The Interview at the Glass Mansion
Emily Brooks stepped off the Greyhound bus with a scuffed suitcase in one hand and a folded address in the other.
She checked the numbers once. Then again. Then a third time—because nothing in front of her matched the life she had lived up to this point.
Beyond the tall wrought-iron gate stood a mansion made of glass and stone, all sharp lines and quiet luxury, the kind of place that appeared in architecture magazines but never in real life. A fountain curved at the center of the driveway as if it had been designed for photographs rather than people.
Emily tightened her messy bun, smoothed the sleeves of her thrift-store cardigan, and took a slow breath.
At thirty-two, she had worked in many houses. She had raised children who were not hers. She had handled medical routines, special-needs care, and nights so long they blurred into morning.
But this place didn’t feel like a home.
It felt like something sealed shut.
The agency had called the night before.
Urgent placement.
Live-in nanny.
Five-year-old twin boys.
Complex health concerns.
Exceptional pay.
Five times more than she had ever earned.
Emily pressed the intercom.