Chapter 1

Then reality sinks its claws in.

I have no experience. No references. No degree. Just a high school diploma and years of making it work by sheer force of will. I don't have any professional housekeeping credentials. Just me, twenty-two, burnt out, and holding everything together with hope.

Still... I can clean. I know how to make something livable out of chaos, how to organize around madness, how to keep things running even when everything's falling apart. If that doesn't count for something, then what the hell does?

My hand hovers over the touchpad. My heart thuds. Then I click apply.

The form loads slowly. I type out a short message, keeping it simple but honest: "I may not have professional housekeeping skills, but I know how to clean and manage a household. I'm a fast learner and a hard worker. This opportunity would mean the world to me."

I attach my resume, if you can call it that. It's bare bones; my name, age, current address, phone number, and a list of jobs I've held. It's not impressive but it's real.

With a deep breath, I hit send.

I shower quickly, letting the hot water scald away the day's grime and stress. After I dry off, I throw on an oversized t-shirt. Comfort over everything. I brush through my long dark brown hair, the strands tugging and knotting from being up all shift. I put it in a simple braid over my shoulder, a routine I've done a hundred times in the dark, half-asleep.

I climb into bed, ignoring the squeak. I pull my laptop onto my stomach, the heat already warming through the fabric of my shirt. I'm about to put on the same movie I've seen a thousand times, one I downloaded for free months ago, something comforting and predictable to help me fall asleep.

My email tab is still open.

Subject: Interview Confirmation - Silas Morgan

My heart lurches. No. Fucking. Way.

I click it so fast I nearly jab the touchpad straight through the laptop. The message opens, crisp and clean, nothing flashy. No filler.

"Interview confirmed. 12:00 PM tomorrow. Dress appropriately. Transportation will be provided."

Below it is an address. No questions. No call. No back and forth. Just... this.

My eyes widen. I reread it. Once. Twice. Five fucking times, just to be sure I'm not hallucinating from wishful thinking.

I squeal. Out loud. Into my pillow.

I sit up straight, the movie completely forgotten, and stare at the screen.

It might be a scam. It might be dangerous. But it could also be real.

I copy the address from the email and paste it into G****e Maps. The screen loads slow, my laptop wheezing from the effort, but when the satellite view finally sharpens, my jaw drops.

Holy shit.

It's not just some fancy house on the edge of town. It's a fucking private island.

Like, with actual water all around it, secluded from the world kind of island. Tucked behind a veil of trees and winding driveways, is a massive estate. And not just big, it's obscene. The kind of mansion you only ever see on the covers of magazines at the dentist office. It's the kind of place that has staff just to take care of the staff.

My stomach does a little flip.

Who the hell is Silas Morgan?

Whoever he is, he's stacked. Like old-money, generational wealth, casually drops millions on Italian marble kind of stacked. I laugh under my breath, half in disbelief, half because this just got real. No wonder this guy needs help. That place looks like it'd take an army to keep clean. If I lived somewhere like that, I wouldn't want to scrub my own floors either.

But me? I'll gladly scrub every tile in that monster of a house. I'll dust, polish, and vacuum every inch if it means I don't have to come home to cigarette butts in the sink and random dudes passed out on the couch. I'll take all the weird rich-people tasks. Hell, I'll alphabetize spice racks, fold towels into swans, whatever the fuck they want.

And the pay? I scroll back to the job listing, eyes locking on the compensation again. Twice a month. Enough to make my tips look like pocket change.

Yes. Fucking. Please.

I glance at the time on the corner of the screen. Shit, it's already past midnight. I need to be up early, and I haven't figured out what the hell I'm going to wear. I don't have a walk-in closet full of tailored blouses and business-casual slacks. But there has to be something halfway decent. Something clean, unwrinkled, and professional enough to not scream "I've been surviving on tips and dollar-store coffee for years."

I close my laptop. The movie I was going to watch feels pointless now. I'm too jittery, too tightly wound to focus. My stomach is twisting in knots. I might actually puke.

I turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlight outside seeping through the window. I lie down, pulling the blanket up to my chin, even though I feel hot.

I screw my eyes shut, pressing my palms together beneath the weight of the blankets. My skin feels clammy, a cold sweat dampening my grip. It's been years since I've directed a word toward the ceiling, but tonight, I'm desperate enough to try.

"Just let this be real," I whisper into the dark. A sharp pause follows. A ragged breath. "Let this be my way out."

I say it again. And again. A chant. A plea. It's a lifeline I'm clinging to in the dark. I don't want to live like this anymore. And if there's the tiniest chance that tomorrow changes everything, then I need it. I need it so bad it hurts.