The smell of toasted bread and Kim's cheap coffee filled the small apartment, chasing away the last bits of sleep from Mia's mind. She stood in front of the mirror by the window, tugging at the hem of her borrowed blouse for the fifth time that morning.
"Do I look like someone who can cook for rich people," she asked, turning sideways, "or like someone applying to wash their dishes?"
Kim, already dressed in her neatly pressed office skirt, snorted as she buttered her toast. "You look fine, Mia. Like a professional woman who definitely knows what she's doing… even if she doesn't."
Mia threw her a look over her shoulder. "Not helping."
Kim grinned. "You didn't ask for help. You asked for honesty."
It was their usual rhythm ,Kim teasing, Mia rolling her eyes ,but beneath the lightness, the air buzzed with nerves. Mia smoothed her curls into a ponytail, staring at her reflection. She looked… normal. Not extraordinary. Not like someone who belonged in a billionaire's mansion kitchen.
Kim came up behind her and placed her hands on Mia's shoulders. "Hey," she said softly. "Stop overthinking. You're the best cook I know. That's why I keep you around , someone's gotta feed me."
Mia smiled, the tightness in her chest easing. "You just don't want to admit you can't boil water without burning it."
"That's a secret between me, you, and the smoke alarm," Kim said, picking up her coffee.
They both laughed, and for a moment, it felt like any other morning , two friends sharing breakfast, trying to beat the Monday rush. But then Mia's eyes drifted to the small clock above the counter.
"I should go," she said, her voice quieter now.
Kim followed her gaze, then set down her mug. "Yeah. Big day." She straightened Mia's collar, brushing off invisible lint like a mother hen. "You've got your ID, your resume, and your confidence?"
"Two out of three," Mia admitted.
"Close enough," Kim said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Come on, we'll walk down together. I've got to catch the bus to the company anyway."
The morning air was cool as they stepped outside. Their building was old but alive , neighbors leaving for work, a vendor setting up his stall on the corner, the hum of the city slowly rising.
They walked side by side, coffee cups in hand, their conversation bouncing easily between jokes and nerves.
"You know," Kim said, nudging her, "if they like you, maybe Mr. Steele himself will ask you to make him breakfast in bed."
Mia nearly choked on her coffee. "Kim!"
"What? I'm just saying, you never know. Billionaires are weird like that."
"I'm not there to flirt with anyone," Mia said, trying to sound stern but failing to hide her smile.
"Good," Kim replied. "Because rumor has it, he's allergic to people."
"Perfect," Mia said dryly. "That'll make me feel right at home."
They reached the bus stop, and the morning light painted everything golden. Kim's bus arrived first. She squeezed Mia's hand. "Text me when you get there, okay? And remember , confidence. You're not lucky to be there; they're lucky to have you."
Mia's chest tightened again, but this time it wasn't fear , it was gratitude. "Got it," she said softly.
Kim smiled, stepped onto the bus, and waved through the window until it turned the corner.
Mia stood for a moment, alone but not lonely. Then she exhaled, squared her shoulders, and headed toward the mansion address glowing on her phone screen.
The drive out of Brooklyn into the quieter part of Westchester felt like stepping into another world. The streets grew wider, the noise faded, and green replaced the gray of the city.
When the car finally slowed before a towering iron gate flanked by trimmed hedges, Mia's heart skipped. The brass nameplate read simply: The Steele Residence.
The gate swung open with silent efficiency, revealing a winding driveway lined with old oak trees. It was beautiful ,in that intimidating, expensive kind of way.
At the front of the mansion, a tall man in a charcoal suit stood waiting. His posture was perfectly straight, and his white hair gleamed in the morning light.
"Mia Brooks?" he asked as she stepped out of the car.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm Harold," he said with a courteous nod. "Head butler. Welcome to Steele Mansion."
His voice carried years of discipline, yet there was a trace of warmth beneath it ,the kind that came from long familiarity with newcomers' nerves.
"Thank you," Mia said, gripping her bag tighter.
He gestured for her to follow. "Mrs. Margaret will meet you in the kitchen. This way, please."
They crossed through polished marble halls that smelled faintly of lemon and something floral. Mia's shoes made soft taps against the floor , a reminder of how out of place she felt.
They passed a gardener trimming the indoor plants, an elderly woman carrying folded linens, and a driver polishing a sleek black car outside the side window. Everyone moved quietly, purposefully. It wasn't stiff , more like practiced rhythm.
"Many of the staff have been here decades," Harold said, as if reading her thoughts. "Mr. Steele values loyalty and discretion."
Mia nodded. "I can see that."
He smiled faintly. "It's rare to see new faces here. Mrs. Margaret takes care of us all. She'll take care of you too."
That small assurance steadied her nerves more than she expected.
At last, they reached a set of swinging double doors. Harold opened one and motioned her in.
The kitchen was enormous , stainless steel counters, gleaming ovens, sunlight spilling across tiled floors. In the middle of it all stood a woman in her sixties, her gray hair pulled into a neat bun, her apron spotless.
She looked up, assessing Mia with a quick glance that seemed to weigh both her confidence and her shoes.
"So," she said, voice brisk but not unkind, "you must be our trial chef."
Mia nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Mia Brooks."
"Hmm." Margaret set down a towel and crossed her arms. "Well, Mia Brooks, I hope you're not afraid of early mornings or picky appetites."
"I've worked in diners," Mia said. "I've seen picky."
Margaret's brow lifted, and the corners of her mouth twitched. "Good answer. We like confidence around here , as long as it's paired with respect."
"I can manage both," Mia said, meeting her gaze.
"I'll be the judge of that."
There was humor in her tone now, faint but warm. She handed Mia an apron. "We run a tight ship here. You'll find I'm fair ,but I don't tolerate shortcuts. Keep your station clean, follow recipes when you're told, and never ,I repeat, never , use garlic. The master despises it."
"Understood," Mia said, trying not to laugh.
"Good. We'll get along fine then."
Margaret turned toward the large window overlooking the garden. "You'll start with lunch prep. Nothing too fancy today. Just… let's see how you move in my kitchen."
"Yes, ma'am."
As Mia tied her apron, she glanced once more around the gleaming kitchen. Beyond the sunlight, a shadow passed briefly across one of the upstairs windows , a tall figure, barely visible.
"Something wrong?" Margaret asked.
Mia blinked. "No, nothing. Just… taking it all in."
Margaret smiled knowingly. "It's a lot to take in, dear. But don't worry , by the end of the day, you'll either love it here… or run screaming for the gates."
Mia laughed nervously. "I'll aim for the first one."
"Good." Margaret patted her arm and turned toward the pantry. "Now, let's see what you're really made of."
And as the kitchen doors swung shut behind her, Mia took a deep breath, steadying herself for whatever this new world would demand of her next.