Page 11 of Man of the Year

You have no idea what’s waiting for you here. Your friend is fighting for her life in the hospital, but here you are—following in her footsteps, walking straight into the trap.

SEVEN

NATALIE

We still haven’t moved an inch closer to the staff entrance door. I think Julien is profiling me. We have a little staring competition going on, and I let him take his time, not saying a single word, feeling the tension rising in me—I want this job badly.

“It’s quite unusual,” Julien finally says, “that you got this job so fast and at the request of the boss.”

My eyebrows rise in surprise. “The boss? I talked to Nick, the driver.”

“Makes sense.”

Does it? “Meaning?”

“Special favors and all.”

“No, actually…”

I shut up instantly when I realize what he’s insinuating.

Are you kidding me?

It takes me a moment to pull myself back together. Julien must’ve noticed my expression change, because a barely noticeable smirk curls at one corner of his lips.

“Follow me,” he says in a tone five degrees colder. He finally opens the staff door and—what do you know—holds it for me.

I can tell that I’m unwanted here, but once again, nothing I haven’t seen before. Every business and establishment has a well-oiled crew that often doesn’t warmly welcome the outsiders right away.

“Apparently, there’s an issue with one of your housekeepers,” I say to make a point as I step into a bright hallway.

Julien stops and stares at me again.

Ugh.If we’re going to pause in every room we walk through, it will take a week to walk through this mansion.

“Make sure you follow the rules and instructions,” he says, “so there’s no issue with you either.”

Either? Is that a warning?

“Work dress code is a black button-up,” he says monotonously, as if reading a memo, “black pants, black shoes, and a white neckerchief around your neck.”

For cleaning? Really? I was expecting some sort of common uniform, not dress clothes.

“No loose hair,” he continues. “No perfumes, incense, or air fresheners. No food anywhere outside the staff quarters. Don’t be late for work. You won’t be able to leave early either, unless previously discussed.” He is reciting the house rules like I’m a prisoner. “You’ve already met Dave. There’s one more security guard, Steve.”

I nod.

“The housekeeper is Rosalie. She’ll be in charge of everything you do. There is a gardener, Walter, a maintenance worker, Sagar, and a driver. This”—he motions to his left—“is the staff stairs to the second floor. To my right is the staff kitchen, the storage room, and lockers.”

He turns and walks toward the doorway that leads into a spacious kitchen. The large kitchen island is crowded with boxes and bags of what appear to be catering supplies.

“Well, hello,” says a cheerful female voice, and I turn to see a short woman in her forties approaching me with a smile. “I’m Rosalie, the housekeeper.”

She offers her hand for a shake.

Black pants, black button-up shirt with—yep—a white neckerchief around her neck. Her jet-black hair with gray streaks is tied into a knot at the back. Her smile is warm, but her gaze on me is more curious and cautious than friendly.

“Natalie,” I say, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you.”

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