But the dishes are done. The toys are put away. I even found a candle under the sink—vanilla something—and lit it to mask the smell of old carpet and desperation.
Very classy, Kristen. Nothing says "I'm a competent professional" like a three-dollar candle from the dollar store.
The knock comes at exactly six o'clock.
Of course it does. Nico Sartori probably schedules his bathroom breaks.
I smooth down my shirt and take a breath. My reflection in the dark TV screen shows a woman who looks like she hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.
Because she hasn't.
I spent all night staring at the ceiling, running numbers in my head.
Just hear the terms. That's all. You can say no.
I open the door.
Nico stands in the hallway, looking exactly as out of place as he did yesterday. Dark suit. White shirt.
His eyes sweep over me once.
I step aside. "Come in."
He moves past me without a word.
I close the door and turn to find him standing in the middle of my living room, a leather folder in his hands. He's looking around, and I can see him noticing everything I tried to hide.
"Lily's not here," I say, because the silence feels too heavy. "My mother took her to the park."
His gaze lands on me. Holds. "You asked her to."
It's not a question.
"I wanted to hear what you had to say without..." I trail off, searching for the right word.
"Without a kid negotiating for more stuffed rabbits?"
My lips twitch despite myself. "Something like that."
He nods once, then gestures to the couch. "Sit."
Sit. Like I'm a dog. Like this is his apartment and I'm the guest.
I sit anyway. Because I need this job, and fighting with him over furniture won't pay my bills.
Nico doesn't sit. He stands across from me, opening the leather folder to reveal a stack of papers. His fingers flip through them.
"The position is temporary," he says. "Two months. You'll manage the household staff. Cleaning schedules, meal planning, supply orders. The current manager is taking personal leave."
"The salary," he continues, flipping to a new page. "Three thousand per week."
I blink.
Three thousand?—
"That's..." I do the math in my head, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. "That's twelve thousand a month."
"Yes."
