I push the thought away, locking it in a box.
My employer. My salary. The gate between Landon and me.
Nothing else. Nothing.
But the box floats, and the lock is cheap.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I quickly fall asleep.
I wake to the feeling of a heavy object being crushed between my shoulder blades.
Every vertebra in my spine has apparently formed a union overnight and filed a formal complaint against the velvet settee.I’m curled in the shape of a comma, my neck at an angle that will require an exorcist to undo, and one of my legs is hanging off the edge of the couch.
I blink as the morning light spills through Anya’s curtains, illuminating the vast room.
I lie still for a moment. I was here last night, but only in the dark, only in fragments: the crescent moon nightlight, the shape of Anya curled in her bed, the outline of furniture in shadow. Now, in daylight, I see all of it.
The room is white.
Not warm white. Not cream or ivory or any of the twenty-seven shades of off-white that interior designers argue about. Just white. The walls, the ceiling, the bed frame, the dresser, the bookshelf. Even the curtains. Everything is the same flat, pristine, untouched shade of nothing.
There are toys in the corner, neatly arranged on a shelf. Dolls still in their packaging. Boardgames with unbroken seals. A dollhouse with furniture perfectly positioned in each tiny room, as if no small hand has ever rearranged it. The only thing that is touched, worn, loved is Mr. Whiskers, who is currently wedged between Anya’s chin and her pillow.
The floor is cold, polished marble, beautiful, but no rug, no soft surface for a six-year-old to sit on while she draws, which might explain why she draws behind curtains and in every room of this house except the one that’s supposed to be hers.
It’s clean and expensive, but also completely devoid of personality. No drawings on the walls. No color anywhere, not a single splash of the vivid, detailed, extraordinary world that lives inside Anya’s sketchbook.
I know this isn’t my place to fix. I’m a tutor, not a decorator, not a parent, not a permanent fixture. But the whiteness of this room, the emptiness of it, makes me want to go buy a gallon of paint and let Anya choose the color.
She’s still asleep.
I sit up slowly, and my back protests with a symphony of cracks.
Picking up the empty mug from the nightstand, I glance down only to catch sight of my pajamas.
I blush, remembering the embarrassment of last night.
I glance outside the door and to the hallway beyond. The theoretical possibility of encountering other humans or, God forbid, one specific human with blue eyes and a jawline and a habit of appearing in kitchens without warning has my nerves misfiring.
But it’s empty.
I make it to my room in four seconds flat, which might be a personal record. I close the door, lean against it, and make a solemn vow to the ceiling and to whatever deity watches over mortals who humiliate themselves in front of beautiful men,I will never wear these pajamas again. I will burn them. I will salt the earth where they fall.
I reach for my phone to check for messages like I do every morning, but the only notification on the screen is a deposit confirmation. My weekly payment, on schedule.
I let out a slow breath of relief, using this as a reminder of why I’m here. Of what brought me to this house, to this contract.
I open the banking app, enter the amount, adjusted for this month’s increased rate, and send the transfer to Landon.
I shower and dress quickly, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. Dark jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and the flats with the scuffed toes.
The rest of the day is math.
Or, rather, the rest of the day is supposed to be math. According to the curriculum I’ve designed, a structured but flexible program that covers reading, writing, math, science, and art across the week, Saturday mornings are for number work. Patterns, counting, and basic addition.
The problem? Anya hates math.
She doesn’t even have to say it. Her shoulders climb toward her ears, her pencil grip tightens, and Mr. Whiskers gets pulled closer than normal. She stares at the numbers as if they’ve personally offended her.
