I cross over Lake Washington, and soon I’m on the other side—the rich side.
I exit the highway, and my directions take me on a winding route through residential streets where everything is hidden behind trees and hedges. That’s how you know these people have money—everything is hidden behind massive trees. My directions take me onto a narrow, two-lane road, and I have to squint at all the mailboxes to see which house is the right one. Finally, I find the right address, and I pull into the impossibly long driveway.
Of course it’s a mansion. Of course.
I quickly pull in behind a Porsche Cayenne and duly note that it is a hybrid. Only in Seattle.
Since I’m fifteen minutes early, I whip my phone out and text Violet, scanning the house to make sure I’m not being watched. It’s massive—like, massive. Or maybe I’m just used to the small, craftsman bungalows in my neighborhood. It’s dark, so I can’t see much, but it looks wooden, and it resembles a very large cabin in the woods. Since the position is live-in, I guess I would technically be living here. If I even get the job…
Holy shit, Vi. This place is huge. BlahVue is as to be expected, though, and I’m sure I’ll feel very poor the second I walk in.
She texts back almost immediately.
TELL ME EVERYTHING WHEN YOU’RE DONE.
I promise her that I will, and I sit there for five more minutes, fidgeting with the radio before deciding that seven minutes early is not too early. I run my fingers through my long hair and decide at the last minute to throw it up into a ponytail. I have more hair than I know what to do with, so in order to avoid the inevitable mess later, I almost always have to pull it back. I pull the visor mirror down briefly to check my face and do a once-over.
It’ll do.
I get out of my car and throw on my jacket. I’m still not entirely comfortable with how tight the dress is, and my jacket covers everything up.
I should’ve just worn some damn jeans.
I lock my car but soon realize it’s pointless in this neighborhood. This is the kind of place that has a neighborhood watch program. God, those volunteers must be so bored every night. Bellevue has about one murder a year.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk up to the front door. I check my phone again. Six minutes early.
Should I wait? Should I knock? Should I—
The door swings open, and an older woman with short, blond hair greets me. She smells like some sort of fancy perfume.
“Hello, you must be Evianna Halle.” She thrusts her hand forward, and I shake it. I’ve been told my handshake is too weak, so I grip her hand tightly to make up for it.
“Yes, hello,” I answer.
“Come inside,” she says, moving comfortably to the side and allowing me to enter. “I’m Cecelia, Nick’s mother-in-law,” she says soothingly. She smiles, and her whole body seems relaxed and comfortable, like she’s the kind of person who does a lot of yoga.
“Thank you, Mrs…” I trail off, realizing I don’t know her last name.
“Oh, you can call me Cecelia. Was the drive all right?” she asks, ushering me inside and waving for me to follow her. “You can set your coat and purse on the couch,” she says, waving to a small, velvet couch in the foyer.
“The drive was fine,” I say, removing my coat. My layer of protection is gone. I feel so exposed, even though I know the dress looks fine. I unconsciously pull at the hem anyways.
I glance around. Oh, they definitely have money. I wonder what Nick and his wife do for a living. Polished, marble floors line the foyer, and beyond that, rustic wood flooring—the kind that costs a lot of money. Vintage furniture makes up the rest of the large foyer, and I spot a chaise lounge in the living room, just to the right. I can’t help but imagine members of the family reclining on that lounger, sipping rich-person drinks. I hope they’re not snobby…
“Where are you coming from?” Cecelia asks, and I have to tear my eyes away from a large portrait hanging up on the wall.