Chapter 2 Blackwood Estate

The entrance featured iron bars overlaid with gold-tipped vines and an indecipherable coat of arms that I couldn't identify from my taxi ride. When the car stopped at the intercom, I briefly worried if someone had made the wrong call about my entrance. I didn't belong here. A red flag on my thrift-store blouse seemed to be urging me toward departure.

When I announced my name to the speaker, the security gates took a while before reluctantly swinging their doors open.

White roses that appeared freshly trimmed by morning light adorned perfect hedges that flanked the driveway towards the mansion. The estate mansion built at the path's end resembled a high-end magazine publication - offering a sleek and cold grandeur alongside an impossible scale. No family residence could be mistaken for this formidably built structure. Power enclosed itself through architectural elements made of marble and stone.

After that conversation, the driver ceased all communication. After I carried my large duffel bag, the driver paid no attention before continuing toward the mansion. As he walked away, silence settled upon me with the tenderness of fog.

Before I could tap on the door, the woman there emerged to greet me. The woman towered above me with her elegant look as she wore a sleek black suit. Her tight ponytail caused pain that showed in her expression.

The woman stared through me with her eyes while making the declaration, "You're Ayla Sinclair".

"Yes."

Without speaking, she unlocked the door so I could enter. Marble floors and multiple glittering chandeliers met me, along with morning light seeping through skylights in the magnificent entryway. My attention refused to look away from the stunning environment. Not in real life, anyway.

The woman continued walking while announcing her identity through the clicking sound of her heels. "Housekeeper. You'll report directly to me."

I responded quickly before walking behind her through a hallway that had a light rose scent with notes of lemon polish.

Guests require permission before you access the upper levels at this establishment. Move through the west wing, which holds all staff accommodations. Your uniform, along with your daily tasks, will be assigned to you. Everyone you address at the hotel should be called 'sir' or 'ma'am' unless different instructions are given. The kitchen at the building's rear serves food to staff members. Workplace restrictions include both forbidding personal visitors and banning phone usage for all employees during standard business hours.

Her voice taunted with the definitive tone of rocks. My body was uncertain if I was responding through movement or nervous rocking.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

We passed tall oil paintings and glass cases filled with items that looked like they belonged in a museum. Everything here screamed money-old, inherited money. Money that didn't make room for mistakes or second chances.

Mrs. Harrington stopped outside a heavy wooden door and turned to me. "This is your room. You'll find everything you need inside. You're expected to begin work at eight sharp. Breakfast prep, then laundry. Understood?"

"Yes."

She glanced back at me before disappearing without speaking another word.

I entered the space and then pulled the door shut behind me. The space spanned wider than my outstretched arms, yet it maintained both cleanliness and heat. The wall stood alongside a twin bed on which a properly arranged uniform lay across-comprising black pants together with a gray shirt and a white apron. The window provided a tiny amount of sunlight to enter the space.

I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath me. My heart hadn't stopped pounding since I got here.

This is it, I told myself. I'm inside now. I just have to stay invisible. Do the job. Find out what I need to know-and leave.

But as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the worn photo again, that confidence started to crack.

He was here. Somewhere in this house. If Dominic Blackwood was the man in this picture-if he was my father-what then? Would I confront him? Ask him why he'd abandoned us? Or would I keep pretending I was just another housemaid dusting the halls of a mansion that might've been mine in another life?

I tucked the photo under my pillow and lay back on the bed.

The ceiling here was smooth, painted in soft cream, and free of water stains. It looked too perfect. Too still. Like nothing bad had ever happened here. But I knew better.

Everyone had secrets.

And I had just stepped into the heart of one.