The Montgomery Contract

There was always a precise moment, somewhere around four in the morning, when the Montgomery estate seemed to settle into a silence so complete it felt heavy.

That was usually when I woke up.

Not because of a noise.

Because of the absence of one.

As I lie beneath these thin polyester sheets, staring at a ceiling I had memorized months ago, the same question I faced nightly arose:

What am I doing here?

No amount of exhaustion numbed it. Trust me, I tried. I kept hoping that, eventually, the ache would dull—like a callus forming over a blister. But the more I tried to lose myself in sleep or in the constant, repetitive rhythms of work, the sharper that question became. Every time it took root, it brought the crushing reminder of how far from home I really was, how small my world had become inside these walls.

It wasn’t the work that bothered me.

It had been nearly nine months since I took the job at the Montgomery estate, yet every morning I woke with the same faint dread. I knew the risks when I took the position—living miles away from anyone I knew, isolated in a fortress of stone and polished mahogany, working for a family whose name carried power and silence in equal measure. When I submitted the application, I convinced myself they wouldn’t even consider me. Nine months later, the regular bank deposits were the only proof that this strange, hollow existence was real.

I sent ninety percent of every check back home. If I closed my eyes, I could picture the stacks of bills on the kitchen counter and the relief in Mom’s voice when she called to say the heating bill was paid, or when she told me not to worry about Riley—he was eating enough, growing so fast she couldn’t keep him in shoes. It was worth every quiet, lonely hour spent within these walls. Sometimes I repeated that to myself like a prayer, especially on the nights when the house felt so large and empty it seemed to swallow up every thought that wasn’t about survival.

Before I came to work for Mr. Montgomery, I had seven hundred dollars in savings, earned by working long hours at local diners and retail counters in our small town. Here, with room and board provided, my expenses were practically non-existent. Every month, I balanced my budget with precision. Sometimes it was tempting when other staff members invited me out on weekends off, but the memory of my mother always pulled me back.

I remembered the last time I saw her—her frail hands holding mine, her body strained as she tried to hug me goodbye. Devic’s disease had taken her independence, attacking her central nervous system and stealing the mobility in her legs. Before I took this job, I was her full-time caregiver. Now, I was her only source of funding for the specialized treatments that could keep her stable—treatments that cost forty five thousand dollars a year out-of-pocket.

I sat up, the thin polyester sheets rustling in the dark. The air in my little room always felt slightly stale, heavy with the scent of cleaning products that clung to my hair and skin no matter how many times I showered. In the small mirror propped on my dresser, my reflection looked more like a ghost than a girl: shadow-draped eyes, skin gone pale from months indoors, dark circles that never went away. I stopped caring about my appearance months ago. How could I, when every image of my mother was burned into my mind—her thinning hair, her tired brown eyes framed by red-rimmed exhaustion? Sometimes I traced the lines of my face and wondered if I was aging faster here, if the worry was leaving grooves that would never fade.

I checked my phone under the pillow; the screen glowed back: 4:49 AM.

Ten minutes early, but there was no point in waiting.

I slipped out of bed and moved through the routine automatically, as if my body belonged to someone else. Cold shower, hair pinned back, dark blue uniform pressed and buttoned. Even my shoes felt like they belonged to a stranger—polished until they gleamed, but always pinching at my heels. I caught myself rehearsing the day’s schedule in my mind as I scrubbed my hands raw at the sink. By ten to six, I was down the narrow rear stairwell that led to the service kitchen, already bracing myself for the clipped orders and the endless lists.

Camille, the head estate manager, was already pacing near the stainless steel counters, a leather clipboard resting in the crook of her arm. She managed the small crew of nine live-in and day staff with rigid precision.

“Morning,” Camille announced, not looking up from her notes. “Team Red, living quarters and primary entryway. Team Blue, master wing. Yellow, grounds and pool terrace. Mr. Montgomery returns tomorrow morning, which means every surface must be pristine. We all know his expectations.”

She paused, turning a page. “Also, Mr. Montgomery is hosting his brother and sister-in-law on Thursday. Prepare the east guest suites accordingly. If you need me, I will be supervising the replacement of the poolside landscaping today. Dismissed.”

I fell into step with Maggie and Kiki as we headed toward the grand staircase leading to the master suite. The main house spanned over twenty thousand square feet—a labyrinth of formal reception rooms, two private offices, a library, an equestrian trophy room, and dozens of guest suites. Sometimes, walking through its echoing halls, I imagined I was a ghost haunting a palace, invisible except for the fingerprints I wiped away. The live-in staff occupied modest quarters hidden behind the service corridors, while the day staff commuted from the surrounding towns. Our world was parallel to theirs—always adjacent, never overlapping.

