Page 7 of Captured By the Bratva

“Is that relevant?”

“I need you to answer the questions if I’m going to help you.”

“No, I never knew my father. Didn’t even know his name.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied, and looks up at me with that same professional calm, yet there’s an intensity in her gaze, as if she’s weighing a decision.

“Ms. Taylor,” she begins, closing the file with a soft click, “I believe we have a position in our organization that might be better-suited to someone with your experience and qualifications than the typing pool.”

I sit up a little straighter, my heart beginning to race. Is my luck finally turning? “You do?”

“Yes,” she replies, pulling a second file from her drawer. “We need a cleaner for our CEO.”

She slides the file across the desk toward me. Inside, I see a map of a sprawling mansion, large enough to seem almost like a maze. I glance up at Amanda, unsure if I’m imagining things, but her calm, measured expression tells me she’s serious.

“My employer,” she explains, “is a highly private individual who, amongst other assets, owns this estate just outside New York. He travels frequently, and at the moment, he’s busy in Moscow.

“However, he requires all his homes to be kept in impeccable condition, ready for his return at any time. Your job would be to stop the dust gathering, so to speak.”

The thought of cleaning a mansion is daunting, and I feel a small knot of uncertainty twist in my stomach. “So…I’d be cleaning the whole place? On my own?”

Amanda nods, her tone even. “Not the entire place. Certain areas will be entirely off-limits.” She points to the map, outlining sections that are marked in red. “These rooms are for his private use only and are to be avoided completely. However, you’ll have access to the main living spaces, kitchens, and entryways.”

“Kitchens, plural? How big is this place?”

She smiles. “Big. Now, Mr. Morosov is highly particular about his privacy, which means you won’t have to interact with him directly. You’ll be working alone, and I will arrange for a car to pick you up and drop you off each day. Any questions so far?”

“What kind of pay are we talking about?” I ask, my voice coming out more hesitant than I intended.

Amanda’s mouth curves into a small smile. “Five thousand dollars.”

“Per year?” My heart begins to sink.

“Monthly. There’s also a twenty-thousand-dollar signing bonus if you accept today. The salary is paid monthly in advance, so if you’ll just sign here, I’ll have twenty-five thousand dollars wired to your account immediately.” She holds out her pen and a contract.

Twenty thousand dollars just to sign on, plus monthly pay that would finally let me pay down my medical debt, finally giveme the freedom I’ve been craving. The idea of turning it down feels almost impossible.

“This sounds too good to be true,” I murmur, still processing the offer, the opportunities this could bring.

Amanda gives a slight nod, as if she expected my hesitation. “The position isn’t for everyone. Our owner requires a high level of discretion and reliability, and it’s essential that any staff members follow his guidelines precisely. It’s a lot of responsibility and the pay reflects that.”

I nod, trying to keep my mind focused on the good things—the financial stability, the solitude. “Yes, I understand. And I’d be okay, alone in the house?”

Her eyes meet mine, steady and reassuring. “Yes. You’d have a safe, structured environment with everything arranged by our agency. I’ve got a couple of calls to make. You sit and look over the contract. I’ll be back in five. Do you need a coffee or anything?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head in a daze. “I’m fine, thanks.”

She heads out of the door. She’s barely gone a minute when my phone buzzes. I cringe, I forgot to silence it. I pull it out and check the screen. A name flashes up, familiar and unwelcome. Jimmy.

A surge of anxiety washes over me, tightening my chest as I open the message.

Cathy, please. I miss you. I know things got bad, but I was under a lot of stress, and I made mistakes. I know you’re struggling without me. You don’t have to keep doing this on your own. Come back, and we’ll fix things together. Let me take care of you. You know you need me, Cathy. You always have. I love you.

The words hit me like a punch, sharp and familiar. My hands tremble as I read it, my mind flooding with memories, each one tugging at the fragile resolve I’ve been trying to build.

He always knew just how to phrase things, just the right tone to make it sound like he was offering me security instead of control. For a moment, the doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe he’s right, that maybe I can’t do this alone.

I look at the contract and then at the message. A simple choice, I guess.

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