Chapter 1 - The First Rule of the Vale Estate
The baseball sat heavy and scuffed in my palm, the red stitching coarse against my skin. Above us, the second-floor gallery fell utterly silent, save for the rhythmic, defiant chewing of bubblegum from a kid with messy brown curls and an oversized hoodie. That was Evan, eleven years old, the general of this chaotic army. Beside him stood Caleb, nine, arms crossed over a chest puffed out like a bantam rooster, while Noah, seven, peered through the iron balusters with wide, terrified eyes that screamed he only followed orders because he was too small to lead. Further back, half-hidden in shadow, stood Luke, six, clutching a battered stuffed rabbit with one missing ear.
I didn't throw the ball back. I tucked it into the front pocket of my cardigan, looked straight up at Evan, and raised a single eyebrow.
"Nice throw," I called out, my voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the foyer. "Next time, aim for the glove. Oh wait, you don't have one, do you? Because you probably threw those in the pool last Tuesday."
Evan blinked, his gum-chewing stuttering for half a second. "Who says we threw them in the pool?"
"Logic," I said, stepping past Adrian Vale without waiting for his permission and planting my boots firmly on the imported Italian tile. "Or pattern recognition. Fourteen caregivers in eleven months means an average of one every three weeks. That’s not a turnover rate; that’s a war of attrition. And looking at your form, Evan? You’re burning through ammunition too fast."
Adrian stepped up behind me, his shadow falling long and sharp across the floor. His voice was low, vibrating with a warning tone that would have sent any normal twenty-four-year-old running for the exit. "Miss Carter. We don't negotiate with the upper landing."
"I'm not negotiating," I said, not breaking eye contact with the four boys above us. "I'm assessing."
"You're trespassing on my patience," Evan sneered, trying to sound like a mob boss twice his size. "You’re going to be crying in the pantry by lunchtime. Just like Brenda. Or was it Sarah? Whichever one screamed the loudest when we let the raccoons into her bedroom."
"Raccoons," I repeated flatly. "Amateur hour. When I worked the crisis intervention ward at St. Jude’s, a twelve-year-old smuggled a live turkey into the ventilation system. Raccoons are just trash pandas with good PR. If you want to scare me, kids, you’re going to have to try calculus or psychological warfare."
Noah let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle from behind the railing, quickly muffled by Caleb slapping a hand over his mouth.
Adrian stood beside me, his gaze shifting from his sons to me. "You think this is a game."
"No, Mr. Vale," I said, turning my head slightly so I could see his profile—hard, carved from granite, carrying the weight of a billion-dollar empire and whatever dark secrets kept armed men patrolling his perimeter. "I think you’re terrified. And I think your boys are terrified, too. But since nobody in this house speaks human, they throw baseballs and I catch them. Now, are you going to show me my quarters, or do I have to unpack my suitcase in the hallway while your honor roll delinquents pelt me with old fruit?"
Adrian didn't blink. For three agonizing seconds, the air between us felt like a live wire. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Your room is on the third floor," Adrian said quietly. "Far away from the noise. Away from them."
"Negative," I said, slinging my canvas bag back over my shoulder with a sharp thwack. "Put me on their floor. Right next to Evan’s room. If we’re going to survive this week, I need to be where the fire starts."
Upstairs, Evan made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, spun on his heel, and vanished down the corridor, his brothers scrambling after him like a pack of feral wolf cubs.
Adrian watched them go, his expression darkening into something unreadable. "You’re making a tactical error, Miss Carter."
May you like
"Maybe," I said, walking toward the grand staircase without waiting for him. "Or maybe I just know how to read a battlefield. See you at dinner, Mr. Vale. Tell the chef I like my coffee black and my security guards outside the door."
That was how Monday began. By Tuesday evening, the Vale estate was about to find out what happened when someone stopped running away from them.
