Chapter 1 Daisy
Istood before the antique shop, drew a sharp breath.
The carved wooden door loomed—dark, weathered, waiting for me.
Iron bars crossed the windows like a warning.
Two bodyguards flanked the entrance, their eyes locked on me.
Both wore black suits. One had a square jaw and cropped blond hair; the other hid his eyes behind dark sunglasses.
“My name is Daisy Elfhorn. I have an appointment with Ms. Beatrice Stonfeld.” My voice came out steady, though my throat felt tight.
“ID,” the man with the sunglasses said. His partner scanned the street behind me.
I dug into my bag, pulled out my ID, and handed it over.
He studied it, then lifted his phone, comparing the screen with the card.
My face flashed back at me from the device.
After a long beat, he returned the ID, keyed in a code, and the lock gave a soft beep.
Without a word, he pushed the door open and motioned me inside.
The silence hit me first—heavy, suffocating. The air smelled of dust, wood, and age, as if time itself had settled in the walls. Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling, packed with artifacts. My pulse quickened. Sunlight cut through the windows like secrets refusing to stay buried.
A chest of drawers stood to my right, its surface worn smooth by years of hands.
Above it hung a massive gold-framed mirror.
Along the far wall, glass cases displayed silver and fragile glassware.
A long table ran down the center, crowded with books and relics.
Paintings covered the walls, completing the sense of a guarded vault.
I drifted toward a round table near the windows.
A leather-bound book lay open, its cover cracked and faded.
Beside it sat gilded pens and a globe dulled by dust. Everything in the room carried history, as if it were breathing.
If I got the job, I would study each piece. I already wanted to claim them as mine.
At the back, a small elderly woman sat behind a desk worn pale at the edges. Silver hair framed her face, her glasses sliding low on her nose. Her gaze lifted—sharp first, then softening, as if deciding whether to trust me.
“Miss Elfhorn?” she asked, rising. A flicker of pain crossed her face before she forced it down.
“That’s right,” I answered.
She smoothed her blouse. “I’m Beatrice Stonfeld.” Her voice was calm, certain.
Her smile loosened the tension in my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
We shook hands. She motioned me toward the table.
“Please, sit.”
I settled into the chair across from her. “Your shop is incredible.”
“Thank you. But it isn’t mine. I only work here.”
“Then shouldn’t I be meeting the owner?”
“Not necessary.” Her smile tilted behind her glasses. “Damian—Mr. Miller—trusts me.
Something in the way she said his name made my pulse quicken—too much respect, or something else.
“He forwarded your application to me himself. I’ve worked here nearly half my life. The shop belonged to his parents. After they passed, he kept it alive.”
“And where is Mr. Miller now?”
Her eyes caught mine over the rims of her glasses. “He runs Miller my dad’s in Rome.”
“Rome? Do you see him often?”
“Not much. We talk on the phone.” I didn’t add more. “I worked through college—waitressing, museum temp jobs—to pay for my degree.”
“And now you live here?”
“Yes. Small apartment in Cold Spring.”
“And before?”
“Woodstock. I came here to focus on my career, see what opens up.”
“That makes sense. Woodstock is beautiful, but change is necessary. Do you miss it?”
“No.”
Her smile edged sharper. “You’ll adjust here. I think you could be a valuable addition.”
“So… do I have the job?”
Beatrice removed her glasses, leaned back, and studied me.
“You’re not the first applicant, Miss Elfhorn.
Before you, there were two others. One had an impressive résumé.
The second couldn’t read ancient scripts, which, as you can imagine, isn’t ideal.
Mr. Miller rejected both. He told me to hire you if I had a good feeling—and I do.
Your qualifications and your obsession with this work are what we need.
It’s a heavy responsibility, managing this shop.
But if you’re ready, I believe you can handle it. ”
Relief surged through me. “Of course. Thank you for trusting me.”
“Just remember,” she said, her voice sharpening, “Mr. Miller will be watching you. His rules are strict. You’ll follow them. Always.”
