THE GHOST IN THE PALACE

SERENA

The man who answers the door doesn't look like a billionaire. He looks like a ghost. His charcoal suit is impeccable, expensive, tailored to perfection, but it hangs on his lean frame like it belongs to someone else, like he's wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit. His dark hair is artfully disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it all day, and his eyes—his eyes are the color of storm clouds, gray and volatile, with dark circles beneath them that speak of sleepless nights and endless worry. He is tall, broad-shouldered, but there is a hollowness to him, a emptiness that makes me think of a building that's been abandoned but still has its lights on. He looks like he hasn't slept in a month, like he's been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and it's slowly crushing him.

His hands are bruised. Fresh. Raw. I notice the purple and red splotches across his knuckles before I notice anything else about him, the way the skin is split in places, the way he clenches and unclenches his fists as if he's trying to hide them from me. The sight makes my stomach tighten with unease.

"Miss Johnson?"

His voice is ice. Not cruel, not harsh, but controlled, the voice of someone who has learned that emotion is a weakness. His eyes sweep over me, assessing, dismissing, and I feel like I'm being measured and found wanting.

"Yes. I'm Serena Johnson." I extend my hand, offering a smile that feels brittle on my face. "Your father called about the nanny position?"

He looks at my extended hand like I've offered him a dead fish. For a moment, I think he might actually recoil. "I don't shake hands." The words are flat, final, and he turns before I can respond, walking back into the apartment with the easy grace of a man who's used to being obeyed. "Come in. Close the door behind you."

I let my hand drop to my side, a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. I step inside and pull the door closed, and immediately I feel the weight of the space pressing down on me. The penthouse is enormous, the kind of space that makes you feel small and insignificant, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a dizzying view of the city spread out below like a glittering carpet. The furniture is all sharp lines and muted tones, gray and black and white, with no color, no warmth, no signs that anyone actually lives here. It looks like it was designed by someone who's never had to make a home, who doesn't understand the concept of comfort. The ceiling is impossibly high, and the silence is absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below. I feel like I'm standing inside a glass box, exposed and vulnerable.

He's built a prison for himself, I think. A beautiful, glass prison.

"There are rules." Alexander stops in the middle of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid like a soldier standing at attention. "You'll be here Monday through Friday, eight AM to seven PM. Overtime is negotiable. Weekends are possible with advance notice. You will not enter my private wing without explicit permission. You will not touch my belongings. You will not—" He pauses, something flickering in his storm-gray eyes. "You will not bring guests."

I keep my voice level, refusing to let him see how much his coldness affects me. "Friends? Romantic interests?"

"Either." He says the word like it tastes bad, like the very concept of human connection is distasteful to him. "The boy has been through enough. He doesn't need strangers parading through his home."

"I understand." I meet his gaze, holding it steady. "May I ask about the boy? His name is Leo, right?"

"Leonardo."

"Leo," I say gently, ignoring the correction. "Is he here?"

Alexander doesn't answer. Instead, he walks toward a closed door at the far end of the living room, his footsteps silent on the polished floor. He pushes it open just a crack, just enough for me to catch a glimpse inside. I see a small figure sitting on a bed, knees drawn up to his chest, his back against the headboard. He's staring at a wall, his dark hair falling across his face, his expression blank and distant. He looks like a doll, like something that's been placed there and forgotten. He's maybe six years old, small and fragile, with a face that looks like it's forgotten how to smile.

"He doesn't speak," Alexander says, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of its ice. There's something tender in it, something raw, and I feel a strange flutter in my chest at the sound. "Not since the accident."

My heart twists in my chest. "Does he eat? Does he sleep?"

"Occasionally." He closes the door, cutting off my view of the boy. "He's seeing a therapist. There's been no progress."

"What does he do all day?"

"He draws." The word is flat, dismissive.

I feel a prickle of something—unease, curiosity, I'm not sure. "May I see the drawings?"

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Because I want to understand him." I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. "I can't help him if I don't know what he's thinking."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in his expression—a crack, barely visible, in the ice. He walks to a sideboard against the wall, opens a drawer, and pulls out a stack of papers. He holds them for a moment, his bruised knuckles stark against the white of the paper, and I wonder what he's been punching, who he's been fighting. Then he walks back to me and hands me the stack.

As he does, his fingers brush against mine. Just for a fraction of a second. Barely a touch at all. But I feel it—a jolt of warmth, a spark that travels from my hand up my arm. He pulls back immediately, like he's been burned, and I see something flicker in his storm-gray eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or discomfort. I tell myself it meant nothing. I tell myself I imagined it.

I look at the first drawing. It's a house, simple and childlike, but there's something wrong with it. The door is missing. Just a blank space where a door should be. The second drawing shows a family—stick figures, two adults and a child—but their faces are blank, featureless, with only empty circles where eyes should be. I feel a chill creep down my spine.

"These are beautiful," I say, forcing warmth into my voice. "But there's no door on the house. And the family has no faces. Why do you think he draws them like that?"

Alexander's jaw tightens. "I'm not a therapist. I don't know."

"Has anyone asked him?" I press. "Has anyone tried to understand what he's trying to say?"

"He doesn't speak." The words are sharp, impatient. "You'll start tomorrow. Eight AM. Don't be late."

I look at the drawings again, at the empty space where the door should be, at the blank faces staring back at me. Something about them unsettles me, something I can't quite name. I look up at Alexander, at his bruised hands and his haggard face and his cold eyes, and I notice the way his voice softened when he talked about Leo. That tenderness was real. It was the first crack I've seen in his armor.

"Mr. Otto," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "Why won't you let anyone in?"

He doesn't answer. He turns away, and I'm left standing in the middle of his glass palace, the drawings clutched in my hands, the memory of his fingers brushing against mine lingering on my skin. I look down at the house with no door, the family with no faces, and I feel a certainty settle deep in my bones. I'm not sure I want this job. But I'm not sure I can walk away.