CHAPTER 1
AMALIE
Ishouldn’t be here.
Men like Roman Barinov don’t hire girls like me. They ruin them.
Good thing I’m not here to be ruined.
The Barinov mansion rises from Chicago’s Gold Coast like a threat carved from stone, all shadow, wealth, and quiet power. It looks like a castle and a prison had a beautiful, brutal child and dropped it in the middle of the city.
The epitome of every dark billionaire fantasy I’ve ever binged. Only this time, I’m not behind the screen. I’m the one stepping inside.
“Two months,” I whisper. “That’s all I need to get what I came for.”
Two months, and I’ll have Mom’s bills covered and the clean slate I so desperately need.
I clutch my tote to my side so hard the canvas bites into my palm. The late-winter wind cuts through my coat, sharp enough to sting.
The temp agency called it a simple nanny gig. Apparently they define simple very differently than I do.
They left out the part about the armed guards and the way the air feels charged, like the house is watching.
I've seen worse.
Okay, that's a lie. But I'm committed now.
I straighten my shoulders and take one last inhale that doesn’t help at all before stepping up the stone stairs anyway. The front doors loom overhead, arched and ornate, dripping luxury and intimidation.
The steel knocker is heavy, and cold against my fingers. The sound echoes through the mansion like an announcement: game on.
“Name?”
The voice slides through the air, smooth and authoritative, carrying an accent that sounds both expensive and dangerous. I scan the front, looking for whoever owns it, until I spot the black camera pointed straight at my face.
Well. That feels healthy.
Perfect. They’re already studying me.
“Amalie Denning,” I say, steady and loud enough to carry. “I’m here for the nanny interview with Mr. Barinov. I’m a little early, but”
The sound of a bolt sliding free cuts me off.
The heavy doors open with a groan that sounds centuries old.
Two men fill the entryway. Suits. Tattoos. Guns. Not hired muscle. Enforcers.
Men who look like they’ve done terrible things and never lost sleep over them.
My pulse jumps, but I don’t let it show. The trick is simple: look like you belong until everyone else believes it too.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Amalie.”
And I fully intend to leave this place with all my organs exactly where they started.
They hold my gaze a moment too long.
Then one steps aside.
