Signed In Secrets

Chapter 2

Amelia

The job application is open before me, the cursor blinking like it’s taunting me.

I rub my hands over my face and glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. The diner closed hours ago, and now I’m back in my apartment, sitting at my tiny kitchen table, staring at a job listing that feels too surreal to be authentic.

A live-in caretaker.

For someone wealthy enough to offer good pay and no experience required.

Yeah. That doesn’t scream normal at all.

I bite my lip. Maybe I should—

“Don’t even think about it,” Maya’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I flinch, turning toward my couch, where she’s stretched out, scrolling through her phone like she’s at home.

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I mutter.

Maya snorts. “Please. You’ve been staring at that screen for fifteen minutes. Just fill it out and hit send.”

I exhale, tapping my fingers against the table. “It just seems… weird. Good money, no experience, live-in? What if it’s the rich looking for a—”

“Amelia.”

I stop rambling.

Maya sighs, sitting up. “I get it. It’s weird. But your rent is due, and this is the only thing that doesn’t require weeks of interviews or experience you don’t have.” She points at my laptop. “So. Please fill it out. Hit send.”

I chew on my lip, my stomach twisting. I don’t want to do this.

But Maya’s right.

I don’t have time to be picky.

Swallowing hard, I type in my name, my experience (or lack thereof), and a short, utterly unconvincing paragraph about why I’d be a good fit. Then, before I can talk myself out of it—

I press send.

And just like that, my life shifts onto a path I can’t take back.

I wake up to the glare of my laptop screen and the faint ache of a bad night’s sleep.

With a groggy sigh, I rub my eyes and check my inbox. I don’t expect much—maybe a scam email or a newsletter I forgot to unsubscribe from—but then my stomach flips.

Sinclair Holdings – Caretaker Application

I hesitate before clicking it.

Amelia Carter,

I reviewed your application. If you’re interested, be at this address by eleven.

– Ethan Sinclair

Short. Direct. No pleasantries.

I stare at the email, rereading it twice. There is no interview scheduling or phone call, and he wants to be here by eleven, as he’s already decided.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or more suspicious.

Then I check the time.

9:42 AM.

Panic jolts through me. I have barely an hour to pull myself together.

I throw myself out of bed, nearly tripping over last night’s jeans. My brain still catches up, but my body moves on pure adrenaline.

Shower. Clothes. Makeup? No time. I barely brush through my hair before pulling on a clean sweater and shoving my feet into my boots.

By the time I’m out the door, my heart is hammering. I cannot be late.

—

The cab pulls up before an iron gate, and my stomach twists.

I lean forward, gripping the edge of my seat as I take in the house beyond the towering fence. House doesn’t even feel like the right word, like estate. Mansion. Fortress.

Everything about this place screams money.

The intercom crackles. “Name?”

“Amelia Carter,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

A beat of silence. Then the gates slide open.

I swallow hard. No turning back now.

The iron gates shut behind me with a quiet clang, sealing me into a world that is not mine.

The driveway is too long and lined with perfectly trimmed hedges, stretching up to a house that looks straight out of a movie. It has three stories, too many windows, and the kind of architectural perfection that screams money.

My boots crunch against the gravel as I force my legs to move. This works for me. It’s just an interview.

The massive front doors are already open when I finally reach the entrance. A man in a suit—mid-forties, polished, professional—waits at the top of the steps.

“You’re Ms. Carter,” he states.

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Yes.”

“Follow me.”

I barely have time to take in the massive foyer before he turns, leading me down a hall so pristine I feel like I should be walking on air instead of scuffing up the floors with my boots.

The whole place is quiet. Not cosy, not welcoming—just big, cold, and perfect.

The man stops at a set of double doors. “Mr. Sinclair is expecting you.”

Right. Of course, he is.

I wipe my hands against my jeans, swallow my nerves, and step inside.

As I step into the office, my breath catches for a fraction of a second.

Ethan Sinclair sits behind an imposing desk, his expression unreadable as he skims a document.

The man is all sharp lines and effortless control. He is dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the defined lines of his forearms. His dark hair is neatly styled, not a strand out of place, and his piercing blue eyes—when they finally lift to meet mine—hold a quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

I swallow, forcing myself to focus.

I was expecting someone kinder. Warmer, maybe. But Ethan Sinclair is neither.

He exudes authority in a way that makes the air feel heavier as if he commands a room without saying a word.

There’s something detached about him, as if nothing—not even this interview—can genuinely hold his attention.

And yet, for a moment too long, I find myself taking him in.

He doesn’t stand when I walk in. Doesn’t offer a handshake or a polite hello. He sits there, back straight, eyes unreadable like he’s already decided whether or not I’m worth his time.

I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling small under his gaze.

“Amelia Carter.” His voice is deep, smooth, unimpressed.

