Lydia's POV
I got home that evening with tired legs and a heart that felt heavier than my body, but this time, the weight carried something different: relief.
Zoey was asleep when I got in. I stood by her door for a moment, listening to her soft breathing, letting it steady me. Then I exhaled slowly. Today had changed something.
As I turned toward the sitting room, I almost collided with Miss Beatrice.
She stood there with her arms folded, lips pursed like she'd been waiting for this moment.
"I hope you're not just walking around the city without looking for a job?" she said sharply.
I swallowed and straightened my back. "No," I said. "I got one."
Her eyebrows lifted, but only for a second. Then she scoffed. "You got a job? Just like that?"
"Yes," I replied, holding my ground. "I start immediately."
She let out a dry laugh and walked past me, shaking her head. "Doing what this time? Don't tell me it's one of those jobs that doesn't last."
"I will be a caregiver," I said quietly. "Taking care of an elderly woman."
She stopped walking and turned slowly. "Caregiver?" Her eyes narrowed. "Do you even have experience with such work?"
I felt the familiar burn in my chest, but I refused to let it show. "I've taken care of my daughter. I've taken care of sick people before. I can do this."
She clicked her tongue. "And where is this miracle job, Lydia?"
"In Manhattan," I answered. "For a private family."
That got her attention—but not in the way I'd hoped.
"Private family," she repeated. "So you'll start disappearing again. Coming home late. Leaving responsibilities behind."
"I won't," I said firmly. "This job pays well. It will help with Zoey's bills."
She stared at me for a moment, then waved her hand dismissively. "We'll see how long it lasts."
I didn't reply. I didn't need her approval. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.
---
The next morning came faster than I expected.
I woke before my alarm, nerves already buzzing under my skin. I checked on Zoey first—her breathing was calm, her cheeks warm. I quickly went to the kitchen to make breakfast so she could take her medication.
I kissed her forehead gently and whispered that I'd be back soon.
I got a cab, and he took me directly to the house. The street was quiet, no clutter. Just tall gates and houses that looked like secrets.
When the cab stopped in front of the house, my heart skipped.
It wasn't just big. It was imposing.
A tall iron gate stood before me, sleek and dark. I rang the bell, and moments later, it opened silently.
A woman in her late forties opened the door. She wore a simple black dress and had a calm but unreadable expression.
"You must be Lydia," she said.
"Yes," I replied quickly. "Good morning."
"I'm Mrs. Hale," she said. "I manage the household. Follow me."
Inside, everything smelled clean—too clean. The floors shone. The furniture looked untouched, as though no one truly lived there.
We stopped in the sitting room, and she turned to face me.
"Mr. Karl asked me to state the rules in this house clearly to you," she said calmly. "And they are not to be broken."
I nodded immediately.
"You will not invite anyone here."
"You will not enter any room you are not assigned to."
"You will not use your phone while on duty."
"You will speak only when spoken to, unless necessary."
"And most importantly—" she paused, looking directly at me, "what happens in this house stays in this house."
My throat tightened. "I understand."
She led me upstairs. I didn't see Mr. Karl. It seemed as though he wasn't around. The house was too big to even notice if anyone was there or not.
"This is Mrs. Whitmore," Mrs. Hale said. "She is the mother of the homeowner."
I stepped closer carefully. Mrs. Whitmore's face was gentle but tired, marked by age and illness. Her hand twitched slightly, and without thinking, I reached for it.
Her fingers curled around mine.
Something shifted inside me.
"She doesn't speak much anymore," Mrs. Hale continued. "She needs assistance with feeding, bathing, and medication. Her son expects nothing but excellence."
I nodded. "I'll do my best."
Mrs. Hale studied me for a moment, then said, "See that you do."
As she left the room, I remained by the bedside, holding Mrs. Whitmore's hand. The house was quiet—too quiet—but I focused on the woman in front of me.
I thought of Zoey.
I thought of bills.
I thought of how badly I needed this job.
"I'm Lydia," I whispered to Mrs. Whitmore. "I'll take good care of you."
Her fingers tightened slightly around mine.
And in that moment, I knew—this house had rules, secrets, and expectations far beyond what I understood.
But no matter what, I couldn't afford to fail.