Beneath the Shades

Marina

I swear, if I see one more job listing that says "minimum five years of experience" for an entry-level position, I'm going to scream.

Lying in bed at eight in the morning - no, scratch that, eight-oh-seven because I hit snooze twice - I stare at the cracked ceiling and seriously consider giving up on this whole "being an adult" thing. Maybe I'll move back in with my mom. Maybe I'll open a food blog nobody reads. Or maybe I'll just stay here under my cheap blanket and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.

But of course, my phone pings.

Another job alert. Another fancy restaurant looking for someone "young, dynamic, passionate, but also willing to work sixteen-hour shifts for barely minimum wage."

Because that makes sense.

I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow.

Graduating from culinary school was supposed to be my big ticket. My dreams were shiny once - open a cozy bistro with my name on the sign, cook food that makes people close their eyes and smile, live a peaceful, quiet life. No drama. No stress. Just me, my knives, and a kitchen that smells like garlic and butter.

Instead, I'm twenty-four, broke, and living in an apartment that smells vaguely like my neighbor's cat.

Living the dream, Marina. Truly.

With a sigh, I grab my phone again and start scrolling. And that's when I see it -

"Private Chef Needed. Discreet. High Pay. Immediate Start."

No details. No restaurant name. Just a number and a promise that it pays well.

Which, honestly, sets off a tiny alarm bell in my head. But I'm too tired, too broke, and too desperate to care.

So I click.

Because what's the worst that could happen?

I stare at the listing for a solid minute, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Private Chef Needed. Discreet. High Pay. Immediate Start.

Discreet?

That's sketchy, right? That's code for illegal, or prepare to cook for a cult, or maybe don't ask too many questions if someone comes in bleeding.

I should swipe away. I really should.

But then my bank app pings, reminding me that my balance is exactly $12.47, and my landlord already gave me the look last week. The one that says, "I'm giving you till Friday, sweetheart, and then you're out."

So I press Call.

Because desperation makes you do dumb things, and apparently, I'm leading the parade today.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

And then - click.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end is smooth. Male. Deep enough to make my stomach clench a little.

Which is weird, because I've been single for two years and I've never found mystery job recruiters remotely attractive.

"Yes," I say, trying to sound professional. "Marina Russo. I'm calling about the private chef position?"

There's a pause.

Too long. Long enough for my nerves to start chewing on themselves.

"You're available to meet today?" he asks. No small talk. No asking for a résumé. Just straight to business. "Two p.m. Bring your knives."

My throat goes dry.

Bring your knives?

"Is there a-um-kitchen trial?" I ask, trying not to sound like I'm already regretting this.

"Something like that," the voice says. And then, without missing a beat, "Text me your address. A car will pick you up at one-thirty."

And just like that - click - the call ends.

I lower the phone and blink at my bedroom wall.

A car? A mysterious trial? No résumé?

Okay, Marina, I mutter to myself, flopping back onto the bed. This is either the best opportunity of your life... or the beginning of the Netflix documentary where everyone yells at you for ignoring the obvious red flags.

Either way, I've got until one-thirty to pretend I'm not freaking out.

Marina

By one-thirty, I've officially changed outfits three times, cursed at my reflection twice, and stood by the window for a solid ten minutes like some suburban spy.

The car is late.

Of course it is.

Because when you say yes to a sketchy, no-details, high-pay job that requires discretion, naturally they send a car that looks like it belongs in a mafia movie.

Blacked-out windows. Sleek. Quiet. The kind of car that makes my whole street look suddenly seedier.

My neighbor, Mrs. Donnelly, pauses while watering her sad little geraniums and gives the car a once-over like she's about to call the cops. I duck back from the window.

Oh my god, Marina. What are you doing?

My phone buzzes. A text from the same number as earlier:

Outside. Bring your knives.

I grab my knife roll - which is suddenly feeling a little too symbolic - and sling my bag over my shoulder. My heart is hammering, but my feet keep moving, like some brave idiot leading herself right into the lion's mouth.

It's fine, I tell myself as I lock the door. It's just a job. A very weird job. But people do private chef work all the time, right?

Except most of them probably get an address. Or an actual interview.

Or, I don't know, a name.

The back door of the car opens before I even get to the curb. A man in a black suit - tall, broad, wearing sunglasses like we're in some kind of spy flick - steps out and just nods at me.

"Miss Russo."

His voice is clipped. Polite. But cold enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Uh, yeah. That's me," I say, trying to smile like this is totally normal. "Marina. Hi."

He doesn't smile back.

Just gestures toward the open door. "Please. We're on a schedule."

I glance back at my apartment. My little, falling-apart apartment that smells like cat pee and old takeout.

