Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused hand, leaning against the side of his battered pickup truck. The San Francisco Bay Area sun was unforgiving, and the check he was about to receive for this rushed, poorly managed renovation was barely enough to cover his materials, let alone his rent. At thirty-five, Ethan was a gifted craftsman—a carpenter and general contractor with an eye for detail—but his life was a relentless cycle of scraping by, always navigating the narrow gap between doing quality work and surviving the next bill.
His phone, a cheap, cracked model, buzzed with an unknown number. He ignored it, focused instead on securing the last of his tools. It buzzed again, followed by a text message:
Mr. Ethan Thorne. Re: Private coastal restoration project. Discretion required. Please call back immediately.
The professional formality and the promise of "discretion" caught his attention. He dialed the number. A voice, cool and impeccably modulated—the voice of an expensive personal assistant—answered instantly.
"Mr. Thorne, thank you for calling. Ms. Dubois requires your services immediately for a significant, high-value project in Big Sur. It is a long-term, isolated commitment. Can you meet this afternoon at two?"
Big Sur. That wasn't just miles away; it was worlds away, geographically and financially.
Two hours later, Ethan was sitting uncomfortably in a high-backed leather chair in a minimalist coffee shop downtown. He was wearing his cleanest jeans and a fresh, if faded, work shirt, feeling conspicuous amidst the tailored suits and quiet hum of wealth.
Vivian Dubois arrived without fanfare. She was striking, not in an overtly glamorous way, but with an austere, refined beauty that spoke of impeccable breeding and effortless control. She was perhaps in her early fifties, her silver hair pulled back in a neat coil, and she carried a slim portfolio. Her eyes, the color of sea-glass, held a practiced detachment.
She didn't offer a handshake, merely slid the portfolio across the marble table.
"Mr. Thorne, I'll be direct. I own a property on a highly volatile section of the Big Sur coastline. It's a modern cabin, but the elements have taken their toll. I need the best hands, and I need absolute, unassailable privacy. I have seen your past work—your joinery, specifically, is superb."
Ethan opened the portfolio. Inside were architectural schematics for a glass and exotic wood sanctuary clinging to a cliff face. The complexity of the structure made his breath catch. Then he saw the proposed budget for the labor alone. The figure was astronomical—more than he had earned in the last two years combined.
"The terms are simple," Vivian continued, her voice never rising above a confident murmur. "You will live on-site in a separate annex. You will be compensated weekly. You will have no contact with the outside world, save for essential supply runs. No personal guests. No photographs. And you will not, under any circumstances, discuss my name, the location, or the work with anyone. Not during, not after. Ever."
Ethan swallowed, the bitter taste of his cheap coffee suddenly prominent. "That's... that's a heavy price for a repair job, Ms. Dubois."
"It is a price for my peace, Mr. Thorne. And it is a price I am willing to pay to the right person." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "The money is life-changing. But the job requires you to give up your current life for six months to a year. You will be working for me, and only for me. Can you handle the isolation and the commitment?"
The proposition was crazy, unsettling, and slightly illicit. But the image of his mounting debt, the worn tires on his truck, and the sheer challenge of the architectural drawings made the decision for him. It wasn't just money; it was freedom from the endless grind.
He closed the portfolio and met her gaze. "I can. When do I start?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Vivian's mouth. "Tomorrow. I will send coordinates. Pack light, Ethan. You won't need much out there."