Johana looked at her phone. 3:45 PM. The interview was at four. She had spent three days prepping for this, researching the Black family, honing her pitch. Two hundred dollars an hour. That was rent. That was groceries. That was breathing room.
"Fine," she said, pulling out her wallet. She leaned forward and handed him a twenty. "Keep the change."
She stepped out into the storm. The wind hit her like a solid wall, shoving her back a step. Snow poured down the collar of her thin wool coat, melting instantly against her skin. She gasped, the cold stealing the air from her lungs.
She started walking. Her heels punched through the icy crust, sinking into the deep powder beneath. Every step was a battle. Her toes went numb in minutes, the cold climbing up her calves like a slow paralysis. She clutched her portfolio to her chest, shielding it from the wet flakes, and bent her head against the wind.
She slipped twice, her ankles twisting painfully on the hidden ice beneath the snow. By the time she saw the gates, her teeth were chattering so hard she thought they might crack.
The gates were massive. Black wrought iron, towering twice her height, spiked at the top like spears. They looked like they belonged to a prison, or a kingdom. Beyond them, set far back against the gray sky, was a house that made the word "mansion" seem inadequate. It was a fortress of gray stone and dark windows.
Johana walked up to the intercom box, her fingers trembling so badly she had to use both hands to press the button.
"Hello?" Her voice came out a croak. She cleared her throat. "This is Johana Neal. I have a four o'clock interview with Mrs. Black."
A buzz sounded, and the massive gates swung inward silently. She walked through, her eyes widening. The driveway was perfectly clear, swept clean by some invisible force, while the world outside was drowning in white.
She reached the front doors-ten feet tall, solid oak with iron studs. Before she could knock, the door pulled open.
A man stood there. He was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair slicked back perfectly. He wore a tailcoat. An actual tailcoat.
"Miss Neal," he said. His voice was crisp, British, and his eyes swept over her soaked coat and snow-caked hair without a change in expression. "Please, come in."
The warmth hit her like a drug. It wrapped around her, thick and heavy, smelling of lemon polish and burning wood. He took her coat before she could protest, handing her a tall glass of hot lemon water with a small silver spoon resting on the rim.
"Mrs. Black will be down shortly. Please wait in the parlor."
Johana stepped into the room and stopped. It wasn't a room; it was a museum. High ceilings, dark wood paneling, furniture that looked older than the country. A fire roared in a fireplace big enough to stand in.
She walked slowly, looking at the walls. There were photographs. Dozens of them. Men in suits shaking hands with presidents, dignitaries standing in front of flags. But as she leaned closer, she noticed something odd. In every photo that featured a man who was clearly the patriarch-tall, silver-haired, imposing-his face was slightly blurred. Or the angle was just off. It was like looking at a ghost.
"Miss Neal."
Johana spun around. A woman was descending the curved staircase. Karon Black looked like she had been poured into her cream-colored cashmere dress. Her blonde hair was styled in a flawless twist, not a strand out of place. Her smile was wide, bright, and perfectly symmetrical.
"Mrs. Black," Johana said, straightening her spine. "I apologize for my appearance. The weather-"
"Nonsense," Karon said, her voice smooth as silk. "You walked half a mile in a blizzard to be on time. That speaks volumes about your character." She gestured to a chair near the fire. "Please, sit. You must be freezing."
Johana sat, clutching her portfolio. Karon sat across from her, crossing her legs with elegant precision.
"I reviewed your resume from the agency," Karon said. "Georgetown University, full scholarship. A 4.0 in History. Very impressive."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Tell me, Miss Neal, how would you approach Alistair's history curriculum? He has a tendency to... resist authority."
Johana opened her portfolio, her hands finally steady. "The Civil War is the weak point on his transcript, correct? I would focus on the political motivations rather than just the battles. Boys his age respond to strategy and power dynamics, not just dates and casualties."
Karon's eyes lit up, a flash of genuine interest breaking through the polished mask. "Exactly my thought. The mechanics of power." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "And where do you come from, Miss Neal? Your address isn't listed in the city."
"I'm from Ohio, ma'am. A small town. My father is a high school teacher, my mother works at the county clerk's office." Johana kept her voice level, refusing to be ashamed of the middle-class reality that felt like a million miles away from this room.
Karon smiled again. It was the same perfect smile, but something shifted in the air. A faint chill that had nothing to do with the weather outside. "Charming," Karon said softly. "Hardworking people."
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I must inform you, Miss Neal, that our family values privacy above all else. My husband, Elmer Black, is a very important figure in Washington. Our lives are under constant scrutiny. If you work for us, you will see and hear things. You will not speak of them. Ever."
She picked up a leather folder from the side table and handed it to Johana. It was a Non-Disclosure Agreement, thick as a phone book.
"You will need to sign this before we proceed," Karon said.
Johana didn't hesitate. She took the pen Karon offered and signed her name on the dotted line. Her dignity was a luxury she couldn't afford right now. Two hundred dollars an hour was her only reality.
"Wonderful," Karon said, her smile warming again. "Welcome to the family, Miss Neal. You start Monday."
Johana let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Thank you."
"Arthur will show you out. And please, be careful on the roads."
The butler, Arthur, appeared at the door. He handed Johana her coat-it was completely dry, pressed, and warm. He also handed her a large black umbrella with a silver crest on the handle.
"Thank you," Johana whispered, feeling like she was floating.
She stepped outside. The storm was worse. The snow was coming down so thick she could barely see the gate. She pulled out her phone to call an Uber, but the screen just spun. No cars available.
She stood on the top step, the umbrella the only thing keeping her dry, staring out at the whiteout. She had no way home.
Headlights cut through the snow. A massive, sleek black car rolled out of the garage beneath the house. A Bentley Mulsanne. It moved like a shark, slow and silent, gliding to a stop right in front of her, blocking her path.
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