Chapter 3 #2
“Text me when you leave,” she said.
“I always do.”
Outside, Ava waved from the window as I climbed into the van.
“Bye, Van Belle!” she shouted.
I smiled and waved.
Project at double the rate. It might not be enough to pay the bills, but it was a step in the right direction. And if my heart was beating a little faster than necessary. That was purely financial motivation and had nothing to do with the thought of Raphael Renault.
The Renault estate sat on the edge of town where the road narrowed, and the trees grew deliberately. The kind of property that didn’t just have land, it held its stone walls and iron gates. It was architecture that said generational wealth without needing to shout.
The gates opened automatically when I pulled up.
Which, I will admit, felt aggressively dramatic. Yesterday, I hadn’t really processed it. I’d been too busy pretending I wasn’t impressed. Today, without the pressure of first introductions, I let myself actually look.
The house wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t marble columns and gold fixtures. It was old stone, heavy wood, and symmetry. It wasn’t over the top and flashy, more old-world money. The kind of place that probably had opinions about silverware.
My van rattled slightly as I parked in the same spot as before.
I cut the engine and sat for a moment.
The estate loomed ahead, solid and still.
This wasn’t like the other houses I cleaned. Most of those were aspirational, with granite countertops, staged throw pillows, and curated art meant to suggest personality.
This place didn’t suggest anything. It didn’t need to. It just existed.
I glanced down at the steering wheel.
“You’re here for double time,” I reminded myself, not to admire the architecture. Definitely not to psychoanalyze the brooding owner or wonder why he’d followed you like a suspicious cat yesterday.
I stepped out of the van.
I closed the door carefully with two firm pushes again. Habit.
I couldn’t help but glance up at the window of his study. And then he’d appeared. He literally appeared in the windows, standing tall and still, watching over the driveway. He’d tracked me like I was a problem he intended to solve.
I smiled and waved. I couldn’t be sure, but I was fairly certain he scowled at me before turning back into the room.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and walked toward the side entrance. This was fine. Everything was fine. I was just casually walking into a castle owned by a man who, in equal parts, terrified and fascinated me.
The stone under my shoes was cool and perfectly even. There wasn’t even a hint of a crack or weeds daring to exist between slabs.
Yesterday, when Geoffrey had led me through the halls, I’d noticed how sound behaved in this house. It didn’t echo. It was absorbed. It was as if the walls themselves were trained to keep secrets.
The air even felt cooler near the stone, like the house carried its own weather.
I knocked.
The door opened almost immediately. Geoffrey stood there, immaculate as ever.
“Ms. Blythe,” he said.
“Mr. Impeccable Timing,” I replied. His expression shifted a fraction. Approval? Amusement? Hard to tell.
“Thank you for returning,” he said.
“Double time is very persuasive.”
“Quite.” He stepped aside to let me in.
“You mentioned a project?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said smoothly. “If you’ll follow me.”
I nodded and stepped fully inside, the door closing softly behind me.
And just like that, I was back in the castle.
Geoffrey led me down a side corridor I hadn’t noticed yesterday.
“Basement access is restricted to household staff,” he said as we walked. “Mr. Renault prefers minimal traffic.”
“Understandable,” I said. “Basements are where people keep either holiday decorations or secrets.”
“Neither,” he replied calmly.
That was not reassuring. We reached a door at the end of the hall. Geoffrey unlocked it and pulled it open. Cool air drifted up the stairs.
“After you,” he said.
I descended carefully. This was not a damp, concrete-box basement. This was finished and climate-controlled, lit evenly by recessed fixtures. Shelves were built into the walls with the kind of craftsmanship that suggested someone had debated wood grain for weeks.
And it was full of antique trunks stacked neatly. Labeled archival boxes and framed artwork wrapped in protective paper lined the walls. Shelving units were lined with meticulously stored objects such as silver, glassware, old ledgers, and what looked like historical documents.
“Inventory, dusting, catalog confirmation,” Geoffrey said smoothly. “Several items were relocated during renovation. Mr. Renault would like everything accounted for.”
“Of course he would,” I murmured.
This would take days, probably.
“Double rate applies to the entirety of the project,” Geoffrey added.
I kept my face neutral.
“Noted.”
My brain was already calculating. Double rate. Multiple days. Maybe a week if done thoroughly. This could bridge the gap for step-up care. Not forever, but long enough to breathe.
Geoffrey handed me a clipboard with neatly printed spreadsheets. “Each shelf is coded. Cross-reference as you go.”
“This is extremely organized for a basement,” I said.
“It reflects the house.”
I glanced around again.
“And Mr Renault is okay with me doing this? This seems like a lot of trust to put into someone he just met.”
Geoffrey nodded his head slightly. “He asked for you personally. He seems to believe you are more than trustworthy.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say. I wasn’t sure how to process that information.
“I must say I agree with him. I hope you will fit in well here.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, is there anything else you need before I let you get to work?”
“Nope, I’ll start here,” I said, setting my bag down near the bottom step.
Geoffrey inclined his head. “If you require anything, I will be upstairs.”
Then he left. The door at the top of the stairs closed softly. And I stood alone in the most intimidating basement I had ever encountered. I ran a hand along the nearest shelf, careful not to disturb anything. Then I grabbed the clipboard and got to work.