The address led to the most elite district in the city, and Lucia—twenty-six, a newly licensed nurse, unemployed for three months—applied immediately. She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t afford to.
The Valente estate looked unreal: glass walls, polished marble, sculpted gardens, and a fountain at the center of a circular drive. Lucia paused at the electronic gate, straightened her modest blazer, and spoke into the intercom. The gate slid open, and she followed the stone path to the front door.
She was greeted by a woman in her early forties. Helena Valente was elegant, impeccably dressed, her blonde hair styled to perfection. Her smile was warm, her tone courteous—but there was something sharp in her eyes that made Lucia uneasy.
“Please, call me Helena,” she said, leading her inside.
The living room was breathtaking—crystal chandelier, designer sofas, artwork Lucia recognized from magazines. What struck her most, though, was the silence. For a home with a small child, it felt unnaturally still.