Chapter 003 Lyra
Everything is so freaking shiny I’m worried I’ll leave smudges on the elevator buttons just by looking at them. Instead of risking my fingerprint on the polished steel, I use my elbow to hit the floor number they told me to go to.
When the doors slide open, I realize pretty quickly that this isn't a residence. It’s a company floor. A very expensive, very quiet company floor. I guess this is where I’m supposed to meet the man who hired me? Or maybe I’m in the wrong place and security is about to tackle me.
I step off the elevator and see a woman standing there. She’s pretty, dressed in business casual that costs more than my car, and her eyes are trained on me like she’s been counting down the seconds to my arrival. Her lips pull up on one side in a smirk.
Everything here is so put together. The floors, the walls, the people. I’m sure I stand out like a sore thumb—a bright, neon sore thumb—but blending in has always been boring anyway.
"You must be Lyra."
"That's me." I give her a cheery smile and walk right up to her outstretched hand. "I'm a hugger," I say, bypassing the handshake entirely to wrap my arms around her.
"Well then." A small laugh huffs out of her as she pats my back lightly. I release her before it gets weird. "I'm Edith. Mr. Eve's right hand."
"Of course you are." I glance around the lobby area. It smells like lemon polish and money. "This place looks fancy. And expensive. If a man is running it, there has to be a woman close by keeping the wheels on," I tease.
"I think I'm going to like you," she says, looking me up and down. Her eyes linger for a split second on my sweater, but she doesn't cringe, which I take as a win.
"I hope so. It could be awkward otherwise."
"Come on, we’re this way. I want to introduce you to Cillian first. Then we can go from there to see about meeting Elara."
Cillian. That’s a rather ominous-sounding name. Sounds like a villain in a period drama. I guess I have to get through meeting him before he decides if I’m up to par to meet his niece. It’s smart, actually. I’d vet me too.
I follow Edith down a long hallway. The carpet is plush enough to sleep on. At the far end, giant double doors stand open. They look heavy and imposing, and I’m guessing that’s the boss’s lair.
Halfway down the hall, a small head pops out of one of the side offices. She’s got the prettiest red hair I’ve ever seen, and her blue eyes dart to Edith before sliding over to me. They widen, and then a beautiful, gap-toothed smile takes over her face.
"Is this her?" she asks, stepping fully out into the hallway.
Edith pauses. "Yes, this is Lyra."
"Lyra? Like a star?"
"I have been known to shine every now and then," I tell her. "What’s your name, princess?"
"Elara."
"So I nailed it with the princess title."
"Elara is a princess?" Her little nose scrunches up.
"I mean, you’re clearly a princess in your own right. And likely on your way to being a queen, but yes. Elara is the princess from Sleeping Beauty? One of her names, anyway."
"And you think I look like her?"
"Well, not exactly the same," I admit. I do a dramatic glance around the hallway, checking for spies, acting like I don’t want anyone to overhear us. I lean down a little closer, hands on my knees. "You’re prettier. I think it’s the freckles."
Elara reaches up, touching her cheekbones where a dusting of copper spots sits against her pale skin. "You think freckles are pretty?" She sounds skeptical, like maybe someone told her otherwise.
"Absolutely. Do you know people draw them on with makeup? It’s a whole trend. I’ve been in love with freckles forever. They remind me of star constellations."
"You have a few," she points out, peering at my nose.
"I have a couple, but not as many as you do. I'm jealous."
"You can draw them on, like you said," Elara suggests.
"I'm not that great with makeup. I usually end up looking like a raccoon."
"I've never used it before, but I'm good at drawing. That's kinda close, right?"
"Closer than me," I laugh.
"You want to see some of my drawings?"
I glance over to Edith. I don't want to put her in a bad spot or derail the schedule. I need this job, and keeping the timeline tight is probably part of the gig.
"I actually need to chat with your uncle first," I tell Elara gently. "If I have time afterwards, I would love to see them."
"I'll come with you. I already told him I wanted him there when we met."
Crap. I think he meant he wanted to be there to supervise, not to have a group hang.
"Elara."
The voice is deep, baritone, and unexpected. It makes all three of us turn our attention to the end of the hall. A very tall man in a dark suit is headed our way. He walks with a kind of aggressive efficiency, and he appears... agitated.
