My name is Rhea Lawson. For three years I worked inside the glass palace of Mr. and Mrs. Halvorsen in the hills above San Diego. Officially I was a housekeeper. In practice I was the quiet presence who polished marble floors, folded linen with perfect edges, and carried trays through rooms that smelled of expensive candles and ambition.
In that mansion overlooking the ocean, wealth was everywhere. It shone from the chandeliers, whispered from the silk curtains, and glowed from the screens that displayed stock prices. Yet in all that brightness, I remained unseen. That suited me well. I had spent a long time learning how to disappear.
The Halvorsens were not unkind. They simply lived in a world where people like me existed only to keep things running. They greeted me politely, asked for coffee, asked for schedules, and never once wondered who I had been before I entered their gates.
Only their children looked at me differently.