Clara Bennett arrived at the address with a tight chest and a worn canvas bag hanging from her arm. It was exactly 7:00 a.m., and the sky still carried that pale, cold tint of mornings when the world hasn’t fully woken up.
In the pocket of her uniform—cheap, bought with her last bit of money—was a crumpled piece of paper with the address written by hand. It felt less like directions… and more like a gamble.
The agency had called her the night before.
“We need someone immediately. Widowed businessman. Good pay… but no one lasts more than three days.”
Clara didn’t ask why.
When rent is overdue, debts are piling up, and your fridge is nearly empty… curiosity becomes a luxury.
When she rang the doorbell, the silence of the upscale street made her feel even more out of place.
Finally, the door opened.
A tired-looking woman in her fifties stood there, eyes sunken, face worn by sleepless nights.
“You’re the new one?” she asked flatly.
“Yes. Clara.”
“I’m Diane. House manager. Come in.”
The foyer hit her with a strange contrast—polished marble, a glittering chandelier, fresh flowers, expensive art.
Everything smelled like money.
And grief.