Elara glances down at her shoes before lifting her chin. I wonder if these two knew each other at all before her parents passed. I'm shit with reading adults—they hide too much—but kids show everything in their shoulders and eyes. I could be wrong, but I'm getting the feeling that this dynamic is brand new and barely broken in.
"Can I show Lyra my drawing?" she asks him as he draws closer.
His dark eyes flick to Elara, softening for a fraction of a second, before they snap to me. He scans me up and down, and I physically feel the temperature in the hallway drop. He’s definitely disappointed.
I’m a freaking nanny, so my bright pink sweater with the silver sequined snowman seems like the proper uniform to me. It’s festive. It’s fun. I tossed on a pair of jeans and my fuzzy winter boots because my toes get cold easily and, frankly, comfort is key when you’re chasing kids.
But standing in front of Mr. Suit-and-Tie, I suddenly feel like I’m wearing a clown costume.
"I need to have a moment alone with Ms. Galloway."
"Call me Lyra," I say with a smile, trying to thaw the ice.
He does not return it. In fact, his brows furrow together, turning his handsome face into a grumpy mask.
Like this building, he is modern, sharp, and put together. I bet his home and office have a place for everything. Labels on the spice jars. Color-coded socks. Having a kid come in and try to meld into that can't be easy for someone like him. With a baby, you have more control over the space—you can just put them in a playpen. But as they grow? They wear you down. They leave Legos in your shoes. They stop caring if the throw pillows are symmetrical.
"Lyra, like stars," Elara tells him, stepping closer to me. "Why do you need a moment alone? You said we’d meet her together."
"How about we go see about getting a snack?" Edith suggests, stepping in like a pro referee.
"A snack? I'm ten; I know you're trying to distract me," Elara says flatly.
I have to bite my lip to suppress a laugh. Smart kid.
"I don't understand why you have to talk to her alone," Elara persists. "It's me that she's hanging out with."
"Sometimes adults have to talk about boring things," I tell her, rolling my eyes playfully. "Taxes. Schedules. Vegetables. You don't want to bore yourself with that. You can draw me something while I speak with your uncle."
I try to turn the conversation around for them, offering him an out, but Elara still appears skeptical. She looks between us, assessing the threat level.
"Fine," she eventually agrees, and her little shoulders drop. She points a finger right at her uncle. "I like her."
Then she looks at me. "She has cool nails too."
I glance down at my multicolor manicure—each nail a different pastel shade—and grin at Elara. "Why have boring nails when they can look like Easter eggs?"
Now she's smiling again.
"Elara." Cillian’s tone is a little gentler than before, but still firm. "I only need to speak to her for a few moments."
"Fine. But if you don’t like her, then can we still keep her and get one you like?"
Damn. Even she can tell her uncle isn’t feeling the Lyra vibe.
"We’ll see," he tells her.
Elara's face scrunches, but she relents. She turns to me, her expression suddenly serious. "Don’t forget to say goodbye. Don’t just, you know, disappear."
Oh, gosh. My heart breaks a little at the request. It’s heavy. It implies people have disappeared on her before, or she’s terrified they will.
I nod, making sure to look her in the eye. "I won’t disappear, sweetheart. I promise."
Edith ushers her back into the conference room, and for a second, the hallway feels very empty. I turn to Cillian.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"This way," he says, ignoring my apology. "I don’t want her to overhear."
I follow him down to his office. If the hallway was fancy, this room is intimidating. It’s massive, glass-walled, and so sterile it could probably function as a surgical room. There isn't a single personal item in sight. No photos, no knick-knacks, just sleek surfaces and expensive tech.
"Her plan isn't terrible," I start as soon as he closes the door. I need to get ahead of this. I need to convince him to keep me before he can tell me and my snowman sweater to get lost. "You need someone now, and I think she does too. I can stay on until you find someone more... suitable."
Cillian stares at me with a blank, unreadable expression. He’s standing behind his desk like it’s a fortress.
I start to panic. I’m rambling. "I'll hang out for a little while and then make up an excuse to leave. You won't even have to fire me."
I hold my breath, waiting for an answer. I suddenly really, really want this job. And not just because I’m broke. But because that little girl in the other room is worried everyone is going to disappear, and I really don't want to prove her right.