“Did you listen to that album I mentioned yesterday?” Maggie whispered beside me as we climbed the carpeted stairs. Her face was bright despite the early hour.

“I did,” I lied softly, offering a faint nod to avoid her direct gaze. “It was great.”

“Right? I must have played it ten times in a row on my break,” she said, leaning in. Kiki glanced over her shoulder, sending a sharp look in our direction, but Maggie paid no attention.

Maggie had joined the staff a month ago. She had two young children and a sick husband back home; work was her only escape from the constant pressure, and talking was her way of coping. Sometimes I envied her ability to let words fill the silence, to make it seem almost normal. I never had the heart to interrupt her. Maybe I was hoping some of her resilience would rub off on me.

For the next two hours, we worked in practiced silence—a choreography of labor that required almost no words. Maggie stripped the massive mahogany bed in the master room, humming under her breath, while Kiki methodically organized Mr. Montgomery’s walk-in wardrobe—every shirt spaced precisely one inch apart, grouped by tone and fabric. My task was the floor and dust restoration across the adjoining sitting room. I moved deliberately, kneeling to scrub baseboards that looked spotless to anyone but Camille. There was something almost meditative about the repetition: sweep, wipe, polish, repeat. My thoughts wandered as my hands worked, drifting back to home, to memories of laughter over cracked linoleum and the comfort of voices I actually missed.

Mr. Montgomery’s rules were absolute. Towels folded to exact five-star hospitality standards—edges sharp enough to slice. Fixtures polished until free of water spots, no matter how many times you’d already done it that week. Ceiling fan blades wiped daily, even in rooms no one used. Baseboards inspected for dust. It was a never-ending cycle, a ritual of perfection for someone who might never notice. Sometimes, I wondered if the rules were for us, not him—a way to remind us of where we stood.

He’s so pretentious, I had complained to my mother during my first week here, whispering into the phone from my small room. He has us cleaning behind refrigerators that no one ever moves.

Don’t worry about that, bug, her raspy, gentle voice replied. Rich people have their ways. You just focus on what you’re there for.

By eleven in the morning, my assigned guest rooms were finished, hands raw and knees aching from hours on the hard floor. Camille swept through the wing, her eyes missing nothing, and finally gave a quiet nod of approval. Relief always felt temporary here, as if the next task was already waiting just out of sight. She dismissed us for the afternoon ahead of tomorrow’s formal preparations. I lingered in the hallway a moment longer, savoring the moment, before heading back to my room.

As I made my way down the quiet service corridor back to my room, my phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I pulled it out, the screen displaying Riley’s name.

“Hey, kiddo,” I answered softly, stepping inside my room and letting the door click shut.

“Elodie!” His voice was light, filled with a familiar energy that instantly eased the tension in my shoulders. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Ri. How are things at home?”

“Good! Mom actually stood on her own for a bit yesterday. She tried to make that cheesecake you like.” He let out a breathless chuckle. “It didn’t turn out right, but she tried.”

A wave of warmth mixed with sadness hit my chest. “She shouldn’t be trying to bake, Riley. She needs to rest.”

“I know, I told her. Hey, listen... Corey said his cousin lives up near where you’re working. Can I come visit you during winter break? Can you even have people over there, or is it like a fortress?”

My breath hitched. The thought of bringing my home life into this cold, controlled environment felt impossible. “Riley, no. Absolutely not. Who would stay with Mom?”

“I asked Uncle Boss,” Riley said quickly. “He said he’d cover for me for twenty bucks and a six-pack of beer.”

“Are you serious?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He’s ridiculous. Riley, no one has visitors here. It’s a private estate.”

“Come on, El. I haven’t seen you in nine months. I just want to see where you live.”

The silence stretched between us. Hearing the faint hope in his voice stripped away my resistance. “Look... let me see what I can do. Maybe I can get a day off and meet you somewhere in town instead. We’ll figure it out.”

“Really? Okay! Deal.” His voice brightened instantly. “Mom’s calling me for her medicine, so I have to go. Love you, El.”

“Love you too, Ri. Tell Mom I’ll call her tonight.”

Then the line went dead.

I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, holding the quiet phone in my hands, listening to the vast, empty stillness of the estate.