CHAPTER 5
Harper
This cannot be real. Can it? No, it can’t be… or is it?
That’s what I keep thinking as I walk down Julian Langley’s block the next morning, noting with dismay that my heart hasn’t stopped pounding since yesterday evening.
No more than thirty seconds after Percy hung up, my phone lit up with an email from Julian Langley’s executive assistant, Tracey Collins. Six attachments. Official letterhead. A salary number that made me so dizzy I had to sit down at the kitchen table.
A salary three times what I was making. Three.
All my adult life, I’ve been a hustler. I tried college after high school, but it wasn’t for me.
I found some of the classes interesting, but most of it was boring.
Without a solid education, good-paying jobs were scarce and there started my career of juggling multiple gigs.
I’ve always held at least two jobs at the same time, sometimes three to live the life I wanted.
Once Dylan came to live with me, that meant I tightened my budget and cut out things like getting my nails done and going out for sushi once a week with Abby.
Now with a job paying this much, I don’t have to have a second one anymore. I can have more time with Dylan and… well, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself, but I’ll figure it out.
I’d stared at the direct deposit form like it might vanish if I blinked too hard. Then the 401(k) paperwork—with company matching. Matching. As in, they put money in because I put money in. I’d never even considered retirement beyond Don’t think about it and hope you’re not homeless at seventy.
Then the health insurance packet.
I swallow as I stop at a red light, Manhattan buzzing around me.
Not bare-minimum coverage. Not catastrophic, cross-your-fingers-and-pray coverage. Real insurance. The kind of insurance that lists networks and specialists and preventive care, like those are normal, accessible things.
Eligible dependents like Dylan Hawthorne.
I typed his name in myself. Double-checked the spelling, even though I’ve been writing it since I was fourteen and forging permission slips because Mom was at another “show.” I chose the plan with the lower deductible. I didn’t even hesitate.
There’s even a supplemental pet policy through one of the team sponsors. I laughed when I saw that. A hysterical, slightly unhinged sound that startled Beau off the couch. It’s the sound of when life borders on the feeling of How did this just happen to me?
I enrolled in everything and I don’t think I’ll quite believe it’s real until I get confirmation emails.
And even now, as I stand before Julian Langley’s townhouse that looks like it belongs in a period drama about robber barons, part of me is waiting for someone to step out and say there’s been a mistake.
The street is quieter here. It’s the type of block where the trees are evenly spaced and the brownstones look like they’ve never known financial panic. I picked him up here just yesterday, but now I’m noticing things.
I glance at my watch. Seven forty a.m. I’m twenty minutes early.
Historically, I’m not nervous pulling up to someone’s home. I’ve driven CEOs, visiting diplomats, a washed-up sitcom actor who insisted on playing his own theme song through the car speakers. I’ve never cared about the door I’m stopping in front of.
Today is different.
This isn’t a work shift. It’s… a life shift.
Is it too early to ring the bell? Too late to walk around the block to kill some time?
Do I just stand here? Do wealthy people appreciate punctuality or find it too aggressive?
I exhale slowly and smooth the sides of my hair to make sure there are no flyaways under my cap.
I felt a little ridiculous, taking the subway in my chauffeur’s uniform, but I have no clue what I’ll be driving today or what the dress code is.
When I work for the limo companies, I pick up and return the cars, but the uniform of black pants and black jacket in a cheap polyester was bought with my own money when I landed that job.
I thought it was appropriate to wear it this morning, and I glance down at it, noting that it fits the same as it did yesterday and yet it’s not quite as comfortable for some reason..
My phone buzzes in the small pocket of my backpack. It’s from Dylan. All good on first day of the new job?
I smile despite myself and type back quickly. So far. Early arrival to pick up the billionaire.
I lock my phone and glance at the house again.
Seven forty-four.
Okay. Fine. I’ll wait.
I smooth my hands down the front of my jacket, check that my hair is secured at the nape of my neck, and take one more steadying breath.
The front door opens and I freeze.
A tall, silver-haired man steps out onto the stoop with the posture that suggests he was born knowing where the forks go at a twelve-course dinner. It can only be one person.
Percy.
His gaze lands directly on me standing on the sidewalk and he doesn’t look surprised that I’m early.
If anything, he looks downright pleased, and then, to my complete shock, he lifts one gloved hand and waves me inside. I offer a smile and trot up the steps to the open door. Percy moves into the foyer but holds the door open for me.
