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NINE

NATALIE

“There’s a camera here?” I point to it in the corner of the ceiling.

“There are multiple cameras inside the house, in the main areas,” Julien says, unfazed. “There are several cameras outside.”

I tense up and lower my eyes. No matter where you are, cameras make an average person nervous. They project a not-so-subtle sense of invading one’s privacy. Nowadays, cameras are everywhere—on the streets, in public places, inside businesses, at every other traffic light. We never give it a second thought. But there’s something unsettling about being watched on cameras in someone’s house and in a private setting.

Julien points to several more rooms and then shows me the upper-floor balcony that’s larger than my entire apartment in Jersey City. Before I even get a chance to poke my head outside, he’s already walking back to the staff stairs.

“Who’s watching the cameras?” I ask as we descend the stairs, and I notice another camera. I make a mental note about its location.

Julien tugs at his suit sleeve, not sparing even a glance in my direction. Seriously, it’s impossible to have more disregard for a fellow staff member. I respect discipline, but come on! A tad of politeness never killed anybody. I have a strong feeling we won’t be getting along.

“Some of the catering supplies will be here at noon tomorrow,” he tells me. “I expect you to be here at ten.”

“In the morning?”

He halts abruptly, making me run into the side of his arm, and slowly turns to look at me. He cups his hands in front of him in that bodyguard pose that makes him look intimidating. Especially when his eyes bore into me.

I don’t budge and raise my chin.

“You wanted a job? You got a job,” he says. “Work hours at The Splendors are nonnegotiable. You can walk out right now.”

Somehow, I feel that he’d like that.

“What are the hours tomorrow?”

“Ten to eleven.”

“And on Saturday?” I hope I can survive this guy and the brutal hours.

“Ten to eleven. However, if you are asked to stay later, you are expected to do so. That’s why you get paid in cash.”

That’s a thirteen-hour day two days in a row, plus however many hours they want me to work today. No wonder the other housekeeper got intoxicated on the job. On second thought, I need to find out what exactly happened to her. Emergency leave and intoxication on the job are two completely different things. The stories about her don’t line up.

Julien is studying my face like he’s expecting me to change my mind. “If it’s too much, tell me right now. No hard feelings.”

He already said that.

“No, thank you.” I give him my most insincere smile, holding it in place.

Our eyes lock. This is a staring competition again, and this moment between us is peculiar. I’m tense and nervous, but also excited. Why? Not sure. I didn’t expect to run into a guy who would be challenging me before I even started my job. Also, trying to talk me out of it.

But it’s all right. He’s easier than fifty percent of the customers I’ve dealt with while bartending since my sophomore year in college. In Manhattan, that’s no small achievement. I need to find a proper angle with him.

“You think you can follow the rules?” Julien asks.

He’s definitely good at what he does. Discipline, order, meticulousness. All about the rules.

I can do it, too. Definitely. For the money, but more importantly, to figure out why Rosenberg’s house feels like a prison and what happens to women here.

“Absolutely,” I say, still holding my smile, though my face feels numb.

Julien studies me a bit longer. A barely audible “hmm” escapes him.

“Ready to start?” he asks.

Well, goddamn, ask me again.

I bring the tip of my right hand to the side of my forehead in a military salute. “Yes, boss.”

For a moment, Julien’s gaze softens, and the skin in the corners of his eyes crinkles in a teeny-tiny sign of a smile, which never makes it to his lips.

“Did you bring a change of clothes?” he asks.

I shake my head. Not a big deal, right? It’s my first day. I’m thinking they’ll have me organize the kitchen, count the silverware and glassware, decorate the party room. Despite the catering service, there’s still a lot of work to do.

My phone pings, and by reflex, I pull it out of the pocket and see a message from Nick.

Nick: How is it going, doll?

I can’t wait to chat with him. Maybe he’ll give me pointers on how to deal with this grumpy house manager.

“Your phone has to go into the locker,” Julien reminds me in his cold-as-steel voice.

His eyes are on my phone screen. He slowly blinks up, his gaze on me hardening.

“Right,” I blurt, tucking the phone into my pocket. “What do you want me to start with for the party?”

He turns and starts walking away, throwing over his shoulder, “You start with cleaning all the bathrooms.”

Asshole.