Then I look at the car - clean leather seats, the faint scent of something expensive and sharp.

My heart says run.

My bank account says get in.

So, naturally, I slide into the back seat and pretend I'm not making the worst decision of my life.

The door shuts with a thunk, solid and final.

And as the car pulls away from the curb, I can't help but think -

This is how girls disappear in movies.

The drive takes almost an hour, though it feels longer.

City noise fades into open roads, and then the scenery changes - the kind of change where you know you're not in your price bracket anymore. Big gates. Bigger lawns. Trees so perfectly trimmed they look like they've never known a real wind.

When we finally slow down, my stomach tightens.

Because the mansion that appears behind the iron gates? It looks like something out of a movie. The old, expensive kind. Stone walls, tall columns, windows like dark, empty eyes. It's the kind of house that could either host a royal family... or hide a dozen bodies in the basement.

No in-between.

The car rolls to a stop in the circular driveway, and I just sit there, gaping like an idiot.

My driver - still silent, still wearing those sunglasses like we're in some mobster cosplay - opens the door.

"Miss Russo," he says, sharp and clipped again. "Proceed inside. I have been instructed to direct you to the kitchen."

He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Like this isn't the most intimidating house I've ever seen. Like I'm not one deep breath away from having a full-on panic attack.

"Right," I mumble, forcing my legs to move. "Kitchen. Yep. Totally normal."

My sneakers squeak embarrassingly loud on the polished marble floor as I follow him inside.

And wow.

High ceilings. Art I don't recognize but definitely can't afford. The air smells faintly like lemon and something sharper - expensive wood polish, maybe.

I feel like I'm trespassing in a museum.

The driver leads me down a hall and stops at a huge double door.

"The kitchen," he says, and then - like some kind of robot - he turns and leaves without another word.

Cool. Super welcoming. Definitely not weird at all.

I push the door open and-

Oh.

Oh, wow.

It's not a kitchen.

It's... a spaceship.

Stainless steel everything. Counters that gleam like they've never been touched. An oven setup so fancy I don't even know where the door is. There's no stove - just a slick, flat black surface that looks like a touchscreen.

I stand there with my knife roll dangling from my hand, feeling like a medieval peasant who just stumbled into a tech billionaire's lair.

"Miss Russo," a voice says, smooth and low.

I jump about a foot in the air.

It's coming from somewhere - hidden speakers, maybe? I spin in a slow circle, heart racing.

"Please proceed to the central island," the voice continues. "Your work will begin shortly."

I swallow hard and step forward.

The island is huge, glossy, and probably costs more than my entire education.

"You will find controls embedded in the surface," the voice says again, calm but cold. "Touch the panel on your right. That will activate the cooking modules."

My fingers are shaking a little, but I do it.

The black surface lights up, blooming softly like magic. Different icons appear - burners, grill, oven, all labeled in sharp white text.

Okay. Okay. I can figure this out. I went to culinary school. I can cook anywhere, I tell myself, even as my heart keeps thumping too fast.

"You will prepare lunch" the voice adds, still coming from nowhere. "You have one hour."

My throat is dry as I whisper to the empty room, "What... what do I cook?"

There's a pause. A long one.

"Cook as you would for yourself," the voice finally says. "Simple. Honest."

Simple. Honest.

In a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a secret government lab.

"Right," I mutter, rolling my shoulders back. "No pressure."

And as I start unpacking my knives, I can't help but feel like someone - maybe multiple someones - is watching me right now.

And somehow, I know this is just the beginning.

Marina

By the time I finish plating, my nerves are fried.

I went with something simple - lemon herb pasta with grilled chicken - because simple is safe, right? Simple is honest. And also, simple doesn't require me to accidentally blow up the spaceship kitchen.

The voice from the speaker crackles back to life just as I'm wiping down the counter.

"Bring the tray upstairs. Second floor. East wing. The office."

No please. No thank you. Just a command.

Because apparently, in this place, manners are optional.

I balance the heavy tray in my hands, trying to ignore the way my palms are sweaty. My shoes squeak on the marble again as I follow the long, silent hallways, feeling like I've wandered into a fancy hotel where I absolutely don't belong.

The stairs curve up, wide and dramatic, and by the time I reach the landing, I'm breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.

Office. East wing. Right.

My heart thuds as I count doors - one, two, three - and then stop at a pair of tall, dark wood doors cracked just slightly open.

I knock, because even I know you don't just barge into some rich guy's office.

"Enter," a voice calls.

Deeper. Smooth. A little rough at the edges.

I push the door open with my elbow and step inside, tray clutched like a shield.

And that's when I see them.

Two men.

