By the time the Uber turns up the winding hill, my phone has died and my courage is right behind it.
Los Angeles stretches out below us, a glittering sprawl of possibility and bad decisions. I press my forehead to the cool window, tracking the way the city lights smear into gold ribbons in the distance. Up here, it feels quieter, like the noise can’t quite climb this far.
The driver whistles low. “Fancy.”
I follow his gaze and my stomach flips. The house—if you can even call it that—crouches at the end of a private drive like a spaceship that decided to cosplay as a mansion. Glass. Steel. Clean lines. Everything spotless and intentional, from the sharp angles to the manicured succulents that look too perfect to be real.
I grip my duffel tighter. Two shirts, one pair of jeans that aren’t ripped in the wrong places, my favorite mug wrapped in an old hoodie. The sum total of my life that doesn’t fit into a line item on my credit card statement.
“You sure this is the right address?” I ask, because maybe—just maybe—there’s another 2120 Crescent Ridge Drive that belongs to a moderately wealthy accountant with a nice, emotionally stable wife who needs a nanny.
The driver lifts a brow. “Unless you’re planning to crash some movie star’s place, yeah. This is it.”
My laugh comes out thinner than I’d like. Crash some movie star’s place. If only he knew.
The agency email swims up in my memory: *Live-in nanny, immediate start. Discretion essential. Client prefers to remain anonymous.* The pay had looked like a typo. Ten minutes after I’d sent a desperate, rambling reply, my phone had rung. A clipped, efficient voice. Could I interview over video? Could I start next week if hired? Could I relocate to Los Angeles?
Could I.
Could I, with my bank account gasping and an eviction notice as a cheerful splash of color on my fridge? With my ex texting me photos of his new girlfriend’s dog “because you always wanted one, right?” Could I say no?
The metal gates glide open before the car even stops. Cameras perched on sleek black posts pivot smoothly. I feel exposed, like every frayed thread on my thrift-store cardigan is broadcasting itself in high definition.
The driver clears his throat. “Want me to wait?”
It’s a kind offer, which makes it dangerous. If I say yes, I might climb right back into this car at the first hint of cold air and never know if I was walking away from the one miracle the universe owed me.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, mostly to myself.
Outside, the air is cooler than the valley floor, edged with salt from the ocean I can’t see. I heft my bags and walk toward the front entrance, footsteps hushed on pale stone. The house is all glass panes and shadowy interiors, the kind of place where you’re supposed to look but never really touch.
The massive front door swings open before I can knock.
The woman standing there is maybe in her late fifties, dark hair pulled into a severe knot, black dress as crisp as a photograph. Her posture says housekeeper. Her eyes say judge, jury, and executioner.
“Miss Carter?” she asks, accent soft and Spanish, gaze flicking from my scuffed sneakers to my split ends.
