Chapter 2: Iron Gates and Cold Coffee
The wrought-iron gates of the Sterling estate groaned open at precisely 5:50 AM on Wednesday. I sat in the driver's seat of my dented hatchback, staring at the long gravel driveway that wound up toward the mansion. I was wearing the exact same striped t-shirt and plaid pajama pants I had worn the day before—not out of some deliberate statement of rebellion, but because my entire wardrobe was currently sitting in a damp laundry basket back at my apartment.
An agency sedan was parked halfway up the drive, its hazard lights blinking rhythmically. As I stepped out of my car, a tall woman in a pristine white uniform stepped out of the sedan, blocking my path with a clipboard clutched to her chest.
"You can't be here," the supervisor said, her tone sharp and practiced. "Sterling Holdings terminated our contract at midnight. Unauthorized personnel are not permitted on private grounds."
I didn't slow down. I walked past her, my sneakers crunching loudly on the gravel. "Take it up with the guy inside. He told me six."
The heavy front doors unlocked automatically from the inside as I approached, swinging open to reveal the cavernous foyer. Julian was already waiting near the base of the grand staircase, seated in his motorized wheelchair. He wore another dark gray button-down shirt, his dark slicked hair neat, though his shoulders carried the tight, rigid posture of someone who had spent the entire night awake.
"You're five minutes early," Julian noted, his voice carrying clearly across the polished wood flooring.
"Traffic was nonexistent," I replied, pulling my hair tighter into its messy bun. "And your former employees are currently staging a minor protest by the hydrangeas."
Julian’s lips twitched upward in the slightest hint of amusement. "Let them protest. They mistook management for caretaking. Close the door before the cold air gets in."
I pushed the heavy wood shut, sealing out the gray dawn and the agency car. The silence of the mansion rushed back in, broken only by the soft whir of his chair's motor as he turned to face the interior hallway.
"Well?" I crossed my arms, feeling the sudden weight of the responsibility I had stumbled into. "Where do we start?"
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"The master bathroom," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. "And don't look at me like that. I need someone who doesn't treat me like a piece of fragile glass."
I let out a long breath, realizing there was no turning back now. "Lead the way, Sterling."
