Maya bit her lip, suppressing the urge to snap back at his arrogant tone. She turned on her heel and left him standing there in the middle of that creepy, shifted living room. "Fine. Be a jerk. See if I care," she mumbled under her breath, loud enough for her own satisfaction but quiet enough that he didn't hear.
When she got outside, the driver was already waiting by the gate. She didn't look back at the jagged silhouette of Rosewood. She was too busy trying to settle her racing heart.
By the time she got home, she was a zombie. She barely had the energy to say hi to Kim before she crashed onto her bed, still smelling faintly of jasmine and old dust. She fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to be jolted awake the next morning by the aggressive buzz of her phone.
It was a text from the night before, sent at 2:00 AM.
Mr. Clarke: The driver will pick you up at 10:00 AM. You're coming to my office first.
Maya sat up, rubbing her eyes. "What the hell?" she whispered. Was he firing her? Did he think she was the one who moved the furniture? Or maybe he decided she was too "difficult" to work with. Her mind spiraled through every bad scenario as she got ready, but by 10:00 AM sharp, she was standing on the curb, ready for whatever he was going to throw at her.
When they arrived at the Clarke corporate headquarters, the atmosphere was a total 180 from the manor. It was all glass, steel, and people in suits running around like their lives depended on it. Maya was led to a waiting area outside a massive glass-walled conference room. Inside, she could see Kevin. He looked like a different person—intense, commanding, and absolutely in control as he ended a high-stakes meeting.
Five minutes later, he walked out, grabbing his jacket. "Let's go," was all he said.
Maya followed him down to the garage, but instead of the usual black SUV, a sleek silver sports car was waiting. Kevin got into the driver's seat, and Maya hesitantly hopped into the passenger side. As they sped out of the city toward the outskirts, the silence in the car was suffocating.
Maya couldn't take it anymore. The questions started pouring out of her like a flood.
"Why the sudden change of plans, Mr. Clarke?" she asked, her voice echoing in the small cabin. "Is there a problem with my work?? Do you think I'm lying about the furniture? Do you think I'm lying about yesterday? Because I swear, I didn't touch anything after I took the photos. I'm a professional, I don't overstep—"
"Relax, Miss Rush," Kevin interrupted. He didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth twisted into a dry, humorless smirk. "With that speed and those nerves, you could be a rapper instead of a liquidator."
Maya flushed deep red, turning her head to stare at the passing trees. "I'm just trying to understand why you're suddenly babysitting me."
"I don't think you're lying," he said, his voice dropping to a more normal tone. "And I don't think you breached the contract. I just want the work done as soon as possible. I've decided to monitor the progress personally for a few days."
Maya frowned. "Have you felt that eerie feeling in the manor before? Because the room I sorted yesterday... it didn't look like it had been abandoned for a hundred years. It felt almost... warm."
Kevin's grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Now, Miss Rush, you're crossing boundaries. What does the contract say about personal inquiries?"
The air in the car turned icy. Maya immediately felt the sting of his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry," she said quietly. She closed her mouth and turned her head to watch the trees blur past in a green smudge.
"Don't," he snapped. "You are there to tag furniture and price antiques. You aren't there to play ghost hunter or therapist. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the inventory."
Kevin didn't look at her, but his mind was racing.
They stepped out of the car and walked toward the front door. The Manor looked even more imposing today, the grey stone walls seemingly absorbing the morning light.
"I finished the main living room and the lady's suite on the second floor," Maya said, her voice professional and clipped as they stepped into the manor. "We should start with the study in the West Wing today."
They walked toward a room deeper in the house. As Maya pushed the door open, she felt that same strange hum of energy from the day before. This room wasn't dusty or decaying; it was perfectly preserved. The air was cool and smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco.
Kevin stepped inside, his expression becoming unreadable for a second. He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the dark wood paneling and the heavy green velvet curtains.
Maya dropped her bag on a leather armchair and got to work. She moved with professional speed, tagging a set of silver-mounted dueling pistols and a gold-plated clock. This was clearly a man's room—a room built for power. The furniture was massive, carved from dark oak, and the decorations were masculine and incredibly expensive.
"The man who lived here... he must have been a Lord or something," Maya remarked, running a cloth over a mahogany desk. "Everything in here is top-tier. The auction house is going to have a field day with this."
Kevin didn't answer. He just paced the perimeter of the room.
Maya moved to a large desk in the corner. She pulled open the top drawer and found it stuffed with papers. "Found some documents," she called out. "There are letters here. Some are postmarked, some were never even sent."
Kevin walked over to stand beside her. He was close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne—a sharp contrast to the smell of old paper. He reached into the drawer, his long fingers sifting through the envelopes.
He pulled out one particular letter. It was a unique color—a pale, heavy cream parchment that looked older than the others. The wax seal had already been broken long ago.
Kevin unfolded the paper. His face went dead quiet. Maya leaned in slightly, her curiosity getting the better of her as she read the short, jagged lines written in dark ink:
Mr. Rosewood, it is time.
The air in the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. Maya looked from the letter to Kevin. His jaw was so tight she thought it might break.
"Mr. Rosewood?" Maya whispered. "I thought your last name was Clarke."
Kevin crumpled the letter in his fist, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. "The name doesn't matter," he snapped, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and something that looked a lot like fear. "I told you, Miss Rush. We are here to tag items, not read personal mail."You are never to mention that name again. Do you understand?"
He shoved the crumpled paper into his pocket and turned away.
"Get back to work," he commanded.