“I promise you, this is just the ultra-rich being quirky.” Cal adjusts his cufflinks, tiny blue stones that aren't quite sapphire. “Eve, you've worked here long enough to know money often brings... shall we say,unconventionaltastes and ideas.”
He's got a point. At Terra Sanctum, I've dealt with guests who demand exactly 22.7 °C temperature in their rooms, custom lavender-hued lighting for “soothing the nervous system,” and I've often signed for mysterious black crates with cryptic geometric symbols that the serving staff has said in whispers contained weird vegetables and violet-colored water. All of it is routine here, so I can't really balk at a bizarre contract term now.
I flip another digital page with another potential red flag. “It mentions 'specialized environmental controls in staff quarters.' What does that mean exactly?”
“The Celestial Spire is in a region with a challenging climate. The controls simply ensure you'll be comfortable.”
“How challenging are we talking about? Hot? Cold? Altitude?”
“Orientation will cover all of that,” he says, smoothly sidestepping. “The owners spare no expense for staff well-being. Remember you’ll be living in a place that’s better than a five-star hotel, with your own suite and making more money than you donow for almost the same job.”
He’s got a point about the money, so I decide to let that go, moving on to the next unusual passage. “The dietary clause is also worded oddly. 'All nutritional needs specifically formulated for human consumption’ kind of implies there are non-human consumption needs. Is Incitatus also an employee?”
“Incitatus?”
I shake my head, realizing I have read too many books. “Emperor Nero’s horse. I was trying to make a joke. But seriously, why the strange language?”
“Legal language. You know how lawyers are; they make everything sound cold. It simply means the hotel provides all meals and those meals will be prepared to the highest standards of nutrition and taste.”
“And the seventy-day communication blackout? That's a long time to be completely cut off.” Not that I have anyone to contact, but I should at least ask because it’s eccentric.
“It's an immersion program. The owners believe you can't truly master luxury service if you're half in, half out. After those seventy days, if you pass your probationary period, you'll have normal communication privileges.”
I flip to another area of the contract. “The medical clause says all staff healthcare is provided on-site by the facility's 'specialized medical team.' What makes them specialized?” I’m worriedspecializedmight mean they only use crystal healing power.
“You don’t need to worry about your health care. The owners believe in comprehensive care for their employees. Their medical staff is trained in both conventional medicine and various holistic approaches favored by our international clientele. You’ll be well looked after.”
“And who exactly is this clientele? The contract doesn't specify which demographic the hotel serves.”
“The most exclusive one,” Cal says. “The same kind of guests thatyou've been serving here. You'll understand everything when you arrive.”
His evasiveness raises my guard, but I brush off the nagging feeling.
My current life isn't exactly carefree. At least this could lead to real stability and a better future. I could have a bank account that isn’t empty at the end of every month.
Cal slides a stylus across the desk. “Ready to sign?”
I stare at the screen.Ascendant Alliance, Celestial Spire.No address, no mention of a city, just an enigmatic promise of exclusivity and a generous salary. I recall the dozens of times I've withheld a VIP's details from local authorities, all in the name of “guest privacy.” The wealthiest people in the world often move without leaving a bureaucratic footprint.
Why should I be surprised that I'm not privy to an address?
But I hesitate, remembering all the true-crime stories about trafficking scams that start with a too-good-to-be-true job offer. Every instinct I've developed from surviving in the system screams at me to walk away. The evasive answers, the immediate technology confiscation, the isolated location, the pressure to decide now. It's textbook predatory recruitment.
But then I counter my anxiety with cold logic. Why would they go to such trouble for a receptionist? And what’s the alternative—go back to my cramped studio, my meaningless routines, my life no one sees? A contract was at least proof someone would notice if I vanished. That alone made it safer than staying.
NO CONTACT. The box my parents checked when they gave me away. The knowledge had made me an NPC in my own story. When I ran from that bus this morning, I wasn’t just ignoring Pythia’s warning. I was running from Sister Agnes’s words. Running from the feelings that flow through the taps and are consumed at St. Catherine’s daily; that I should be grateful just to be alive. But I want more than survival. I havealwayswanted more than that. I want to matter. I want to be the MC in my own story, and to become that I must take risks.
A voice in my head asks,Even if it kills you?
Yes, even if it kills me, at least I'll have tried, I tell myself, defying the Sister Agnes’ whisper, ready to face whatever fate awaits.
The Devil’s voice echoes in my mind, reminding me, ‘There are worse things than death.’
Cal senses my apprehension. “I really wish I could offer you more time to think about it, but the owners insist on quick decisions.” His tone is sympathetic as he taps the contract. “We've had other employees go to this same location. Denise, for instance. She ended up settling down in the same area and marrying a man in the military.” He pulls up what appears to be a social media photo of Denise looking radiant with her new husband and a recent ultrasound pinned to her profile. “You see, she's very happy.”
I lean in closer to study the image. Denise does look happy, glowing even, but there’s an unsettling perfection to the image. The lighting is unnaturally flawless for a casual picture. And her husband, while handsome in his military uniform, has that generic stock photo quality. Even the ultrasound image looks oddly pristine, like it was pulled from a medical textbook rather than a real appointment.
My survival instincts are screaming at me to walk away from this opportunity, but they’re overshadowed by a louder, more insidious force—hope. Dangerous, desperate hope, whispering promises of a better future, and I can’t help but listen because I feel like I deserve something good to happen to me.