My pulse stumbled, quick and clumsy, as if my heart didn′t know whether to speed up or stop.
“I understand. May I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“If you’ve been here half your life, why are you leaving?”
A shadow crossed her face. “This shop is dear to me, but I can’t stay. My husband and I are moving to Switzerland for medical treatment.” Her voice softened with sadness.
“I’m sorry. I hope it helps.”
“I hope so too. But let’s focus on your duties.
” She straightened. “The work may look simple, but it isn’t.
Security is strict. You’ll enter with a fingerprint scan and a coded card.
As you saw, two guards are always at the door.
It’s strange, though… we never had two men posted out front before.
That started only recently, after Mr. Miller made some changes.
” Something inside me tightened—not out of fear, but from that sharp awareness that there was more hidden here than I′d realized.
“Has something happened recently?” I asked carefully.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said quickly, smoothing her voice. A flicker—too fast to name-crossed her face before she continued. “Your main tasks: document and assess every delivery. Inspect them carefully. Once they’re here, you store them. Sometimes they’re delivered in person.”
“Understood.”
“Equally important is the release of items. Every pickup follows rigid protocols, depending on value.”
“Sounds structured,” I said.
“It is. At times, you’ll transport high-value pieces to our New York office. You’ll never go alone, bodyguards will escort you. It’s a demanding role, but I believe you can do it.”
“I look forward to the challenge.”
A faint curve tugged at her lips. “You’ll also handle calls and emails. You’ll need to know exactly where every piece is. Order is everything.”
“Do I have to clean too?”
She shook her head. “No. We use a trusted cleaning company. Two women, Linda and Marlen. Their schedule is posted on the pinboard.” She nodded toward the noticeboard across the room.
I turned. It was crowded with notes, postcards, and scraps.
“It might look chaotic at first,” she said, “but there’s a system.
And one more thing—there’s no cash in this shop.
No direct sales. Everything goes through Mr. Miller’s company.
Your job is to keep the collection safe and in order.
Your hours will be flexible. The only times you must be punctual are for scheduled appointments.
And if you want to step out, there are places nearby to grab lunch. ”
“This is exactly what I wanted,” I said.
“And you don’t mind being alone here?”
“It’s what I prefer.”
“Good. Tomorrow I’ll walk you through everything, give you your card and your contract. You can take the contract home, read it at your own pace, and only sign it if everything feels right to you. I’ll stay with you for two weeks, then I must leave.”
I hesitated. “What’s the salary?”
Her expression softened with understanding. “Base pay is $3,500 a month. It can increase, especially if you take on special assignments.”
“That’s fair. I’m excited to start.”
She stood. “Mr. Miller should come by in the next few days to meet you, if his schedule allows.”
“I can imagine he’s busy.” I rose too.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you the downstairs level, where we keep the most valuable pieces. Upstairs, there’s a small library.”
“You have a library?” My voice rose with unguarded excitement. “This keeps getting better. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I would’ve shown it today, but I have too much to finish. An artifact is being picked up in an hour, a shipment of books is arriving, and I need to prepare your contract.” She extended her hand. “Miss Elfhorn, it’s been a pleasure. I’m relieved to have found someone fit for this place so quickly.”
“Thank you, Ms. Stonfeld.”
“Tomorrow, 9 a.m.?”
“That works perfectly.”
Beatrice pressed a red button beside the door, and the lock clicked. The two guards turned at the sound.
“Rick. Marlon.” She addressed them by name. “Miss Elfhorn will be back tomorrow at nine. She’ll be taking my place. Inform the others and send them a copy of her ID.”
“Got it, Ms. Stonfeld,” said the man in sunglasses. Both men gave me a quick once-over before returning to their watch.
“The bodyguards rotate,” Beatrice said. “There’s an apartment nearby where they eat or rest.”
“And if they need the bathroom?”
“The apartment is just around the corner. They manage it themselves. Don’t worry about it.”
“And at night?”
“The system is automated. Deactivated during the day, armed the moment the shop closes.”