Chapter 5 Harper #2
“Sadly, Mr. Benedict Langley passed several years ago. His son asked me to stay on as his house manager and now you know the entire story.”
Before I can ask anything else—about Julian at thirteen, about what this house has seen, about what kind of boy becomes the kind of man who can rearrange someone’s entire life with a phone call, footsteps sound from above.
Percy’s expression shifts subtly back into formal composure. “Right on time,” he says quietly.
I turn toward the staircase just as Julian Langley comes into view, descending toward us.
I move ahead of Percy, muscle memory from driving since I was seventeen kicking in, even though my pulse is behaving like this is my first day behind a wheel.
Mr. Langley’s dressed casually in tailored charcoal slacks and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearm.
He’s tall—well over six feet—with an athletic build that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym.
He’s lean with broad shoulders, but truly… the man’s face is a sight to behold.
I’d clocked him as attractive yesterday from the few times our eyes met in the rearview mirror, but that was distortion doing me a favor.
I suspect he’s probably in his early forties, but up close, he is devastating.
He has the most beautiful hazel eyes enhanced by long lashes and tanned skin.
His hair is dark with patches of silver at the temples and threads running throughout—more pepper than salt—and worn short and slightly unsettled.
His eyes meet mine and I offer a spirited smile that I hope conveys my excitement for this job and absolutely nothing else.
“Good morning, Mr. Langley.”
“Good morning, Harper.” He takes the last few steps and comes toe to toe with me. “And first rule of the job… you call me Julian. Mr. Langley was my father.”
I can’t help myself, tossing a thumb at Percy. “But he calls you Mr. Langley.”
Julian’s eyes dance with amusement and he cuts a grin at Percy. “Yes, well… he’s British and that can’t be helped.”
I’m confident that if Percy weren’t British, he’d roll his eyes, but he nods at Julian.
“And with that… we’re off,” my new boss proclaims. He gestures toward a door just off the foyer that I hadn’t noticed before—flush with the paneling, no visible hardware, the kind of door that only exists if you already know it’s there.
“The garage,” he says simply.
I follow him through it and down a short flight of stairs into a garage that only a very select few can afford under their homes.
The space is clean and climate controlled, lit by recessed lighting that runs in two parallel lines along the ceiling. The floor is polished concrete, completely devoid of oil stains, dirt and any other junk that would normally populate such a place. Just two cars, positioned with precision.
On the left, a Ferrari. Low and red and I know what it is only by the symbol on the hood. Now, what type it is, I have no clue, but it looks like it can fly.
On the right, a Range Rover in a blue so pale it’s nearly silver, and I pray to God we’re taking this vehicle. I do not want to drive the sports car.
I don’t say anything, which takes some effort, and watch as Mr. Langley moves to a panel on the wall that holds two hooks with keys. He grabs a set and tosses them to me in an easy arc.
“Range Rover today,” he says.
I catch them easily. “Good call,” I say, and then immediately wonder if I’m supposed to have opinions about his cars.
But he doesn’t seem bothered. “The Ferrari stays mostly for weekends,” he says, moving toward the passenger side. “I keep several others at a private garage nearby. I rotate them depending on the week.”
Lifestyles of the rich and famous, I think to myself.
I circle to the driver’s side and open the rear door for him, stepping back to give him room. But he doesn’t spare it a glance, instead rounding the front of the car. “I’ll ride up here.”
Ride shotgun, next to me? I’ve never had a client do that before. Granted, it’s always been limos or large Town Cars, but… this is just weird.
I blink. “Oh—of course.” I close the rear door and slide into the driver’s seat while he settles into the passenger side.
It’s a small thing. But it changes the dynamic.
I take a quick read of the interior the way I always do in an unfamiliar car.
All is where it should be, a showcase of supple leather and dazzling electronics.
Julian reaches and presses a button on the rearview mirror and at the far end of the garage, a door rolls upward automatically.
