks of gray she hasn’t bothered hiding. She’s beautiful in that tired way. Like she used to care about things like that but doesn’t have the energy anymore.

Her eyes scan the room.

Then lands on me.

I lift my hand halfway. It feels awkward and stupid. But she’s already walking over and it’s too late to pretend I didn’t.

“Miss Brennan?”

“Yes.” I start to stand but she waves me down.

“Please. Don’t.” She sets her bag on the empty chair beside her and sits across from me. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Up close, she’s even more put-together than I expected. Her makeup is perfect. No cracks. No smudges. But her eyes give her away. There are shadows under them that powder can’t quite hide.

The waitress appears out of nowhere. “Can I get you anything, ma’am?”

“Double espresso.” Katrina doesn’t look at her.

The waitress leaves.

Katrina folds her hands on the table. Looks at me like she’s trying to decide something.

I don’t know what to say so I sit there, waiting.

“I’ll be direct with you,” she says finally. Her voice is smooth and controlled. But there’s something underneath it that sounds like exhaustion. “I don’t have time to waste and I suspect neither do you.”

I nod because if I try to speak, I’ll lose it.

“My son needs a caregiver. He’s…” She pauses. Glances down at her hands. “He’s difficult. That’s the polite version.”

I swallow. “Difficult how?”

Her mouth tightens just slightly. “The last caregiver quit after three days. The one before that lasted a week. I’ve hired eight people in the last six months and none of them stayed.”

Eight people.

In six months.

“What happened?” I ask.

She looks up and meets my eyes. “He’s cruel when he’s in pain. And he’s always in pain.”

The waitress returns with the espresso. Set it down gently and leave without a word.

Katrina doesn’t touch it.

“He won’t talk to me,” she continues. Her voice is quieter now. “Won’t let me help him. He locks himself in his studio and refuses to come out for days. He throws things. Refuses physical therapy. Refuses to eat half the time.”

She stops and take a breath. “He’s drowning right in front of me and I can’t reach him.”

There’s a crack in her voice at the end. Small. Almost too small to notice.

But I hear it.

“I’ve tried everything,” she continues. “Therapists. Doctors. Different medications. Nothing works. And every time I hire someone new, every time I think maybe this person will be different, he pushes them away. He’s so angry and I don’t…”

She trails off and look out the window. “I don’t know how to save him.”

I should say something.

I should tell her I understand or that I’m sorry or literally anything.

But the words stick in my throat because all I can think is that my brother did this. My brother is the reason her son is drowning. The reason she’s sitting here in this expensive café, desperate enough to hire a stranger.

She opens her bag. Pulls out a thick folder and sets it on the table between us.

“This is the contract,” she says. “I want to walk you through it so there are no surprises.”

My hands are still in my lap. I don’t reach for it, just stare at the folder.

“The position is live-in,” she continues. “But I’m willing to be flexible. Four days a week at the estate. Three days you’re free to maintain your work at the hospital, your personal life, whatever you need. I understand you have family obligations.”

I blink. “How did you know I—”

“I did my research, Miss Brennan.” She opens the folder. Slides a sheet of paper toward me. “Your mother is a patient at St. Mercy’s. Stage four cancer. Surgery scheduled for…” She glances at the paper. “Well. Pending funding, I assume.”

My chest goes cold.

She knows.

“I’m not trying to invade your privacy,” she says quietly. “I’m explaining why I think you’ll stay when the others didn’t. You need this job. And I need someone who won’t quit the first time my son screams at them.”

I look down at the paper.

At my mother’s name printed there in black ink.

At the diagnosis I’ve been trying not to think about.

“The pay is twenty thousand dollars per month,” Katrina says. She taps a line on the contract. “Six months. One-twenty thousand total.”

“But there are conditions,” she continues.

Of course there are.

She pulls out another page. Points to a section highlighted in yellow.

“If you quit before three months, you’ll only be compensated for time worked. Standard hourly rate.” She looks at me. “That’s roughly eighteen thousand dollars. Nowhere near enough for what you need.”

My hands are shaking again. I press them flat against my thighs under the table.

“If you complete three months, you receive a signing bonus. Sixty thousand dollars.” She taps the page. “Enough to deposit for your mother’s surgery. Enough to keep you stable while you finish the contract.”

Sixty thousand dollars.

Three months.

I can do three months.

I have to.

“And if you complete the full six months,” she continues, “you receive the remaining sixty thousand dollars plus an additional completion bonus. One thirty-five thousand total.”

My lungs forget how to work.

The number sits there between us. Impossible.

“I need someone who will commit,” she says. Her voice barely cracks again. “I can’t keep doing this. Hiring someone new every week. Watching him destroy himself. Watching him push everyone away until there’s no one left.” She stops. Blinks hard. “He’s my son. He’s all I have and I’m losing him.”

Her eyes are wet.

She blinks again and it’s gone. Just like that. Back to composed.

“I know this isn’t easy work,” she says.

“I know he’s going to make your life hell and he will. But if you can last three months—just three months—you’ll save your mother’s life. And maybe…” She trails off and looks down at the contract. “Maybe you’ll save his too.”

I look down at the contract.

At the numbers.

At the clauses written in language I barely understand.

Three months and my mom lives.

Six months and maybe I can freely breathe again.

But every day I’m there, I’ll be lying to him. Every day, I’ll know what my brother did.

I look up to see Katrina watching me. Waiting.

“Where do I sign?”