There’s a guard station to the right, a concrete structure with tinted windows.
As the car slows, a man materializes.
He’s not what I’d call a security guard. Security guards wearpolyester uniforms, carry flashlights, and say things like, “Do you have an appointment?”
This man is equipped with a tactical vest over a dark shirt, and there’s a bulge on his hip that I tell myself is a radio. He approaches the car with a measured gait as if the vehicle might explode at any moment.
The driver lowers his window. Words are exchanged in — what’s that, Russian? It’s fast, clipped. The guard leans down and checks the back seat. His eyes move across my face with the efficiency of a scanner searching for a threat.
My instinct is to wave. To say hello. But I remember how that went with the driver, so I keep my mouth shut and try to look as non-threatening as possible.
It’s not a difficult task. I’m five foot three on a good day. I weigh a hundred and eighteen pounds. And I’m carrying a purse with a broken zipper that contains a tube of lip balm, my phone, a wallet with eleven dollars in it, and a granola bar I brought in case I got hungry.
I am, by any reasonable metric, the least threatening person in a twenty-mile radius.
The guard doesn’t seem convinced. He steps back and talks into his wrist. Hiswrist, like a freaking spy movie.
As soon as he finishes his scene, the gate begins to open.
For a moment, I’m flooded with relief. One barrier crossed. One task successfully completed. Then the opening gate starts to groan, and a whole new thread of nerves tangles up inside of me.
“You belong here,” I quietly lie to myself.
I’m practically rocking in my seat as we pass through.
The drive beyond the gate is longer than I could have imagined. Gravel, white and clean, crunching under the tires. Trees on both sides, bare now, November having stripped them down to skeletons. Still, the branches form a canopy overhead that must be beautiful in the spring.
Then, I see it. Or the first glimpse of it.
The house doesn’t appear all at once. It reveals itself in stages, first the roofline, dark against the gray sky, then the upper windows, the stone facade, followed by the full scope of it, spreading across the landscape.
The job listing didn’t mention what the parents do. “Private family seeks live-in tutor for six-year-old daughter.” That’s all it said. I assumed business. Finance, maybe. Tech money.
Whatever the source of income, it managed to buy an absolutely gorgeous home. There’s no denying the beauty of it, but there’s also something… off.
It takes me a moment to understand what feels wrong.
Home. The word doesn’t fit. This doesn’t look like a home.
The owner probably invested an enormous amount of resources in making sure not a single thing is out of place, but that sort of investment isn’t about aesthetics.
It’s about control.
Political, I think, trying to find a category that makes sense.Maybe diplomatic. Embassy adjacent. Something like that.
The car pulls up, and I realize I almost wasn’t nervous for the few minutes I was trying to figure this place out. If only I could hold onto that curiosity. But it slips away as the driver opens my door.
With a shaky breath, I shuffle out and step onto the immaculately kept gravel.
“So, this is it, huh?” I awkwardly smile before I can stop myself.
Predictably, the driver doesn’t react.
Oops.
Gathering myself, I straighten my blouse and double-check to make sure my portfolio is in my bag.
Then I look at the darkly handsome, dangerously mute driver for instructions on what to do next.
