Chapter 2 WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

The bus let me off at the foot of Kingswood Heights, and I walked the rest of the way, my heart doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs. Crestline Drive wasn't a street; it was a curated landscape of towering trees, hidden driveways, and silent, sprawling estates.

Number 1707 was at the very end, behind a high stone wall. I found a heavy iron gate with a discreet intercom panel.

I stood there for a full minute, just staring. My uniform felt itchy and cheap. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm me, and pressed the button.

A crackle of static, then a woman’s crisp voice. “Yes?”

“Hello, I’m Anya Petrova. I’m here to see Mrs. Darnell? About the position?” My voice sounded thin and reedy to my own ears.

“Come in.” The gate gave a soft buzz and began to swing inward with a heavy, expensive sound.

And then I saw it. The house.

It wasn’t a house. It was a palace. A modern, glass-and-stone palace that seemed to sprawl forever, all sharp angles and glittering windows reflecting the afternoon sun. A manicured lawn rolled out like an emerald carpet, leading to a front door that looked like a slab of polished dark wood. I stopped walking and just stared, my mouth slightly open. I had seen rich before, at school, in the cars they drove and the bags they carried. But this was a different universe of rich. This was dynasty money. This was the kind of place that had wings and guest houses and probably names instead of addresses.

I pinched the back of my own hand, hard. The sharp sting confirmed it. This was real. This was where I was going to work. The thought sent a wild mix of terror and exhilaration through me. Twenty-five dollars an hour. In this place.

I followed a flagstone path around to the side, toward a more subdued doorway I assumed was the service entrance. Before I could knock, it opened.

A woman in a severe, navy-blue dress stood there. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair in a perfect bun, her posture so straight I instinctively straightened my own shoulders.

“Anya Petrova?” she asked, her eyes scanning me from my practical shoes to my carefully neat ponytail.

“Yes, ma’am. You must be Mrs. Darnell.”

“I am. Come in. Wipe your feet thoroughly.”

I stepped into another world. It was still clearly the working part of the house—the walls were a simple cream, the floor polished stone—but even here, everything was spotless and quietly luxurious. The air smelled of lemon polish and fresh linen.

“I have your schedule here,” Mrs. Darnell began, leading me down a hallway. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday after school until seven, and every other Saturday from eight to four. Your duties will be specific. You are replacing Colleen, who is recovering from surgery. You will be responsible for the ground-floor dusting and polishing, the upkeep of the library and the east sunroom, and assisting with afternoon tea service if we have guests. You are not to enter the private family suites upstairs unless specifically instructed by myself. Is that clear?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I said, nodding so much I felt dizzy. I was trying to absorb it all, my eyes wide.

“Good. Now, a tour of your areas, and then I will introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Thorne. They like to meet new staff.”

Thorne.

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. Thorne. It was a common enough name, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be…

Mrs. Darnell seemed to notice my sudden pallor. “Is everything alright? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” I stammered, my hand fluttering up to my temple in a nervous gesture I couldn’t control. “It’s just… the house is so beautiful. It’s a bit overwhelming.” I was mortified. I kept pointing awkwardly at my own head, as if trying to physically push the shock back in. “I’m just… very grateful for the opportunity, Mrs. Darnell. I promise I’ll work very hard.”

She gave a slow, measured nod, her expression softening a fraction. “See that you do. The Thornes are fair employers. Now, come along.”

She led me back toward the main foyer, where a breathtaking staircase swept up in a curve. Standing near the bottom were a man and a woman. He was tall and handsome, with distinguished gray at his temples, wearing a sweater that looked impossibly soft. She was slender and elegant, her blonde hair in a chic bob, a string of perfect pearls at her neck. They were the picture of relaxed, benevolent wealth.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thorne, this is Anya Petrova. She’ll be covering for Colleen,” Mrs. Darnell announced.

Mrs. Thorne turned a warm smile on me. “Anya, welcome. Mrs. Darnell runs a tight ship, but you’ll learn quickly.”

“Thank you so much for this chance,” I said, my voice trembling only a little. “I really appreciate it.”

Mr. Thorne gave a kind nod. “Just follow Mrs. Darnell’s instructions, and you’ll do fine. We’re glad to have the help.”

That’s when the sound came from upstairs. The quick, heavy thump of footsteps on the staircase.

My blood went cold.

He came into view, taking the steps two at a time, dressed in low-slung sweatpants and a Kingswood Hockey t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower. He was scrolling on his phone, a frown of concentration on his face.

Mrs. Thorne spoke up. “Levi, darling, this is Anya. She’s going to be helping us for a little while.”

His phone lowered to his side.

A laugh escaped him, but it wasn’t the soft laugh from the cafeteria. This was a short, shocked, disbelieving bark of sound.

“Scholarship?” he said, the word slicing through the polite quiet of the foyer. “What are you doing here?”