The taxi pulled away without waiting.
Ziva stood alone on the gravel drive, one hand gripping the strap of her small bag, the other wrapped around her phone. She wasn't texting anyone — just holding it, the way people do when they're somewhere unfamiliar and don't know where to look.
The gate had already closed behind her, silently, as if swallowing her inside. Ahead, the estate stretched in soft whites and dusky greys, elegant and strangely hushed, like even the wind didn't dare to move too loudly here.
She took a deep breath and started walking.
Her boots crunched lightly on the stones as the house loomed closer. It was beautiful, yes — but not in the warm, welcoming way Lila had described. It was the kind of beautiful that made you straighten your back and lower your voice. The kind that whispered don't touch.
The windows were dark, but not lifeless. Curtains moved behind one on the upper floor — she noticed, barely — but told herself it was nothing.
Lila's voice replayed in her head.
"They've got a few girls already," she'd said. "You'll be part of a small team. It's easy work. Housekeeping, errands, just keeping things tidy. Private estate. Rich family. Quiet place."
Ziva had asked why she'd never mentioned it before.
Lila had only laughed. "Didn't think you'd be interested."
It hadn't sounded like a lie. But something about her had felt... distant. Like she was saying what she'd been told to say.
Ziva let the thought go. The money was good. The timing even better.
At the top of the stone steps, the door opened before she could knock. A woman in a pale grey blouse stood waiting. Her hair was perfectly slicked back, and she wore the kind of polite smile people reserve for hotel lobbies and funerals.
"Ziva?"
She nodded.
"You're early. That's good. The others are finishing dinner. Come in."
Ziva hesitated for just a breath — then stepped inside.
Warm light spilled across the foyer. Marble floors. A wide staircase curling like a ribbon into the upper level. Everything smelled faintly of jasmine and wood polish. It didn't feel like a home. It felt... curated.
"You can leave your bag here," the woman said, gesturing to a bench beside the door. "We'll show you to your room shortly."
There it was again. We. Ziva relaxed a little. Maybe Lila had been right. Maybe there were other girls. Maybe this was just one of those rich-people homes where everything felt too quiet, too clean, too perfect.
Still, her skin tingled — not from fear, but from something else. A slow, crawling awareness that she was being observed.
She glanced at the tall archways leading off the foyer. No one was there.
"Dinner's at seven," the woman added. "Mr. Marlow prefers the house to run on schedule. If you need anything before then, ring the bell in your room."
Ziva blinked. "Mr. Marlow?"
"The owner," she said simply. "You'll meet him in time."
Then, with that same unreadable smile, she turned and walked off, leaving Ziva alone in the beautiful, echoing silence.
She told herself it was just a job.
Just a house.
Just another temporary beginning.
But upstairs, behind a half-open door, someone leaned into the shadows, watching.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
But soon.
---