I nod. “Mr. Sinclair.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Sit.”

It’s not a request.

I do as I’m told, even though every instinct screams that I do not belong here.

Ethan glances down at something on his desk—a file, maybe my résumé. His expression doesn’t change.

“You have experience as a bartender,” he says.

It’s not a question, but I nod. “Yes.”

He doesn’t respond immediately; he flips a page in the file like he’s scanning a report rather than someone sitting before him.

“Any experience in caretaking?”

“Not formally, but I took care of my grandmother before she passed.”

That gets the slightest reaction—a flicker of his gaze meeting mine before returning to the paper. “I see.”

I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

There was another beat of silence. Then—

“The job requires patience,” he says. “Discretion. My grandmother’s well-being is the priority. You’ll assist with anything she needs; you’ll have a place to stay and a salary. Is that something you can handle?”

Something about how he says it—calm, indifferent, like it doesn’t matter to him if I say yes or no—grates against my nerves.

But I need this job.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I can handle it.”

Ethan doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a stack of papers. He sets them on the desk between us, his expression unreadable.

“This is the contract,” he says as he slides the contract across the desk.

“This outlines your responsibilities,” he says, his tone even. “Read through it carefully.”

I glance down at the thick stack of papers. The words blur together at first, and my pulse is still racing from the unexpected intensity of this meeting.

I flip through the pages, scanning sections on employment terms, non-disclosure clauses, and living arrangements. It’s formal and straightforward.

Mostly.

Some wording feels off, but I don’t have the luxury of overanalysing it. I need this job.

Ethan watches me, his expression unreadable. Waiting.

I grip the pen he offers and sign.

The moment the ink dries, something in the air shifts—subtle but undeniable.

“Welcome aboard,” Ethan says.

That’s it. No handshake, no change in tone. Just those two words.

Ethan stands, grabbing the contract and placing it in a drawer before turning to me. “Follow me.”

I blink. “You’re showing me to my room?”

He doesn’t respond and heads toward the door. I scramble to my feet, gripping my bag tightly as I follow him out of the office.

The hallway is just as grand as the rest of the house—polished floors, expensive paintings, and an eerie quiet that makes my footsteps too loud.

Ethan walks ahead, his pace steady, his posture rigid. Not a single word.

After a few turns, he stops in front of a door and pushes it open. “This is your room.”

I step inside hesitantly. It’s… lovely—more than pleasant. There is a queen-sized bed, a desk, and a walk-in closet. The window offers a view of the garden outside, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the room.

It’s more than I expected.

Ethan lingers by the doorway. “You’ll find everything you need here. If you require anything else, let the staff know.”

I turn to him, trying to read his expression, but it’s the same calm detachment. “Right. Thanks.”

He gives a short nod. “Dinner is at seven. My grandmother will expect to meet you then.”

And with that, he leaves.

As soon as Ethan leaves, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

I glance around the room again. It’s beautiful—far nicer than any place I’ve ever stayed—but it doesn’t feel like mine.

I set my bag down and sit on the edge of the bed. The events of the past hour catch up all at once. The job. The contract. Ethan Sinclair’s cold, detached demeanour.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. This is real. I just agreed to live, work, and be part of a world I don’t belong in.

And I don’t even know if I made the right choice.

But there’s no time to dwell. My rent is due, and I need my things.

Pushing off the bed, I grab my bag and head out.

I unlock the door to my tiny apartment, stepping inside for what might be the last time.

The space is starkly different from where I just came from. It's a small studio with barely enough room to breathe. Bills are stacked on the counter. The air feels heavier, like it’s reminding me why I had no choice but to say yes.

I don’t have time to get sentimental. I grab my suitcase from the closet and start packing.

I’m halfway through stuffing clothes inside when the front door swings open.

“Okay, start talking,” Maya says, stepping inside like she owns the place. “What’s going on?”

She watches as I fold a sweater and shove it into my suitcase. “All right, spill. You’re way too calm about this.”

I glance up at her, forcing a small smile. “It’s a job, Maya.”

“A job that makes you move in on day one.” She leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “I know you need work, but this feels rushed. Are you sure about this?”

I hesitate, just for a second. But I nod. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Maya sighs, dragging a hand through her hair. “That’s what worries me.”

I press my lips together, keeping my focus on my suitcase. I could tell her how strange the interview felt, how Ethan barely looked at me like a person. But I don’t.

Not yet.

“It’ll be fine,” I say instead. “I’ll have a stable job, a place to stay. That’s what matters.”

Maya doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Not yet.

“All right,” she says after a pause. “Then I’m helping you pack.”

I exhale, relieved. “Thanks.”

She grins. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget me when you start living like the rich.”

I laugh, but deep down, something unsettles me because I don’t feel like I’m moving up in the world.

I feel like I’ve just stepped into something I don’t understand.