One sitting behind the massive desk, dressed in a black suit that fits him too well - like it was sewn directly onto his body. He's wearing dark shades, even though the room is dim, and his face is carved sharp, almost too perfect. Stoic. Unreadable.

The other is standing beside him, tall and broad, flipping through a stack of papers like he's half-bored, half-annoyed. His suit is just as sharp, but his energy feels different - sharper, colder. His gaze flicks up when I enter, and God, it's like getting hit with a laser.

My feet freeze.

My mouth goes dry.

"Put it on the desk," the man behind the shades says quietly. His voice... it's not cold exactly. But it hums with something heavy. Authority.

I shuffle forward, setting the tray down carefully like it might explode if I move too fast.

Why is this room so quiet? Why do I feel like I just walked into the middle of something important?

"Miss Russo," the standing man says suddenly, and I flinch at the sound. He holds out a sleek black folder with one hand, the other still flipping through those papers. "Before you continue, there are documents you need to sign. Standard employment forms. Confidentiality agreements."

I blink at him. "Oh... now?"

His mouth twitches - not quite a smile, but close enough to make my skin crawl. "Now."

I glance between the two men.

The one sitting is still. Too still. His head is angled slightly toward me, but he doesn't say a word. Just sits there behind those dark shades like he's studying me without moving.

And it hits me, all at once, how weird this is.

Who makes a chef bring food to an office? Who makes them sign papers in front of two men in suits who look like they could kill someone without wrinkling their sleeves?

But my mouth moves before my brain can stop it.

"Sure," I mumble, reaching for the pen. "Happy to sign my soul away."

The standing man's brow arches just slightly. "Humor. That's rare."

I freeze, pen hovering over the page.

And for a split second, I swear the man behind the desk - the one in the shades - smiles. Barely there. But it's enough to make something twist in my chest.

I sign anyway, because what else am I going to do?

Walk out? With twelve bucks in my account? Yeah, no.

"Good," the standing man murmurs, snapping the folder closed. "You'll be given further instructions tomorrow. For now... you're dismissed."

Dismissed. Like I'm some school kid.

I glance at the tray one last time - the steam curling up from the plate, the lemon scent filling the too-quiet office - and then turn on shaky legs to leave.

As I reach the door, I hear it.

A soft voice, low but clear: "Thank you, Miss Russo."

It's the man behind the desk.

The one in the shades.

My heart gives a weird little lurch, but I don't look back. I just nod and slip out, closing the door behind me as fast as I can without actually running.

And the whole way back down the hall, I can't shake the feeling that I just walked into something way bigger - and way more dangerous - than I signed up for.

The car's waiting for me when I shuffle back downstairs - same driver, same dark glasses, same energy that says, don't ask questions you don't want answered.

He doesn't say a word as I climb in.

The door clicks shut with a heavy thud, and just like that, we're gliding back through the gates, leaving that monster of a mansion behind like it's some kind of weird dream I accidentally stepped into.

I spend the whole ride back staring out the window, chewing my thumbnail until it's basically gone.

Because - okay.

That was weird, right? Like, objectively weird?

Two men in suits.

Shades indoors.

A literal contract I signed without reading because I'm apparently the poster child for bad decisions.

I groan, flopping my head against the headrest.

"Marina Russo, you idiot," I mutter. "You said you wanted a normal job. Not some sketchy underworld catering gig."

By the time we pull up to my building - paint peeling, windows stuck, definitely not mansion material - I'm ready to collapse face-first into my couch and pretend today never happened.

"Miss Russo," the driver says, just as blankly as before, as he unlocks the door.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the ride, Jeeves," I mumble, grabbing my bag and practically tripping over my own feet as I hurry inside.

The door to my apartment sticks as always, and I have to give it a good shove with my hip before it pops open with a squeal.

Home sweet home.

Tiny, cluttered, slightly moldy - but mine.

I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and flop onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

"What am I even doing with my life?" I whine to the ceiling. "Who signs up to work for people who look like they've buried bodies in the backyard?"

My phone buzzes on the coffee table.

I glance at it, half-expecting spam. But no - it's a notification from my bank app.

I blink. Sit up a little straighter.

And then my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

$10,000.00 - deposited to your account.

I stare at the screen.

Stare some more.

Refresh the app because surely I'm hallucinating.

Nope. Still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

"What the actual-"

Before I can even finish the sentence, another buzz comes through.

Text message.

Unknown number.

Your employment begins tomorrow. 8:00 AM. Do not be late.

No hello. No signature. No explanation.

Just that.

And suddenly, my apartment feels smaller. Hotter. Like the walls just inched closer.

I swallow hard, clutching my phone like it might bite me.

$10,000.

And an order, not a request.

"Oh, Marina," I whisper to myself, flopping back against the couch cushions. "You are so screwed."