Chapter 2 - The Audit of an Empty House
The morning sun filtered through the leaded glass of the study, casting long, geometric shadows across Persian rugs that cost more than my entire undergraduate education. I stood beside the mahogany desk holding a heavy leather-bound ledger, while Nicholas paced the length of the room. He had already removed his suit jacket, leaving his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with tension. The gold tie clip still sat affixed to his collarless shirt, a stubborn anchor of formality in the chaotic aftermath of dawn.
"Fourteen nursing agencies in three years," Nicholas muttered, his voice cold as he slammed an agency invoice onto the polished wood. "Fourteen different coordinators who swore they vetted every single person who crossed this threshold. And yet my mother spent last Tuesday eating a cold dinner in the dark because her hands wouldn't hold a spoon."
"The turnover is high, Mr. Vance," I said, keeping my voice neutral as I set the ledger down on the desk. My black-and-white uniform felt freshly pressed, though the hem was slightly dusty from tidying the east wing before sunrise. "The pay scale for private night care doesn't retain experienced staff. Most agencies treat this address as a stepping stone for fresh graduates who transfer out within a month."
Nicholas stopped pacing. He turned sharply, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at me—not as an employee, but as a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "You didn't transfer out. You stayed twelve hours past your shift last night without logging the overtime."
"Your mother was distressed," I replied simply, meeting his gaze without flinching. "An invoice doesn't cover that."
A muscle twitched along his jawline. He walked over to the tall arched window, looking out toward the manicured lawns that sloped down toward the river. The suspension bridge in the distance was just a faint gray lattice against the morning haze. "I spent the last decade building a fortress so she would never have to worry about practical realities," he murmured, his back to me. "I hired accountants, estate managers, medical directors. I outsourced every variable except the one that mattered."
"Money buys systems, Mr. Vance. It doesn't buy attention."
He turned back around so fast his heels pivoted sharply against the wool rug. A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of his mouth—dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. "You have a dangerous habit of speaking absolute truth without checking your tone first."
"I learned it from working in county hospitals before I took private contracts," I said, stepping back toward the door. "If you want to keep the agency, I can hand over my badge right now. If you want actual care, the protocols in this house need to change from the foundation up."
Nicholas didn't answer immediately. He walked back to the desk, pulled a heavy fountain pen from his pocket, and dragged a blank contract form toward himself. Without looking up, he unscrewed the cap. "The agency contract was terminated forty minutes ago. Effective immediately, you are on my personal payroll as Director of Domestic Care. Name your figure."
May you like
I looked at the pen poised over the paper, then up at his tear-stained face from the night before, now hardened into an expression of fierce, protective resolve. "Double what the agency was paying," I said. "And full administrative authority over who enters the east wing."
Nicholas signed his name with three sharp, aggressive strokes of black ink. He didn't even read the line where I had set the terms. He simply slid the document across the mahogany desk toward me. "Done. Now go upstairs. My mother is awake, and she's asking if you brought the ginger tea."
