Chapter 1
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my thick wool-lined coat, which had once been pristine when it belonged to my mother. But like everything else, it too wore down with age. The grey fabric struggled to shield me from the frigid winter winds, attempting to lick my skin. Still, it was better than nothing. Snow clung to the ground in large brown-streaked piles of slush that had only just begun to melt. I knew if I looked up, the sky would be vibrant and blue despite winter's desperate attempts to keep its hold over the city.
People had already taken to rejoicing about the coming of spring with smiles plastered on their faces as they traipsed along the sidewalk to their respective places of work. I, for one, couldn't turn my gaze from the frozen ground. I wasn't like these people. I was numb to the paltry joys they experienced. At least in the winter, I could blame the cold, but no matter what time of year, my life was always stuck. I took a shaky breath; the air, crisp in my lungs, tasted of a gentle sweetness that swirled around on my tongue. I shouldn't be thinking like this right now. No, I should be grateful that I was able to get a job so quickly.
Frozen fingers fumbled until they found a purchase on the small crumpled sticky note in my pocket. Carefully, I unraveled it, smoothing the creases with my thumb.
456 Oak Avenue
Silverbrook Heights, Penthouse
I raised my gaze, looking for street signs or anything to help me place myself in this foreign place. Everything here exuded opulence. People walked the streets carelessly, wafts of expensive colognes and perfumes greeting me as they passed by, dressed in the newest coats and jewelry most could never afford. Sleek cars—models I couldn't name—glided down the streets. Fear wasn't a factor for these people. No one was looking over their shoulders. They weren't hurriedly getting to where they needed to be, but they didn't have to be here. As I stood there, I felt isolated; everything in me was begging me to turn around and go home, but I knew I couldn't. I pressed on after locating the deep green street signs. I should be close now.
The short interview I'd had with my new boss, Dima, a short and plump woman with a thick, intriguing accent I couldn't place, had not been as fruitful as I'd hoped. It was challenging to take her seriously when the interview was run out of her garage, which was mostly filled with a large white van with peeling black lettering that I assumed was once 'Dima's Cleaners'—now just read 'Dia' leanrs.' The suffocating smoke curling from her cigarette and the makeshift garage office didn't exactly inspire confidence. She had said this client was rich, but I didn't know how rich they were until the silver-paned glass building swallowed me in its shadow. Silverbrooks Heights was displayed above the door; a thin, tall man stood in front on a rich red carpet leading into the building, taking people's cars for them.
I swallowed.
One of these people's shirts could feed my brother and me for a week. What would be a good meal for us would be trash for them. Bile churned deep in my stomach, stopping me in my tracks. I don't know how long I stood there, but the bitter burn of envy ate away at me like termites to wood. Why had they been gifted a life free of hardship? An abrupt clearing of the throat pulled me from my thoughts.
"Either you have business inside, or you leave. Judging by your appearance… I'd suggest the latter." Now, go before I call security!" Dark brown eyes looked down on me over a sharp, hooked nose. He sneered, each word laced with venom. He wore a sleek navy blue vest that looked as though it were crafted from a fine satin. A pair of matching elegant gloves adorned his long, skeletal fingers, which hovered over a sleek black phone—as if daring me to test him.
My heart fluttered in panic. "I-I'm sorry. I work here. I was just hired to clean for a Vincent Caruso?"
The words spilled out far more quickly than I'd intended—it was a miracle I hadn't tripped over them. I tried to slow my breath and keep the panic from overtaking me. Was I going to be turned away? My chest grew tighter with each inhale, my grip loosening on what little control I still had over my body.
But then, his brow perked up at the sound of the name, and he gave me an excruciatingly slow once-over. Something shifted in his gaze. It was quick—too quick—but I knew I'd seen something. Pity? Recognition? Curiosity?
Whatever it had been, the name had been enough to appease him.
“You’ll want to use the service entrance toward the back.” His voice was reluctant, as if each word was being pried from his mouth, before he pointed a bony finger to the left, toward a small alleyway wedged between this building and the one next to it.
I blinked. Was he helping me?
“Thank you,” I breathed, relief flooding through every part of my body. The man only offered a small, half-hearted wave—whether in dismissal or indifference, I couldn’t tell—but I quickly turned on my heel, eager to remove myself from this conversation. I started in the direction he'd indicated, but then I could've sworn I heard him mutter something else under his breath—something that, for some reason, caused a shiver to run down my spine.
"Don't thank me. Not for this."
Unlike the alleyways in the city over the bridge, these were unusually clean and well-kept. Rats, larger than most house cats, terrorized the trash cans lining the streets, and homeless people begged for money or food, both groups simply trying to get by. I was used to the rats and the homeless, but this felt strange.
The sole trash can sat flush against the wall. Its sides were free of the usual debris that caked even the highest-end garbage cans, and the pavement looked as though it had been recently pressure-washed. It was as if the building's owner had a compulsive need for perfection—almost like they were trying to hide something.
