The sky had started folding into dusk, the kind that draped the estate in gold and gray, the shadows stretching like secrets across the path.
I needed air.
I left the folder back in the room they gave me without signing yet, after seeing the way Isaac watched me like I'd already given more than my name, I needed to breathe something that didn't feel like a deal.
So I wandered. Past the stone walkways, the place was wealth made sterile—every leaf and corner polished to a shine. It made my skin itch a little.
I pulled out my phone and tapped Maya's number, bringing it to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey. Can you let Mom know I won't be home tonight?"
A beat. "Why? Did you get called in?"
"No," I said, voice low. "Just—personal. I'll explain later."
"You okay?"
I didn't answer that part. "Tell her not to wait up."
Maya sighed. "Alright. Text me if you need anything."
"I will."
I ended the call and slipped the phone into my hoodie pocket just as I turned a corner—and saw her.
A little girl. Alone.
She stood at the edge of the small garden, barefoot on the trimmed grass, her fingers tangled in the hem of her cardigan like she wasn't sure what to do with them. Brown hair curled around her face, and her eyes—sharp, clear, observant—met mine without blinking.
She looked like she'd caught me trespassing.
I paused. "Hey," I said gently, not stepping closer. "You live here?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Who are you?"
I smiled. "I'm Gabriella. I'm working here for a while."
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious in the way only children who'd seen too much could be. "You work for him?"
"Him?"
"My dad."
I blinked. "Your dad is…?"
"Isaac Langton," she said flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "But you don't look like the others."
My heart hit something it couldn't name.
I hadn't expected this. A child. A whole person he'd made. A living, breathing reminder that Isaac Langton was more than just power and headlines. That behind all that control, there were pieces of him stitched into the world—small, vulnerable ones.
She studied me. "Are you scared of him?"
I managed to shake my head. "No. I'm not scared of him."
"Good," she said. "He doesn't like people who scare easily."
Before I could ask anything more, a sharp voice broke through the moment.
"Avery!" I've been calling you for ten minutes."
We both turned.
And there she was.
Wife.
Evening light hit her diamond necklace like it was part of her. Her heels sank into the grass with annoyance, her fitted dress more suited for a gallery opening than a backyard. She looked at me like I was dirt on her rug.
She walked straight toward us, not breaking stride.
"Avery, get over here."
The girl didn't move. Her shoulders locked up, jaw tight.
The woman turned her eyes on me. "And you are?"
"I'm Gabriella Carlos. Mr Langton hired me."
"Ah." Her eyes scanned me from shoes to hair. "The nurse. How charming."
I ignored the acid in her voice, the way she said "nurse" like it was synonymous with "nuisance."
She snapped her fingers at Avery. "Now, please."
Avery turned, but instead of going to her, she brushed past her. Deliberate. Wordless.
The woman's face didn't twitch. "Lovely," she muttered.
"She seems like a great kid," I said quietly.
She glanced at me, eyes gleaming.
We stood in silence for a beat too long. Then she straightened her already-perfect posture.
"Well. Welcome to the estate, Miss Carlos. I'm sure you'll find the position… rewarding."
I gave a tight smile. "I'm not here for rewards."
She didn't reply. Just turned and walked back toward the house, her heels digging into the earth like it offended her.
The silence she left behind felt better.
I looked toward where Avery had gone, deeper into the garden.
So Isaac had a daughter.
And a wife who clearly wasn't anything close to nice.
And suddenly, this house full of curated calm and wealth and silence felt less like a mansion, and more like a place where people locked things behind doors. Secrets. Wounds. Maybe even someone like me.
That night, I woke up choking on nothing.
Sheets tangled around my legs. My skin is damp. My throat was dry like I'd swallowed ash. The room was dark, too quiet—except for my pulse, hammering in my ears.
It took me a few seconds to remember where I was. Not my bed. Not my walls. The Langton estate. The expensive silence wrapped around me like a net.
I pressed a hand to my chest.
The dream still clung to me—too vivid, too close.
Pills. Scattered across a hospital floor. My hands were trembling as I tried to pick them up, but they melted into blood. And then Marcus's voice—soft, forgiving, dying.
"You said you'd save me."
He'd been lying on a hospital bed in that dream, just like the last time I saw him. His face pale, his lips cracking. I'd held his hand too late.
You said you'd save me.
I stumbled out of bed, heart clawing at my ribs. My feet hit the floor, cold and real, but I wasn't grounded. Not yet. Not enough.
I moved on instinct. Out of the room, with a blanket over my shoulder. Down the long hall, where the light was low and the air held that faint scent of sage and something artificial. Like peace, bottled and labeled.
I found a side door and pushed it open, slipping into the garden.
The cool air met my face like a slap, but it helped. A little. I inhaled deeply, clutching my arms like I could hold myself together.
The garden was quiet. Perfect. Like a magazine spread.
And I hated how fake it felt.
I stood there. In the grass, trying to breathe through the ache in my lungs.
Then I heard it.
Glass clinking.
I turned my head and there he was—Isaac.
Leaning against a stone pillar on the edge of the veranda. His shirt clung slightly to one side, still favoring his injured shoulder. He had a glass in his hand, fingers curled around it loosely. His limp was still noticeable when he shifted his weight.
I didn't move. Neither did he.
"Planning your robbery?" he finally said, his voice low, dry, edged with something that could've been sarcasm—or caution.
I shook my head. "Not tonight."
He studied me in the dark, the rim of his glass brushing his lip. His gaze wasn't invasive—but it landed on me like a touch.
"You look like you saw something."
The wind moved between us. My nightdress—thin, barely brushing mid-thigh—fluttered slightly, catching a drift. His eyes flicked down. Briefly. Just once. A glance that lingered half a second too long on my bare legs before he looked away again.
Heat bloomed under my skin.
But neither of us acknowledged it.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, suddenly aware of how much of me the silk revealed. The air shifted. Not enough to call tension. But close.
"It was a dream," I said. "The kind that doesn't stay in bed."
He took a slow sip of his drink, but his eyes were back on my face. "You walk like you're trying to outrun something."
"I am."
"And did you?"
I looked past him. To the moonlit garden. To the silence still pressing in from every direction. "Not yet."
His glass lowered, and he leaned against the pillar again. "You're brave, showing up here the way you did."
"I'm broke, not brave."
His mouth curved—just the edge of it. "There's a difference?"
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure anymore.
The night cooled around us, but I was burning just beneath the skin. From the dream. From the air. From the way he was watching me like I wasn't supposed to be this close, this quiet, this… undone.
"Do you always drink alone?" I asked.
His brow lifted. "Do you always wander gardens in a nightdress?"
Touché.
"I didn't plan this," I said, stepping closer to the low stone bench. I sat down slowly, tucking the blanket over my lap. "I couldn't sleep."
"I gathered."
He moved—limping toward the bench. Not beside me, but close enough that I felt the air shift. The scent of his cologne followed—earthy, clean, threaded with something darker beneath. My skin prickled. Not from cold.
There was quiet.
His gaze flicked over me—neck, shoulders, legs—as if noticing how little I was trying to cover. I should've pulled the blanket tighter. I didn't.
He set his drink down on the ledge. "You were shaking."
"I still am."
His eyes lowered, to my hands now. And just like that, the space between us changed.
Not loud. Not sudden.
But heavier. Denser.