Meeting The Client

My phone buzzed against my palm, the relentless vibration rattling the raw nerves running up my arm. I stood on the pavement outside Daphne’s imposing corporate building the next morning, staring at the cracked screen. The morning wind whipped around the concrete pillars of the city center, but the chill sinking into my bones had nothing to do with the weather. Jonah was spiraling.

*JONAH: Tell me you didn't do it yet.*

*JONAH: A vague live-in job? You don't even know who this client is. Turn around, Frey. Dexter gave you the night differential at the bar. We can survive without this.*

*JONAH: Answer me or I swear I'm coming down there.*

I drew a ragged breath and typed back, my thumbs stiff from the cold. *I am signing the papers now. I promise to leave at the first sign of danger. Trust me, Jonah. We need this.*

Three gray dots danced on the screen. My brother’s trauma-hardened teenage mind calculated every worst-case scenario. Our father had taught us both the brutal cost of blind trust, leaving scars that made Jonah question any stroke of good luck. He hated the idea of me living under a stranger's roof.

*JONAH: Define danger. Actually, forget it. You text me every single day. Morning and night. You miss one check-in, and I call the cops.*

*Deal,* I replied, forcing a smile he couldn't see. *You are on speed dial one. Go to school.*

I shoved the phone deep into the pocket of my worn denim jeans. I tipped my chin up, forcing my eyes to trace the towering glass face of the corporate headquarters. Yesterday, securing this job felt like grabbing a lifeline. Today, the weight of reality pressed down on my chest, threatening to crush my resolve. But hesitation was a luxury I lacked. Six grand a month meant survival.

I pushed through the heavy revolving doors, trading the chaotic city street for a climate-controlled sanctuary. The sterile air hit my flushed cheeks, cooling my racing blood. I marched straight to the elevators, ignoring the judgmental gaze of the lobby security guard eyeing my thrift-store sneakers and faded flannel shirt.

Upstairs, I stepped into Daphne’s office. She sat behind her pristine mahogany desk, a vision of polished perfection in a tailored cream suit. I claimed the sleek leather chair opposite her, my spine stiff as a board. I wiped my sweating palms against the rough fabric of my jeans, wishing the friction could erase the erratic tempo of my pulse.

"Good morning, Freya. You look nervous," Daphne noted, her sharp gaze pinning me in place.

"Just eager to get the details," I countered, keeping my voice level.

Daphne slid a thick blue folder across the desk. A heavy silver pen rested on the cover. As I reached for it, a palpable wave of relief washed over Daphne’s composed features. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. The tension bracketing her mouth vanished. The sheer magnitude of her relief sent a faint alarm bell ringing in my head. Why did an elite agency owner care so much about locking down a nobody housekeeper?

"The employment contract and the NDA," Daphne stated, tapping the folder.

I flipped the cover open. The Non-Disclosure Agreement stared back at me, a dense block of legal threats and enforced silence. The sight of it triggered a phantom sting across my cheek. The freezing air in the room thickened. I tasted Griffin’s bitter, arrogant smirk on the back of my tongue. I felt the sharp slap of a hush-money check hitting my face. The sickening memory of powerful men buying their way out of consequences made my lungs restrict, desperate for oxygen.

*Stop it,* I ordered myself, digging my fingernails into my thighs. *Bury it.*

Driven by a desperate, overwhelming need for the cash, I grabbed the silver pen. I slashed my signature across the dotted lines. I didn't bother reading the clauses. No amount of legal jargon could scare me more than the eviction notices piling up on our kitchen counter. I flipped to the employment contract and signed that too, binding myself to the unknown client.

I closed the folder and shoved it back across the smooth wood.

Daphne exhaled, a genuine smile breaking her strict facade. "Done. Now, do you want to know the identity of your new employer?"

I leaned back in the squeaking leather chair. "Who is it?"

She paused, steepling her manicured fingers. "Do you love baseball?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. My reaction was instinctual, venomous, and instantaneous.

"I hate baseball," I spat, the words tasting like poison. "I despise the game. I despise everything about it."

The image of the local stadium flooded my mind—the roars of the crowd, the untouchable athletes, the corrupt men who used their status to crush girls like me. I spent my nights scrubbing vomit off the bar floor while players like Griffin threw flying kisses to their girlfriends on massive television screens. The sport represented everything vile and entitled in my life.

