Chapter 3: The Debt and the Sale (Part 3)
His voice was exactly what she had imagined the voice of someone who read five-year contracts for fun would sound like: controlled, slightly ironic, and dangerously polite.
Emma straightened her shoulders. She had rehearsed this speech all night.
“Mr. Ross. I’m here to fulfill the contract. Five years. Domestic service. No unnecessary complaints. At the end, I walk away, and we pretend this was just a very, very strange job.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t exactly a smile. More like the shadow of one.
“Straightforward. Interesting, too.”
“I prefer being straightforward. It saves time. And from what I’ve been told, you value your privacy. I intend to be as little trouble as possible.”
Nicco tilted his head, studying her.
“Did you read the entire contract?”
“I read enough to know that I clean, cook, organize, and don’t ask inconvenient questions. The rest… I’ll figure out along the way.”
“The rest includes specific rules for this house. Rules that aren’t written on paper.”
Emma crossed her arms.
“Then tell me the rules. That way, I can start hating them in advance.”
This time, the almost-smile became a little more noticeable.
“First rule: the curtains on the second and third floors are never to be opened during the day. Never. Second: excessive noise after ten p.m. is… discouraged. Third: you do not enter the north wing without permission. Fourth: if you find something you don’t understand, ask before touching it.”
“And if I accidentally break one of these rules?”
“Then I’ll consider the possibility that you’re human. And humans make mistakes.”
He said the word human in a strange way. As though it carried weight.
Emma frowned.
“You speak as if you aren’t.”
Nicco didn’t answer. He simply gestured toward the corridor on the left.
“Your quarters are on the ground floor, near the kitchen. More practical that way. Your suitcase has already been taken there. You have the rest of the day to settle in. Tomorrow, at seven, Mrs. Whitmore—the housekeeper—will explain your routine.”
“There’s a housekeeper? Then why am I here?”
“Because Mrs. Whitmore is seventy-three years old and has a knee that complains more than she does. And because the contract exists.”
Emma bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from firing back with an immediate sarcastic remark. Taking a deep breath, she asked:
“May I ask an inconvenient question now, since I haven’t officially started yet?”
“You may.”
“Why did you agree to a contract like this? With all due respect… you seem to have enough money to hire someone without needing to settle a family debt.”
Nicco watched her for a long moment. His dark eyes didn’t blink.
“Because, Miss Craven, sometimes old debts require old solutions. And because I despise job interviews.”
He turned away, already climbing the first few steps again.
“Enjoy the rest of your day. Explore the ground floor if you wish. But remember the rules. And, Emma…”
She lifted her gaze.
“Yes?”
“Don’t try to run away during the first week. It’s exhausting for everyone involved. And the forest surrounding this house isn’t exactly friendly at night.”
Emma opened her mouth to reply, but he had already disappeared onto the second floor, leaving behind only the soft echo of his footsteps and a silence that seemed alive.
She stood motionless in the middle of the entrance hall, the imaginary suitcase still weighing on her back, her heart beating in a rhythm that mixed nervousness with stubborn irritation.
Five years.
She looked up at the high ceiling, the tapestries, the heavy curtains that blocked out every trace of sunlight.
“Fine,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll clean this entire house if I have to. I’ll cook. I’ll organize. I’ll even learn not to make noise after ten. But at the end of those five years, Nicco Ross, you’ll watch me walk out that door with my head held high and owing absolutely nothing to anyone.”
The mansion’s silence offered no reply.
But somewhere on the second floor, a man who hadn’t aged in more than a century allowed the corner of his mouth to lift into a genuine smile for the first time in decades.
Because the new maid talked to herself.
And judging by her tone, she had absolutely no intention of letting herself be intimidated.
Emma Craven adjusted the imaginary strap of her suitcase, took a deep breath, and took her first step toward the corridor leading to her quarters.
The debt had been paid with a signature.
Now came the hard part: surviving the mansion—and the man who ruled it—without losing her sense of humor.
And, if possible, without breaking any antique vases on her very first day.