It opens onto a narrow ramp that runs steeply up to street level, surfacing through a discreet cut in the sidewalk beside the townhouse.
Only in this slice of Manhattan does such a thing exist—old money blocks where the brownstones were built wide and deep enough that the lots could accommodate what amounted to private infrastructure. The kind of thing that gets handed down rather than purchased.
I ease up the ramp, check the sidewalk, and pull out into the morning.
“You’ve driven in the city a long time?” Julian asks.
“Actually,” I say, not sparing him a glance, “and I hope this doesn’t get me fired, but I never drove that much until I started working for the limo company a few years ago. Not much of a need for a car in the city.”
He doesn’t reply and it makes me nervous. Is he second-guessing that I’m the right person for the job? From my peripheral vision, I can see him working on his phone, so I keep my eyes on the road and don’t push the conversation.
He’ll talk when he wants to.
The silence isn’t awkward exactly, but it isn’t comfortable either, especially with him sitting in the front seat with me. On top of that, the weight of expectation hangs heavy between us.
I clear my throat gently. “Is the temperature comfortable enough?”
His gaze lifts from his phone. “It’s fine. Did Percy review expectations with you?”
“Yes,” I say, grateful for a concrete topic. “He did. He was very thorough.”
“And you understand them?”
“I do.” I hesitate, then decide that clarity now is better than apology later. “There’s one thing I’d like to be up front about.”
His phone lowers slightly. His attention sharpens.
“I can’t be available twenty-four hours a day,” I explain, choosing each word carefully so it doesn’t sound like refusal.
“I’m fully committed during work hours, and I’ll be punctual and present. And I can be flexible about days and nights with planning, but I have a seventeen-year-old brother at home and I have to be available for him too.”
I keep my eyes on the road, bracing for friction.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I add. “I just want to be transparent.”
There’s a brief pause, the kind that stretches long enough for doubt to creep in but then he says, “Family must come first.”
The simplicity of the statement catches me off guard, and I glance at him to make sure I heard him correctly.
“Outside of that,” he continues, “when you are scheduled, I expect you to be on time and available. Fully engaged with a full tank of gas. This position requires reliability.”
“That’s fair,” I say quickly, relief unwinding inside me. “Completely fair.”
His attention returns to his phone, and I allow myself a slow breath as we continue west.
We clear a congested intersection, and just as I begin to relax into the rhythm of driving, he speaks again. “My operations team implemented your suggestion.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, glancing at him briefly.
“The ticketing issue,” he clarifies. “We followed your advice.”
“My advice…?” The correction seems strange on my tongue, but I use it anyway.
He shifts to face me. “We assembled a dedicated response team, individual replies, named representatives, and clear refund timelines. A goodwill credit toward future games.”
My heart begins to thud. “Really?”
“It stemmed the backlash within hours,” he replies with a chuckle. “The sentiment shifted and sponsors stopped threatening to withdraw. The refund processing stabilized and all was well.”
I blink, trying to reconcile the image of myself in a customer service cubicle with the idea that my suggestion altered the trajectory of a multimillion-dollar crisis.
“I’m glad it worked out,” I say demurely.
“It worked perfectly.”
The words land with more weight than he probably intends.
A warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the heater vents.
Pride, yes, but also validation. For years, I answered phones and absorbed complaints and took notes no one else saw.
I told myself it was data, that it would matter someday.
“Your line of thinking was not only critical but perceptive.”
No one has ever described my work that way before. Not formally. Not like that, ever. I turn my focus back to the road, because if I sit in that compliment too long, I might actually start generating some….confidence?
“I just listened to people for a living,” I reply. “You start to notice patterns.”
“You read people,” he says, and the distinction settles deep.
As the city opens ahead of us and the morning light glints off steel and glass, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel—not from nerves this time, but from resolve.
I understand now, at least partially, why I’m here and whatever calculation led him to this decision, whatever instinct made him rearrange my entire life with a single call, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I cannot afford to waste it.