The elevator, exactly where he'd said it would be, was also spotless—free of fingerprints or smudges. The polished steel reflected my exasperated face. Freckles dotted my cheeks beneath bright, doe-like hazel eyes, which stood out even more with the red flush of my skin. Rich brown curls had frozen together around my heart-shaped face, pockets of ice forming where the water hadn’t dried from this morning. I’d always been told I was attractive. When I allowed myself to appreciate it, I understood why. Even now, disheveled and dressed in an old, tattered coat, I didn’t hate what I saw in my reflection. I sometimes wished I could sit in front of a mirror and admire myself like some people could, but I didn’t have that luxury. Ever since my mother had died and left me to care for Ash, there hadn’t been much time for idle daydreaming, let alone staring at my own face. A frown tugged at my lips as I pressed my thumb against the circular elevator button.
It had been almost a year since our mother died, but in truth, I'd been taking care of Ash for far longer than that—four years of playing adult while still barely out of childhood myself. I'd had to drop out of college. Back then, it felt like the right thing. Maybe it was selfish to wish for something else, but every spare moment not spent working had gone to him—to his school... his meals. Anything to try and give him some semblance of an everyday life. And though I loved my brother more than anything, I'd be lying if I said the weight hadn't started to crush me.
My future died with her.
All I could do was try to keep Ash from being pulled under, too.
Her ghost still clung to me—gaunt features sunken into a hospital pillow, the sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the slow rot of her failing body. Ash's muffled sobs still echoed in my ears as the flatline took our mother from us. We'd held her hand until we could no longer feel the warmth of her skin. A wet sensation snapped me out of the memory. I brushed the hair from my face—and felt the dampness on my cheeks. I swore under my breath, scrubbing at my eyes.
Not now.
I took a shaky breath as I thrust the memories back into the box where I kept them sealed. I steeled my face before entering the elevator. The doors slid shut, once again displaying my face back at me. I straightened myself as best as I could in that reflection—though there was no getting rid of the puffiness around my eyes—before I pressed the button labeled 456, etched in gold-plated numerals at the top of a glowing panel. Immediately, a soft and slightly offbeat jazz instrumental began to play. My fingers twitched. The longer it played, the more claustrophobic it felt. The walls seemed to inch closer with every note.
Tightening.
Suffocating.
The mouth of the cage opened, revealing a flood of bright, sterile light. I practically bolted forward, not caring where I was going—only that I was off that thing. I skidded to a stop, barely stopping myself from crashing into someone.
She hadn't even flinched.
Polished from head to toe, the woman looked like she’d been carved from ice and glass. Her sleek blonde bob gleamed like lacquer, every strand meticulously placed. She looked to be in her early thirties—maybe late twenties—and a pair of narrow glasses framed her long, elegant face. A sneer curled her crimson-painted lips as she looked over me slowly, like she was deciding whether or not I was worth the time.
I felt like an ant beneath a boot.
She held a tablet to her chest with perfectly manicured fingers. Her crisp white button-down shirt was free of wrinkles and was tucked into black pinstriped pants that flared just above a pair of black heels. The soles were the same bright red as her lipstick.
“You’re late,” she said coolly, “but you’ll do.”
My brow furrowed. Late? I’d left early on purpose, just in case I got lost. I slipped my phone from my jacket pocket and tapped the cracked screen. 7:55. I was early unless Dima had given me the wrong time.
I bit back the sigh that threatened to come out at the thought of the garage office and offered the woman a placating smile. "Apologies, ma'am. There must have been a mix-up on our end. I was told to be here by eight." I searched her face for some sign of empathy—or even mild understanding—but found none. I wasn't convinced this woman could feel.
Her lips pressed into a hard line. “You are expected no later than fifteen minutes early for every shift. By eight, you should be prepared and ready to begin. We pay you to work—not to get ready to work.” Her tone left no room for debate.
“Come,” she said, already turning on her heel. “We have to deal with the NDA before you start. Normally, I wait to deliver this after it's signed, but given the current circumstances, we don’t have that luxury.” Irritation teased her voice as she walked, not waiting to see if I would follow behind her.
She launched into what I could only assume was a rehearsed spiel, her voice a flat monotone of rules and legal jargon. I caught a few key points between the droning:
Don’t discuss anything that happens inside this house.
Don’t speak with the guests.
Any attempt at a lawsuit will be met with the most elite lawyers' money can buy.
The rest blurred into white noise as my surroundings began to register—and I realized I was standing inside the most luxurious home I had ever seen.
There were more rooms than I could count, but I was too enraptured by my surroundings to keep count of how many there were or what each held within its confines. This place felt more like a museum than a home—each corner designed to flaunt wealth and taste in equal measure. Paintings adorned the walls—bold strokes and abstract forms that advertised an obscene amount of wealth. Vases of varying shapes and origins sat atop polished ebony furniture, their delicate curves captured underneath harsh lighting like they were being showcased for an auction. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of how much it would cost if I broke even one.
Rooms flanked either side of the hallway, each one a glimpse into a life I didn't—and likely never would—belong to. I couldn't see all of them; many were hidden by locked doors. But the ones I did glimpse were wildly ostentatious.