Daphne blinked, her eyes widening in surprise. But instead of revoking the contract, my sheer disdain sparked a visible delight across her face. A sharp laugh bubbled past her lips.

"Really?" she pressed, leaning forward over the desk.

"I have zero interest in the sport," I assured her, my tone rigid.

"That is spectacular news," Daphne declared. "Because your new boss is a wildly popular MLB legend."

My stomach plummeted. A baseball player. My new employer belonged to the exact breed of arrogant, untouchable men I swore to avoid. But the ink on the contract was already drying, and the promise of a stocked pantry anchored me to the chair.

"I can clean a house," I promised her, pushing past the rising dread. "My profound distaste for his profession will not affect my duties in the slightest. I know how to keep my head down and mind my own business."

"I have no doubt about that," Daphne said, grabbing her designer handbag. "Let's go meet him."

The drive upstate felt like a journey to another planet. We left the smog and gridlock of Ashwood Bay behind, trading cracked pavement for a long, winding coastal highway. Daphne drove a silent, sleek luxury car. Classical music drifted from the speakers, mixing with the scent of expensive leather and the salty ocean breeze pouring through the cracked windows.

I watched the landscape transform. The dense urban sprawl gave way to lush, untouched forests and dramatic cliffs overlooking the churning sea. The deeper we drove into the wilderness, the tighter the knot in my stomach wound.

After an hour, the winding road ended abruptly. Towering, foreboding iron gates blocked our path. Thick stone pillars flanked the entrance, bearing a heavy brass plaque etched with curling letters: *Belmont Estate*.

Daphne rolled down her window to greet the private security detail stationed inside a reinforced booth. They waved her through without a second glance. The iron gates groaned, parting to reveal an immaculate, palm-lined driveway stretching deep into the property.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires. Perfectly manicured hedges formed a flawless green corridor. Then, the trees broke, and the house came into view.

It wasn't just a house. It was a sprawling, pale stone mansion that looked plucked from the pages of a European history book. Tall, arched windows caught the morning sunlight, gleaming like embedded jewels. The roofline stretched out in grand, imposing peaks. The sheer scale of the place made my breath hitch. It felt untouchable. It radiated an aura of ancient, ridiculously wealthy nobility, a fortress designed to keep the rest of the world locked out.

Daphne pulled the car into a massive circular driveway and killed the engine. The silence that followed felt heavy.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed my door open. The pristine air tasted like pine needles and ocean mist. I grabbed my worn duffel bag from the backseat, feeling the stark contrast between my frayed canvas strap and the millionaire surroundings.

Daphne rounded the hood of the car, the heels of her expensive stilettos clicking against the stone pavers. She paused, eyeing the dense tree line bordering the manicured lawns.

"A word of warning, Freya," Daphne said, her tone shedding its cheerful edge. "Do not wander the forested grounds alone."

I slung the bag over my shoulder. "Why? Security risks?"

"Bears," she corrected sharply. "Wild bears roam the outer property lines. Stick to the paved paths and the immediate backyard."

My grip on the duffel bag tightened. The isolation of the estate crashed down on me. I was miles from the city, trapped behind iron gates, surrounded by wild predators—and I hadn't even met the man I was supposed to work for.

"Noted," I muttered, fighting the sudden urge to jump back in the car.

"Good. Follow me," Daphne instructed.

She led me away from the grand front entrance, guiding me down a winding stone path that wrapped around the side of the mansion. The tension radiating off Daphne amplified my own suspense.

We emerged into a sprawling, manicured backyard. The grass looked softer than my living room carpet. In the center of the vast green lawn stood a man.

He had his broad back to us, wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt that stretched across a massive expanse of shoulders. He raised a muscular arm and forcefully hurled a slobber-covered tennis ball far across the field. Three massive dogs—an energetic husky and two massive golden retrievers—tore after it, their barks echoing off the stone walls.

The man turned around to watch them run.

The breath evaporated from my lungs. Even with my deep-seated hatred for the sport, I recognized the storm-eyed giant instantly. The rugged jawline shadowed by dark stubble. The intense, brooding features. The unruly dark hair blowing in the coastal wind.

Vaughn Mercer.

He was undisputed baseball royalty. His face dominated the sports networks. He was the subject of endless magazine covers. More importantly, he was the man staring down at me from the worn posters plastered across Jonah's bedroom walls. My brother worshiped the ground this man walked on, tracking his Hall of Fame career since childhood.