Up close, the townhouse is even more intimidating with its tall, gleaming facade, the kind of place where you instinctively check the soles of your shoes before stepping inside.
“Ms. Hawthorne,” Percy says as I cross the threshold.
“And you must be Percy,” I say, holding out my hand, which he shakes. “I recognize your voice.”
A faint, approving glint touches his eyes. “I am gratified to hear I’m memorable.”
“You are,” I assure him. “Very. I’m sorry I’m a bit early. I didn’t mind waiting outside.”
He steps aside to allow me fully into the foyer, and I have to resist the urge to look up like a tourist. The ceilings stretch impossibly high. “That will never be a bother. I admire punctuality and Mr. Langley values time. Arriving early communicates respect for it.”
I slowly let out the breath I’d been holding so he doesn’t know how nervous I am.
“I’m glad you did,” he adds smoothly. “It allows us a few minutes to address your uniform.”
“My uniform?” I echo.
He produces a garment bag from a nearby console table as if it materialized from thin air. “A revised one. As you are now exclusively working for Mr. Langley, a distinction seemed appropriate.”
He gestures down a corridor. “There is a powder room just there. You may change.”
I take the garment bag carefully, and it’s almost…ceremonial. “Thank you.”
Inside the powder room, I unzip it slowly. The fabric is rich and tailored. The black jacket is cut clean and sharp at the waist, the trousers sleek without being tight.
I change quickly, smoothing the jacket down my sides and checking myself in the mirror. It fits to perfection.
I step back into the foyer, adjusting the cuff once out of habit. Percy looks me over with a discreet, professional assessment.
“It fits great,” I say, unable to hide my surprise.
“Yes,” he replies. “Mr. Langley has a keen eye. He was bound to get the size correct.”
My stomach flips slightly at that. He noticed enough to estimate my size?
I clear my throat. “That’s… impressive.”
“Mr. Langley rarely engages in approximation,” Percy says. “Particularly where presentation is concerned.”
He gestures for me to walk with him, and we move through the corridor at an unhurried pace.
“Allow me to clarify the expectations of your role,” he begins.
I straighten. “You are Mr. Langley’s exclusive driver.
That means your schedule will revolve around his professional and, at times, personal calendar.
Discretion is paramount. Conversations you overhear are not to be repeated and you signed the online NDA form already.
Locations are confidential. You will be provided access to his daily itinerary through his executive assistant, Tracey. ”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Punctuality is nonnegotiable,” he continues.
“Mr. Langley keeps two cars here in the underground garage at all times, but he has several others in a private garage. He’ll advise you which one he wants you to drive ahead of time.
The cars are to be maintained in immaculate condition at all times.
Mr. Langley prefers minimal small talk unless initiated by him.
However”—Percy’s gaze sharpens slightly—“he does appreciate competence and independent thought.”
I nod, but I’m still unsure how valued the independent thought is. I still very much believe I overstepped my bounds yesterday, but on the flip side… I did get a job.
“Mr. Langley values solutions,” Percy says. “Efficiency. Initiative. You may find that your role extends beyond merely operating a vehicle.”
That sounds both promising and a bit terrifying. “I still don’t fully understand why I was offered this,” I admit. “I’m grateful. More than grateful. I just… I don’t completely understand.”
Percy pauses mid-step, studying me with a comforting warmth. “I am certain Mr. Langley will shed light on that in due time. He is not impulsive, Ms. Hawthorne. If he extended this offer, it was deliberate.”
That should be reassuring but now I feel even more pressure to perform to a standard I’m not sure I understand.
We stop near the base of the staircase and curiosity slips out before I can rein it in. “How did you come to work for Mr. Langley?”
“I was hired forty years ago as a bellhop at one of Benedict Langley’s hotels in London.”
“Benedict?” I repeat.
“Mr. Langley’s father. I was young and eager to please.
Mr. Benedict Langley valued both and he took notice.
” There’s no arrogance in the statement.
Just fact. “He offered me a position within his personal staff and well, I guess I never left. Thirty-one years ago, when Mr. Julian Langley was thirteen years old, I was appointed house manager of this residence.”
Thirty-one years.
“So you’ve known him since he was a teenager.”
“Indeed.”
“That’s… rare,” I murmur.
“Loyalty often is,” Percy replies evenly.