One room held a massive four-poster bed draped in deep violet silk that shimmered in the spill of light that had snuck in from the hall. Frilled pillows were arranged with surgical precision, like no one had ever slept there before. A few garments hung neatly in the closet, and a pair of slippers sat by the bed, but the space still felt...vacant. Staged almost.
Another room resembled an upscale bar—complete with a pool table covered in deep green felt and shelves lined with liquor and glass decanters that sparkled like they’d never been touched. The cut of the glass looked so sharp, so clear, it had to be genuine crystal. Light refracted through each bottle and scattered across the plush lounge chairs like liquid diamonds.
A side table next to the door held a single picture frame. Inside, a stunning platinum blonde woman—roughly my age—beamed at the camera, a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on her nose. She was clinging to a larger man with a round belly, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed carefully over. He wore a tailored suit and golden cufflinks. Something about him—his forced smile, his dead eyes—made my stomach twist.
The awe began to fade even more the further we walked.
Eventually, we reached a set of towering French doors at the end of the corridor—imposing, almost theatrical in size. I hesitated, glancing to either side of the hallway as it stretched in both directions. The house continued a labyrinth of wealth. But this was our stop.
The woman pulled out a stark white key card and swiped it against a black security box affixed to the wall. A gentle beep broke the silence I hadn't realized we'd been walking in, and the doors swung open with an effortless grace.
Gone was the warmth—however artificial—the house had offered before.
This room was different. Sterile. Unwelcoming. Like it had been designed to make you feel small.
It was cold. And I felt it immediately: I wasn’t supposed to be here.
A long, oval table dominated the center, surrounded by too many chairs that seemed too angular to be comfortable. A projector was mounted to the ceiling, its black lens eyeing me like a camera. There was no artwork, no furniture, no rugs or accents, not even a clock. Just walls painted in a pale matte, lifeless grey.
On the table, just before a seat on the left, sat a single packet or paper and a pen.
The NDA.
"Have a seat, Miss Moreau, and take a moment to look it over."
She gestured to the chair in front of the packet before taking the one next to it, avoiding the head of the table as if it held a power of some kind.
"Aspen," I said, pulling out the heavy chair she'd indicated with a low scrape before settling into it. The words on the page swam before my eyes, but I leaned in, dragging the packet closer to me.
"I beg your pardon?" She challenged, not looking away as her fingers began tapping audibly on the tablet in her lap—sharp, deliberate keystrokes that filled the otherwise silent room like the ticking of a metronome.
I picked up the pen and met her steely gaze with one of my own.
"Call me Aspen."
It might've come out sharper than I intended, but she seemed to get the message. Without another word, she turned her attention back to the tablet and resumed tapping.
As she'd said before, most of it was a standard agreement—policies, guidelines, and expectations. I skimmed over most of those. I'd made this far without ever reading a contract all the way through. Most of the applications I'd filled out were cobbled together with half-truths and white lies—including this one.
Outside of my own apartment and a home ec class back in middle school, I’d never cleaned a damn thing professionally. But they didn’t need to know that. I couldn't imagine it being that different. With how spotless everything already looked, it seemed more like maintenance than anything. Maybe some dusting here and there.
From the corner of my eye, I caught her watching me—eagle-eyed and unblinking. Maybe she’d noticed how quickly I was flipping through the pages. I just hoped she wouldn’t call me out or go line by line explaining it to me. I wasn’t sure I could take another lecture.
So I slowed my pace, methodically turning each page as if I were diligently soaking in every word.
In truth, my mind was elsewhere.
Coupons. Dinner plans. The walk home.
Chicken pot pie could last us a few days…
Flip.
Need to grab more paper towels. And cereal. He's been going on about a new cookie one—
Flip.
We’ll need to take the clothes to the laundromat this weekend—running low on clean anything…
Flip.
Eventually, I ran out of paper. The final page stared back at me, the black signature line bold and unforgiving. I lifted the pen, hand hovering, when a sentence just above the line caught my eye:
‘The individual signing this document is responsible for anything that happens within this building.’
I hesitated, placing the pen back on the table.
Then, just beneath the signature line, a bold number seemed to beg for my attention:
$20 an hour.
I had been making nine at my last job.
I stared at that number for a long time. This was the most elaborate document I'd ever laid eyes on—and I still didn't fully understand why it was asking so much of me. My gaze drifted back to the sentence before it.
Who was this person? And what exactly have I gotten myself into?
The pen lay motionless on the table, practically urging me to sign. The pay was almost too good to be true. So why the hell was this document so dense? So... threatening?
But what choice did I really have?
With a deep breath, I wrapped my fingers worn from years of labor around the smooth pen and scribbled a shaky, uneven signature across the line. The ink bled slightly where my hand trembled. It barely looked like my name.
It was done.
For the first time, I could offer us a paycheck that might actually take care of us. Maybe even allow us to have a few small luxuries—things we hadn't been able to afford in years.
Like ice cream.
"Good," She purred, finally putting the tablet down.
"Now we may get started."
