Page 20 of Scarlet Chains
The front door opens before I can knock, revealing a woman in a crisp black uniform with silver hair pulled back in an immaculate bun. The housekeeper, I assume.
“Miss Katona, welcome. I’m Mrs. Dubois. Please, follow me to the salon.”
She leads me through an entrance hall that makes me dizzy. The ceiling disappears somewhere above my head, supported by columns that belong in a Roman temple. But it’s the staircase that stops me cold— twin curves of white marble that sweep upward like something from a Hollywood movie, with a banister that gleams gold under the crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
I try not to gawk, but it’s impossible. Every surface screams money. The artwork on the walls isn’t prints or reproductions— these are originals, oils that probably have their own insurance policies. The marble floor beneath my feet is so polished I can see my reflection, distorted and small. So damned small. I feel totally out of my depth here.
“This way, please.” Mrs. Dubois leads me through corridors lined with more art, more marble, more everything. We pass rooms that seem to serve no purpose except to display wealth— a library with books bound in actual leather reaching to the ceiling, a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, a sitting room with furniture that looks like it belongs behind velvet ropes.
Finally, we reach what she called the salon, and I step inside to find a woman rising from a cream-colored sofa that I’m sure I’ve seen featured in a interior design magazine.
The woman is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined. Her voice on the phone had been warm, almost maternal. In person, she’s stunning in that artificial, untouchable way that only serious money can buy. Not a hair out of place in her perfectly styled blonde bob, not a wrinkle in her silk blouse that drapes over a figure maintained through rigid discipline and likely a small army of personal trainers. She may have had a baby a year ago, but there’s no sign of it.
But it’s her face that catches me off guard. Beautiful, yes, but… wrong, somehow. Too smooth, too symmetrical. The work is expensive— probably the best plastic surgeons money can buy— but I can see the subtle signs. The slight tightness around her eyes, the way her forehead doesn’t move when she smiles.
“Ilona! So wonderful to meet you in person. I’m Elena Vorobeva.” She glides toward me with outstretched hands, her smile perfect and empty. “Please, sit. Can Mrs. Dubois bring you anything? Coffee? Sparkling water?”
“Coffee would be great, thank you.”
I settle onto the sofa across from her, trying not to sink too deep into cushions that feel like sitting on a cloud. Elena positions herself with the practiced grace of someone who’s been photographed her entire adult life, every angle calculated for maximum effect.
“So,” she begins, “I had a conversation with your previous employer and he had good things to say about you.”
“That’s… great,” I say, relief making me feel a little lightheaded for a second. I know Jason would never let me down, but the anxiety has been gnawing at me.
“I’ll admit, I was quite pleased,” she adds. “We’ve had other respondents, and most were just… awful.” She huffs a breath and rolls her eyes dramatically. And still, her forehead doesn’t move. “Anyway, tell me a little about yourself.”
We’re in the middle of discussing my background when I hear footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, a man enters the room with the kind of presence that immediately shifts the energy.
“Ah… darling. You’re just in time to meet the new help.” Elena smiles up at him. “This is my husband, Leonid,” she says, her voice taking on a slightly different tone— more deferential.
Everything about him screams money, from his Italian leather shoes to the way he holds himself— like someone who’s never heard the word “no” in any language.
“We need someone ASAP,” he says, cutting straight through any pleasantries. His voice carries the particular arrogance of men who measure time in dollars and expect the world to move at their pace. “We have to fly to our home in the Bahamas, then I have business to attend in the Cayman Islands. We’ll be away for two weeks, give or take.”
Bahamas. Cayman Islands. Multiple homes. I try to keep my expression neutral, but inside I’m reeling. These people don’t just have money— they have fuck-you money.
“We can’t take our boy with us,” Leonid continues, and there’s something in his tone that makes my skin crawl. “He would only cause problems. You know what one-year-olds are like.” He lets out a laugh that contains zero humor. “Constant crying, nappy changes, that sort of stuff.”
The casual dismissal in his voice almost makes me flinch. Is this really how he talks about his own child? Like the baby is some inconvenient pet they can’t be bothered to travel with?
My mind races, trying to process what I’m hearing. A one-year-old should be with his parents, especially for two weeks. He should still be nursing, should be attached to his mother, should be the center of their universe. But Leonid talks about him like he’s discussing a piece of luggage they can’t fit in their carry-on.
I glance at Elena, looking for some sign of maternal warmth, some indication that she disagrees with her husband’s cold assessment. But she just sits there, perfectly composed, her red manicured nails— easily an inch long— drumming against her coffee cup. Those nails tell me everything I need to know. There’s no way she’s ever changed a diaper, no way she’s ever held a crying baby against her chest at three in the morning. The thought of her kissing her son goodnight seems impossible— it would smudge her perfectly applied lipstick.
“Can you start immediately?” Leonid asks, leaning forward slightly. “We’ll give you a bonus to be on call 24 hours a day.”
When he names the figure, my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It’s probably more than some people see in a year. For two weeks of work.
I force myself to stay professional, to not let the desperation show in my voice. “That’s… very generous. Yes, I can start immediately.”
“Excellent.” Elena stands with fluid grace, smoothing down her skirt.
“Can I meet him?” I ask, surprised by how much I want to see this child they talk about like an inconvenience.
“Of course. Let’s go.” Elena’s smile is bright and empty. “I’ll show you to his room.”
We climb the marble staircase, my hand sliding along the golden banister as I try not to think about how much this single architectural feature probably cost. The second floor is just as opulent as the first— more art, more perfectly arranged furniture, more evidence of wealth that borders on the obscene.
