The sisters left the café as the afternoon stretched into evening. Jenny, feeling the small weight of change in her pocket, made a decision. She led Irene to a modest but warm diner a few blocks from their motel and treated her sister to a proper meal—the first real food they'd had in days.
Irene ate like she hadn't seen food in weeks, her small face lighting up with each bite. Jenny watched her, an ache in her chest that was part sorrow, part fierce determination. She would make this work. She had to.
Later, back in their cramped motel room, Jenny sat on the floor—she'd given Irene the bed again—and stared at the business card in her hands.
Bianca DeLuca.
Tomorrow, everything changed. Tomorrow, she had a job. A way forward.
"I'm going to make it," she whispered to herself, the words a promise carved into the darkness. "We're going to make it."
The rain returned that night, drumming against the thin window, a lullaby for a world that didn't care. Irene slept soundly, curled beneath the faded sheets, her face peaceful in a way it rarely was when awake.
But Jenny couldn't sleep.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to Zeke—the man who had rescued her once, who had pulled her from the brink of death. She could admit, if only to herself in the darkness, that he was attractive. There was something about his sharp features, his commanding presence, the way his eyes could cut through pretense.
But attraction meant nothing.
He had abandoned her. Her and Irene. Discarded them like they were nothing after she'd given him everything—the names, the truth, the key to his war. He had looked at her bleeding body, promised nothing, and then let her walk into a city that wanted her dead.
She should hate him. Part of her did.
And yet, the memory of his hands pressing against her wound, the fierce focus in his eyes as he'd carried her to safety—those moments lingered, unwanted and complicated.
She closed her eyes tightly, willing the thoughts away.
I just hope I never see him again, she prayed to the uncaring night. Never again.
The rain continued its soft assault on the glass, and somewhere in the city, a man she couldn't forget was probably sleeping peacefully, unaware that he haunted her dreams.
The next morning, Jenny rose before the sun. The motel room was still dark, Irene curled peacefully on the bed, when Jenny quietly gathered herself. She moved on silent feet, not wanting to disturb her sister's rare, restful sleep.
Before leaving, she knelt beside the bed and pressed a gentle kiss to Irene's forehead. Then she slipped a small envelope under her sister's pillow—some of the precious pocket money she'd set aside, in case Irene wanted to wander or eat while she was gone. She hadn't told Irene the full truth about where she was going. A new job, yes. But the details, the mansion, the wealthy stranger—those could wait until she knew it was safe.
She exited the motel into the pale gray dawn and flagged down a taxi. The driver, a grizzled man with tired eyes, glanced at the address she handed him and raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They drove through the waking city, past streets Jenny recognized, then into neighborhoods she'd only ever glimpsed from a distance.
After nearly an hour, the taxi slowed. Jenny looked up—and her breath caught.
A mansion. No, not a mansion. A castle.
Massive stone walls rose high, topped with elegant ironwork. Lush gardens spilled beyond the gates, and the main house itself seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction, a monument to wealth and power.
Jenny stepped out of the taxi, her mouth falling open despite herself. She stood there on the sidewalk, clutching her small bag, utterly overwhelmed.
"This is literally a castle," she whispered.
The taxi driver chuckled as he pulled away. Jenny barely heard him. She could only stare at the towering gates before her, beyond which lay a world she'd never imagined—and a woman named Bianca DeLuca, who held the key to her survival.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the intercom.
Her new life was about to begin.
Jenny pressed the intercom button. She could hear the silence around her , then a deep grief voice cracked through the intercom , probably a security guard
"Who is it?"
"I'm Jenny. I came for the job. Miss Bianca DeLuca directed me."
Another pause. Then, without a word, the massive gates clicked and slowly swung open.
Jenny stepped through, feeling like a rabbit walking into a lion's den. The gardens alone were overwhelming—manicured hedges, fountains that sparkled in the morning light, statues that looked like they belonged in a museum. Every corner she turned revealed more opulence, more wealth, more evidence that she didn't belong here.
Servants moved quietly through the grounds, their crisp uniforms far better than anything Jenny owned. They glanced at her as she passed—curious, assessing, noting her worn clothes and nervous posture. She felt their eyes like weights, each look reminding her how far out of her depth she truly was.
She walked faster, clutching her small bag, her heart pounding.
Finally, she reached the main building—a towering structure of stone and glass that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. At the entrance, an older woman stood waiting. She was dressed in a severe but elegant uniform, her gray hair pulled back tightly, her expression unreadable.
Jenny stopped before her, suddenly aware of how small she must look. How out of place.
"You're the new help?" the woman asked, her voice crisp.
Jenny nodded. "Yes. Jenny."
The woman's eyes swept over her—taking in the worn shoes, the simple clothes, the nervous hands. Something flickered in her gaze. Pity? Disdain? Jenny couldn't tell.
"Follow me," the woman said simply, turning on her heel. "Miss DeLuca expects much. I hope you're prepared to work."
Jenny followed, stepping into the cool, marble-lined interior of a world she'd only ever dreamed of