She stepped onto the estate grounds as if entering a forbidden place. Her heart raced—not because of the salary, which was generous, but because of the listing she’d read the night before. Three children with developmental delays. Strict protocols. Three silent children.
Clara knew silence well. The silence of her childhood home carried hunger and laughter together. The silence in wealthy houses she’d worked in before held distance, a lack of warmth. But the silence in that villa—she felt it before entering. It was rigid, echoing, empty.
She rang the bell. The door opened automatically. The living room was flawless. Cold white light, aligned artwork, mirror-like floors, and at the center, a long dining table with six chairs pushed in perfectly. No one ate there. She could tell.
Lucas appeared at the top of the stairs. Dark suit, immaculate shirt, an expression that offered neither greeting nor welcome. He checked his tablet, as if she were just another task.
“You’re Clara?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes sir.”
“Let’s be clear,” he said. “Everything here follows a schedule.”