Chapter Six
Mirabel
The apartment is too quiet.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop burning hot against my thighs, while Diane perches on the armrest beside me.
She’s been here for the last hour, letting me talk—really talk—about Dad.
About the bills. About the impossible math of trying to save someone with three thousand dollars and a registrar’s salary.
“This is awful, Mira.” Her hand lands on my shoulder, warm and solid. “I’m so sorry.”
My throat tightens. I force myself to swallow past it.
“I just… I don’t know what to do.” The words scrape coming out. “I can’t lose him too. Not after Mom. Not after—”
I stop myself before I say her name.
Debra.
Even thinking it feels like pressing on a bruise that never heals.
Diane squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll figure something out. There has to be a way.”
“Like what?” I laugh, but it comes out brittle. “Rob a bank?”
“Now we’re talking.” She grins, sliding off the armrest to flop onto the couch beside me. “I’ll drive the getaway car. You wear the ski mask.”
“Yeah, right. Might as well do paid sex work while I’m at it.”
“Honestly?” Diane tilts her head, considering. “Not the worst idea. You could make bank as a sugar baby.”
“Diane.”
“I’m serious! Start an account on OnlyFans. Charge premium rates for exclusive content.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Flash that pussy to lonely men with credit cards.”
I choke on a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“I can see it now—SugaBabeMira01. Two hundred thousand subscribers. You’d be set for life.” She’s cackling now, eyes bright with mischief.
For a second, the weight pressing on my chest lifts. Just a fraction. Just enough to let me breathe.
Then reality crashes back in.
“You know what, just find a rich husband,” Diane says, waving a hand like it’s that simple. “Problem solved.”
The laugh dies in my throat.
“A gorgeous rich asshole is the last thing I need in my life,” I mutter. “They say no at their own weddings. I’m never going to be able to help Dad at this rate.”
Diane’s smile fades. “Mira—”
“I’m fine.” I force brightness into my voice, even though it feels like shoving glass through my throat. “Really. I just need to figure out how to earn more money. Working at the registrar’s office—marrying couples for a living—it’s never going to be enough. I need a real job.”
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t know yet.” I flip open my laptop, fingers already moving toward the job search sites I’ve had bookmarked for months. “But I’ll find something.”
Diane watches me for a moment, her expression softening. Then she leans over and kisses the top of my head.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says quietly. “You’re tough as hell, Mira. You’ve survived worse.”
I nod because my voice won’t work.
She leaves me alone with my laptop, the faint hum of the refrigerator, and the suffocating certainty that I’m running out of time.
Two hours later, my eyes are burning.
I’ve scrolled through page after page of job listings—administrative assistant, retail manager, customer service representative. Nothing pays enough. Nothing even comes close to what I need.
Then I see it.
Live-in Housekeeper Position - Luxury Residence
The title alone makes me pause. I click.
Position: Full-time Live-in Housekeeper Schedule: Six days on, one day off Salary: $5,000 per month
Five thousand dollars. My chest constricts.
Holy shit!
That’s more than double what I’m making now. That’s enough to start chipping away at Dad’s bills. That’s—
I force myself to keep reading.
Seeking an experienced, professional housekeeper to join our household staff. The ideal candidate will maintain our residence to exceptional standards while demonstrating discretion.
I can do that. I’m organized. Meticulous. I clean my own apartment like I’m prepping for a military inspection because I can’t stand mess.
Key Responsibilities: Maintaining cleanliness and organization of all living spaces, Daily cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, and floor maintenance, Laundry and ironing services.
Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve been doing my own laundry since I was twelve. How hard could it be to do someone else’s?
Requirements: Minimum 1 year of experience in luxury residential housekeeping.
My stomach sinks.
I don’t have that.
Strong attention to detail and organizational skills, Professional demeanor and full discretion.
But I have these. I use them every single day at the registrar’s office. I handle high-stress situations without falling apart—like when my dress split open in front of a hundred people, and I still finished the ceremony.
Professional demeanor? Check.
Discretion? I’ve been keeping secrets my whole life.
Benefits: Private, furnished accommodation provided, health insurance, daily expenses covered, holiday pay.
Please send a CV and a photo to: housekeeping@
My cursor hovers over the link.
This is ridiculous. I have zero experience in housekeeping. Zero experience working in someone else’s home, let alone a luxury residence. They’ll take one look at my CV and laugh me out of the interview.
But five thousand dollars a month…
Five thousand dollars that could save my father’s life.
I open a new document and start typing.
An hour later, I’m done.
The CV is a masterpiece of creative truth.
I list my registrar job first, emphasizing organizational skills, attention to detail, and the ability to work under pressure.
Then I pad it with every remotely relevant experience I can think of—volunteering at the church fundraiser where I helped set up and clean, the summer I spent helping Dad reorganize the house after Mom died, even the babysitting gigs from high school where I kept toddlers alive and their houses spotless.
It’s not technically lying.
It’s just… strategic framing.
For the photo, I take a selfie in decent lighting—hair pulled back, minimal makeup, the kind of smile that says responsible and trustworthy instead of desperate and drowning.
I attach both files to an email, type a brief cover letter about how I’m excited for the opportunity and confident I’d be an asset to the household, and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The moment it’s gone, anxiety floods in.
What if they respond? What if they don’t? What if they call my references and realize I’ve never actually worked in a mansion before?
I close the laptop and press both hands to my face.
Breathe.
This is a long shot. A Hail Mary. The kind of thing that only works in movies where the scrappy underdog gets a miracle handed to them wrapped in a bow.
But miracles don’t happen to people like me.
Or maybe they do. Because three hours later, my phone buzzes.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to sleep even though my brain won’t shut off.
The notification lights up the screen.
New Email.
RE: Housekeeper Position
I sit up so fast the room spins. Fumble for my phone. Open the email.
Dear Ms. McLeod,
Thank you for your application. We were impressed by your qualifications and would like to invite you for an interview at Ashwater Heights.
Interview Date: Thursday this week. Time: 2:00 PM Location: Ashwater Heights Estate. (location will be sent).
Please note that the estate is located approximately two hours outside the city. Transportation costs to and from the interview will be reimbursed upon arrival.
We look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely, Anfisa Kuznetsova, Head Housekeeper
I read it three times.
Then a fourth.
They want to interview me.
They want to interview me!
The phone nearly slips from my hands.
Thursday. That’s in two days. I have two days to prepare—to figure out what to wear, what to say, how to convince these people that I’m capable of doing a job I’ve never done before.
But the bigger question scratches at the back of my mind, sharp and insistent.
Transportation costs will be reimbursed.
Which means it’s remote. Far enough that they expect people to hesitate before making the trip.
What kind of place is this Ashwater Heights?
Who the hell lives there?
And why is it so far and remote?
This is fine. Plenty of rich people live in secluded estates. It doesn’t mean anything.
I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again. My mind spins in circles—Dad’s bills, the interview, the impossible salary.
And underneath it all, buried where I don’t want to acknowledge it, is a flicker of something else.
Hope.
Fragile and terrifying and so desperate it makes my chest ache.
Please let this work.
Please.
I close my eyes and will sleep to come.
It doesn’t.