Vaughn’s gaze locked onto us. His reaction was immediate, explosive, and thunderous.

"What the hell is this?" he roared. His deep, rough voice struck the air like a physical blow, carrying easily over the vast expanse of the lawn.

I flinched, instinctively taking a half-step back. The sheer hostility radiating from his massive frame made my pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Daphne didn't even blink. She maintained her pristine posture as Vaughn’s predatory stride rapidly closed the distance between us. He crossed the grass with terrifying speed, stopping just a few feet away. Up close, his sheer size was overwhelming. He towered over me, a storm of fury and unyielding muscle.

"This is Freya Thorne," Daphne announced, her voice smooth and unbothered. "Your new housekeeper."

Vaughn didn't look at Daphne. His razor-sharp, terrifyingly intense gaze snapped to me. His storm-gray eyes swept over my fading jeans, my scuffed sneakers, and the frayed duffel bag clutched in my white-knuckled grip. The inspection felt like a brutally unsheathed blade scraping against my skin. He dissected me down to the bone before I could even drag a shallow breath into my lungs.

"No," he barked, the single word dripping with absolute rejection.

He shifted his furious glare back to Daphne. "I specifically told you to stop meddling in my goddamn life. I don’t want your pathetic strays in my house, Kensington."

My stomach plummeted. The insult hit its mark, burning a hot path of humiliation down my throat.

"Save us both the massive headache," Vaughn snarled, gesturing toward the driveway. "Take her away with you right now."

The venom in his voice made me feel like garbage. I stood paralyzed, holding my cheap bag, tossed aside before I had even managed to step a foot inside his home. I wanted to sink into the pristine grass and disappear. I wanted to run back to the safety of my cramped, rundown apartment.

But Daphne firmly planted her expensive heels into the turf. A gratingly cheerful tone laced her voice.

"I am afraid I cannot do that, Vaughn," she sang out, crossing her arms. "I have already irrevocably deposited her salary into her account. It is non-refundable."

Vaughn’s jaw ticked. The muscle in his cheek feathered so hard I thought his teeth might crack under the pressure. A dark, dangerous shadow passed over his face.

"I am not paying for this shit," he bit out, his voice dropping to a lethal, suffocating decibel. "Not in my damn house."

His bitter attitude laid everything bare. It became painfully, immediately clear why no one ever lasted working here. The man was a walking thunderstorm, hellbent on destroying anyone who dared step into his space.

I looked at the ground, the urge to flee burning in my veins. But then, an image flashed behind my eyes. The empty pill bottles on Mom’s nightstand. Jonah sitting at the kitchen table, taping the torn spine of a borrowed textbook. The hollow ache in my stomach after skipping dinner so they could eat.

A desperate, roaring fire ignited in the center of my chest. The flames licked at my bruised pride, incinerating my fear. I could not afford to lose this lifeline. I would rather die on this pristine lawn than go back to drowning in debt.

I squared my narrow shoulders. I tightened my grip on my duffel bag, tipped my chin up, and met his turbulent, dark gray eyes head-on.

"Then you will just have to deal with me," I declared. I forcefully pushed past the tremor shaking my vocal cords, projecting every ounce of defiance I possessed. "Because I am not giving back what is already sitting securely in my bank account."

Silence crashed over the yard.

Vaughn went utterly rigid. His storm-gray eyes darkened with something heavy, primal, and unreadable. The air between us cracked with a dangerous tension. He looked like a man preparing to unleash a hurricane.

Before he could retaliate, before his fury could break over my head, a wild commotion erupted behind him.

The three massive dogs came sprinting across the open field, their paws tearing up the grass. Daphne shrieked in a sudden panic, breaking her composed facade.

"Vaughn! Stop them!" she begged, stepping backward. "Stop your dogs!"

Vaughn turned to bark a command, but he was too late. One of the golden retrievers blew right past his muscular leg. The massive dog ignored its owner, bounding straight toward me. The brass tag on its collar jingled, catching the sunlight to reveal the name etched into the metal: *Maple*.

My breath caught in my throat as the beast stopped inches from my knees.

Maple padded happily up to me. The dog opened its jaws and unceremoniously dropped the slobbery, yellow-green tennis ball directly at my frayed sneakers. The ball rolled against my toe. Maple sat politely on its haunches, tilted its head, and began rapidly wagging its tail, simply waiting for me to play.