The view from the sixty-fourth floor of the Vane Tower was enough to make a person feel like a god, or at least a very well-paid ghost. Elara Vance stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, a microfiber cloth in one hand and a bottle of specialized pH-balanced marble cleaner in the other. Below her, the city of Oakhaven looked like a circuit board of neon lights and pulsing traffic.
For the last three months, this $40 million penthouse had been her kingdom. And for the last three months, she hadn't seen a single soul.
Elara was a "Professional Domestic Placement Specialist"—a fancy title for a high-end house sitter. Her clients were the kind of people who owned five homes across three continents and couldn't be bothered to ensure the pipes didn't rust or the dust didn't settle in their absence. Her golden rule was simple: Leave no trace. She wore soft, velvet-soled slippers so she wouldn't scuff the hand-laid herringbone floors. She used a different bathroom every week to keep the plumbing active, and she never, ever slept in the master suite. That room, with its silk sheets and the scent of cold cedar, felt like a sanctuary she wasn't holy enough to enter. It belonged to Julian Vane, the reclusive "Titan of Tech," a man who hadn't been seen in public since a tragic accident three years ago.
"Another night of silence, Julian," Elara whispered to the empty air. She enjoyed the quiet. It was a far cry from the cramped, noisy apartment she'd shared with her sister before the medical bills started piling up. Here, she could pretend she was safe. Here, she could pretend she was invisible.
She moved to the kitchen, a minimalist masterpiece of matte black steel and hidden appliances. She poured herself a glass of filtered water, careful not to let the crystal touch the counter too loudly. She was about to head to the small staff quarters tucked behind the pantry—the only place she felt truly at home—when a sound shattered the silence.
Chime.
It was the private elevator. Her heart leaped into her throat, hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. That elevator only responded to one biometric signature.
Chime.
The heavy steel doors slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. Elara froze. She didn't even have time to grab her cleaning supplies from the counter. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. If she was caught, the agency would fire her. She'd be blacklisted, sued, and thrown back into the poverty she'd been clawing her way out of.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer. They weren't the measured, confident steps of a man returning home in triumph. They were heavy, uneven, and frantic.
"Damn it," a voice rasped. It was deep, like gravel over velvet, but strained with exhaustion.
Elara didn't think. She acted on pure instinct. She ducked behind the massive kitchen island, pressing her back against the cold stone, pulling her knees to her chest. She held her breath until her lungs burned.
From her hiding spot, she saw a shadow pass across the polished floor. A man stood in the center of the living room. Even from the floor, she could tell he was tall, his silhouette framed by the moonlight hitting the windows. He threw a heavy designer coat onto the white leather sofa—a sacrilege Elara would never have permitted—and slumped onto the cushions, burying his head in his hands.
Julian Vane was home. And he looked like a man who was falling apart.
Elara realized with a jolt of terror that her half-full glass of water was still sitting right there on the counter, directly in his line of sight.