Chapter 1 #2
Routine mattered.
I climbed into the back, pulling the curtain across the windshield. The space was tidy. Organized. Instagram-adjacent if you didn’t look too closely. I’d made it cute with blankets, fairy lights, and a little thrifted rug.
#vanlife.
I was independent. Minimalist. Adventurous. All those trendy words that definitely didn’t mean poor.
I brushed my teeth using bottled water.
After I checked the locks twice, I lay back and stared at the ceiling. From here, I could almost pretend this was a choice. Freedom. Flexibility. A woman unburdened by rent.
Except my phone mocked me with the estimate email from Long Creek. That sat in my chest like a brick.
My father was wandering at night, so I had to figure this out. I swallowed hard and reached up to switch off the fairy lights. Darkness pressed close immediately.
“Okay,” I whispered again. I had handled worse. I could handle this. I just needed a solution. I just needed— money.
The truth settled, heavy and unromantic.
I wasn’t quirky. I wasn’t adventurous.
I was thirty-two years old and sleeping in a parking lot because I couldn’t afford anything else.
I curled onto my side and tucked the blanket under my chin.
Tomorrow I would be bright again.
Tomorrow I would fix it.
Because if I didn't, no one would.
***
The next morning, I showered at the twenty-four-hour fitness and pretended the fluorescent lighting was flattering. As I changed into my Merry Band of Maids polo in the locker room, smoothing it down like it meant stability. Like it meant paycheck. Like it meant something solid enough to hold.
A month ago, I’d had a steady house to clean with predictable hours.
That all went out the window when I convinced Mrs. Tremaine’s daughter to join the derby team.
I’d been sacked so fast, but Eleanor was a derby bad ass, so no regrets.
Since then, I’d been part of a ‘temporary restructuring’, Tripp had called it.
Whatever he called it, it had fewer houses, fewer hours, and much less money.
The Merry Band of Maids' office sat in a strip mall that had given up on joy sometime in 2004. I pushed through the door and forced my mouth into a polite curve. Tripp Whittaker stood behind the front desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened in what I assumed he believed was a charismatic way.
“Belle,” he said, like he was tasting the word. “There she is.”
I gave him a smile that showed teeth. “Good morning, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Please, we’ve been over this. Call Tripp,” he corrected automatically.
“I’m comfortable with Mr. Whittaker.”
His grin thinned just slightly. Score one for me.
I slipped behind the counter to turn in my clean sheet. I swear all of this could be done virtually, but Tripp seemed to like that we all had to come in.
Then I felt him behind me. He was so close I felt like he was breathing down my neck. “How’re you holding up? Heard you’re still . . . between addresses.”
There it was. The polite version of homeless.
“I’m exploring alternative housing aesthetics,” I said brightly. “Very minimalist. Much whimsy.”
“You know,” he said casually, “I’ve got a guesthouse that just sits empty.”
My stomach tightened. There was no way in hell I would take anything from this man, let alone live in his guest house.
“Mm,” I hummed.
“You could stay there. Help out around the property.” His eyes slid slowly down my uniform and back up. “Maybe invest in a French maid outfit. Really lean into the brand. I think you could really fill out the costume.”
Gross. There it was. Not even subtle. For one sharp, violent second, I pictured driving my fist directly into his nose. I had the upper-body strength. I was derby built with excellent follow-through.
Instead, I tilted my head and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t mix cosplay and employment,” I said lightly. “Blurs the boundaries.”
His jaw flexed. “Just trying to help,” he said.
“Then maybe start with getting me my check on time. Ya know, direct deposit is a thing all businesses have been doing for over a decade.”
Silence. A flicker in his eyes. I had to be careful.
He enjoyed pushing until you pushed back too hard. Then suddenly, you were “difficult” and “not a good fit.”
I needed this job. My father needed this job. I swallowed the rest of my temper and reached for the clipboard.
“What’s my assignment?” I asked.
He studied me for another second. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. He was up to something. Then he smiled again. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve got something special for you.”
That never meant good.
“We have a new client,” he continued. “It's an important account. He’s very high-profile. It will need discretion and professionalism.”
I didn’t like the way he said professionalism.
“And you thought of me,” I said.
“Oh, I did.” His grin widened. “Raphael Renault.”
The name landed heavily. Even I knew that one.
The Renault Group was a conglomerate of hotels and other real estate holdings. I’d read articles about reclusive wealth and aggressive expansion strategies. I’d seen his name attached to headlines that used words like "formidable" and "private".
“He requires a personal cleaning rotation,” Tripp continued. “He is very selective. You’ll be representing the company directly.”
I hesitated. “Why me?”
His smile sharpened. “Because he specifically asked for someone reliable.”
Reliable. Or pliable? My pulse ticked a little faster.
“I don’t usually do live-in estates,” I said carefully.
“You won’t be living there,” Tripp replied. “Unless you prefer that arrangement.” His eyes flicked knowingly.
I ignored it.
“When do I start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”
I nodded and turned to leave. I couldn't stand to be in his smarmy presence any longer.
“And Belle?”
I paused at the door.
“Mr. Renault doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
Something in his tone felt less like a warning and more like hope, like he’d enjoy watching me fail.
“I don’t make mistakes,” I said pleasantly.
I stepped outside before he could respond. The oppressive humidity felt thicker than it had before.
Raphael Renault. The Beast, some of the online articles had called him.
I stood in the parking lot and exhaled slowly.
Okay.
So maybe this was the solution.
Wealthy clients paid well. Wealthy clients tipped well. Wealthy clients might cover the difference in cost of “step-up care.”
This was fine.
I had handled worse.
I just had to keep smiling.