Chapter 14 Cleaners or Prisoners?
Clara stepped up first, shaking Sheila’s hand like she was trying to prove she wasn’t rattled. “Thanks, Sheila. I’m Clara March, and this is Amelia Foster.”
Sheila’s smile widened, warm but a little too polished. “Lovely to meet you both. Let’s get you settled. Your bags will be brought to your rooms.” She caught their glances back at the SUV, where their stuff was still stashed. “For now, follow me. Mr. Jameson wants to meet you in his office.”
Millie shot Clara a quick look, her stomach doing a nervous flip. Clara’s tight nod said she felt it too—this place was weird, and they were already in too deep.
They followed Sheila toward the massive house, its huge windows catching the sunlight and throwing long shadows across the too-perfect lawn. It looked like something out of a magazine, all rustic vibes mixed with moneyed polish.
“Some place, huh?” Millie muttered under her breath, half to herself.
Sheila let out a small laugh. “You have no idea.” She launched into a spiel as they walked, her voice calm and practiced.
“Cedar Ridge Estate covers six thousand acres—meadows, forests, even a stream cutting through it. The house has seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, full staff quarters, and both indoor and outdoor pools. In short, it has everything. And as you can imagine, a place like this doesn’t run on its own. It takes a lot to keep it looking perfect every single day.”
Millie nodded, only half-listening as they stepped inside. The grand entrance hall hit her like a wall of silence. The place was spotless—gleaming wood floors, high ceilings, fancy light fixtures—but it felt empty. It had everything money could buy, but none of the warmth. The place looked like it had been lifted straight out of a luxury brochure—grand, immaculate, and utterly soulless. There was no sign anyone actually lived here. No photos, no clutter, no personality. Just polished surfaces and curated perfection.
She glanced at Clara, whose subtly raised brows confirmed she felt it too: this house was all show, no soul.
Sheila led them down a hallway, also so polished it practically glowed, past a huge living room with a stone fireplace and a dining room that looked like it could seat a small army.
Millie’s sneakers squeaked faintly on the hardwood, and she felt out of place, like she’d wandered into someone else’s life. They stopped at a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall.
“Mr. Jameson’s office,” Sheila said, giving two sharp knocks before pushing it open.
Inside, a man sat behind a massive desk, his back to them. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair. His suit fit like it was made for him, but the way he held himself—straight as a board, like he was still waiting for a drill sergeant to bark orders—made Millie think he was ex-military.
The man turned, and his gray eyes locked onto theirs. His face was weathered, all hard lines and a jaw that looked like it had spent years chewing on tough decisions. There was something in his gaze, a kind of calculating smarts that made her feel like he already knew too much about them.
“Mr. Jameson,” Sheila said, her tone all respect, “the new staff are here.”
Ms. Jameson stood, offering a hand to each of them. His grip was rough and calloused, like he’d done more with his hands than push papers.
“Welcome to Cedar Ridge, Ms. March and Ms. Foster. Please, sit.”
Sheila left after Millie and Clara sank into two cushy armchairs, but Millie stayed on the edge, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The office was fancy—dark wood, leather-bound books, a big window looking out on the mountains—but it felt as cold and impersonal as the rest of the house.
Mr. Jameson cleared his throat, his eyes bouncing between them. “What should I call you?”
“Amelia’s fine,” she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
“Just Clara,” Clara added, sitting a little straighter, like she was trying to match his energy.
“Alright, Amelia and Clara,” Jameson said, leaning back in his chair. “Cedar Ridge is a big place, and we’re short-staffed right now. Normally, we’ve got a full crew, but two of our maids left unexpectedly. We had to outsource. That’s why we reached out to your agency. They spoke highly of you both.”
Millie nodded, her mind racing. His tone was polite, but something about the way he said “unexpectedly” made her skin prickle. She glanced at Clara, who was giving her a subtle this is weird look. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t just some rich guy’s vacation home.
“There are a few rules,” Mr. Jameson said. “No phones, no laptops, no electronics of any kind on the property. We take privacy seriously at Cedar Ridge.”
Then he laid out their duties: cleaning, laundry, helping with meals, and serving. It sounded like standard stuff, but the air in the room felt heavy, like there was something he wasn’t saying.
Millie shifted in her chair, her fingers tapping nervously against her thigh.
Then a sharp knock at the door cut him off. “Come in,” Mr. Jameson called, his voice booming.
Sheila walked in, followed by two women in matching black uniforms, their shoes clicking on the floor like they were marching to a beat. Both had their hair pulled back in tight buns, but that’s where the similarities ended. The taller one, with bright red hair, looked jittery, her hands twisting together. The other, younger and shorter, stood with an easy confidence that bordered on a challenge.
“This is Sandra,” Jameson said, nodding at the redhead, who gave a small, nervous smile. “And Andrea.” He gestured to the younger woman, whose eyes narrowed as she sized up Millie and Clara like they were intruders. “This is Ms. Clara March and Ms. Amelia Foster. They’ll be helping you for the next two months.”
Andrea just grunted, her gaze cold and skeptical. Sandra, though, seemed curious, her eyes lingering on Millie a little longer.
“Sheila will show you what to do,” Mr. Jameson went on, his stare sweeping over them like he was memorizing every detail. “Clara, you’re bunking with Sandra. Amelia, you’re with Andrea.”
“Okay,” Millie said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. Her gut was still churning. “Anything else, Mr. Jameson?”
Mr. Jameson leaned back, his fingers steepled, a faint smile on his lips that didn’t touch his eyes. “Just one thing,” he said, his tone dropping low, almost menacing. “Discretion is everything here. What you see, what you hear—it stays in this house. The Morettis will arrive tomorrow. Consider that your only warning.”
The name hit Millie like a brick. Her heart started racing. “The Morettis, Mr. Jameson?”
“Yes, Amelia. Mr. Alessandro Ethan Moretti and his brother, Giovanni Aidan Moretti.”
Suddenly, Millie’s mind spun. “Holy shit,” she muttered, barely aware she’d said it out loud.