chapter2 :đź’ś THE PENTHOUSE JOBđź’ś
1058 Words
Mira woke up stiff and sore.
The airport bench had been hard. The fluorescent lights made her eyes hurt, but for a second she almost felt… alive.
Alive, because she had survived the night.
The first thing she noticed was her backpack. Still there. Still soaked, still heavy. She unzipped it, pulled out the little notebook she had been scribbling travel expenses in, and sighed.
Seven dollars. Exactly the same. Nothing had changed.
She pushed herself to her feet, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Today, she had a mission.
Find work. Find shelter. Survive.
The streets were cold, wet, and bustling with people carrying shopping bags, holiday gifts, and happy chaos. Mira’s shoes squished in the slush. Her coat did nothing. Her fingers were numb, but she ignored them.
She walked without really knowing where she was going. Her plan was simple: look for agencies that could send her to cleaning jobs or maid jobs. Anything to get indoors. Anything to earn.
After twenty blocks, she spotted a small agency tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore. A neon sign blinked: “Staffing & Temp Jobs — Holiday Help Available”
Her stomach clenched. This was it. She crossed the street quickly, shivering.
Inside, the office was small, cramped, warm. The receptionist looked up from her laptop, eyebrows raised.
“Hi… I’m Mira. I… I’m looking for work?”
The woman glanced at her from head to toe. Mira’s jacket was wet, hair messy, eyes wide and desperate.
“You’re lucky,” the receptionist said. “We have one live-in position. Big apartment, penthouse, winter season only. You’ll be cleaning, cooking… running errands. But you’ll live there.”
Mira froze.
Live-in.
Penthouse.
Her first instinct was fear. She didn’t know these people. She didn’t know the city. But she swallowed hard.
“How… how much?” she asked. Her voice small.
“Enough for rent, food, a little extra. You’ll work full-time. Start tomorrow,” the woman said, scrolling through her computer.
Mira nodded. She didn’t have time to think. This was her chance.
She spent the rest of the day preparing herself.
She went to a cheap store, bought gloves and a scarf with the last of her seven dollars, cleaned her backpack as best she could, and rehearsed what she would say.
Her stomach twisted with nerves. She had never worked in a rich person’s home before. She had never cooked for strangers, let alone someone who probably didn’t even notice people existed below him.
She wondered briefly who he was.
The receptionist had said:
“Luke Harrington. Recently divorced. CEO. Doesn’t like company.”
Her heart skipped.
CEO. Penthouse. Alone. Rich. Definitely scary.
Mira swallowed. It didn’t matter. She needed this.
The next morning, she arrived at the penthouse building.
It was enormous. Glass walls, security guards, shiny black cars parked outside. She stopped at the door, feeling small, exposed, and completely out of place.
Inside, the lobby smelled like leather and polished floors. Mira followed the elevator signs up, clutching her backpack like a life vest.
When the elevator doors opened on the top floor, she took a deep breath.
A bell chimed somewhere in the apartment, and then a voice:
“You must be Mira. Right on time.”
She turned and saw a woman, probably in her forties, neatly dressed, clipboard in hand.
“Yes,” Mira said, voice tight.
“You’ll be helping with cleaning, cooking, and errands. Mr. Harrington doesn’t usually like staff around, so you’ll mostly be working in the apartment while he’s out or busy.”
Mira nodded, trying to seem confident.
And then she saw him.
Luke Harrington.
He was standing near the large windows, looking out over the city. Snowflakes streaked past the glass. He didn’t even glance at her at first — just typed something on his laptop.
Mira froze.
He was tall. Broad shoulders. Perfect posture. And there was something in his eyes — sharp, calculating, distant. Not unfriendly, but… guarded.
The woman nudged her. “Show her the kitchen, Luke.”
He finally looked at her. One glance. No smile. Nothing. Just quiet.
Mira’s throat went dry.
She nodded to herself. “Okay. I can do this.”
The apartment was huge. Too huge. Modern furniture, marble floors, city lights outside. Every surface gleamed. Mira felt like she had stepped into a magazine.
The woman explained the chores, then left Mira alone for a few minutes to settle in.
Mira walked slowly, touching the counters, the fridge, the stove. She could cook. She could clean. She could survive here — if she stayed out of Luke’s way.
She put her backpack down, took off her wet jacket, and tried to organize herself.
Later, Luke came back early.
Mira hadn’t even started cooking yet, but he was standing at the counter, arms crossed, watching her fumble with the grocery bags.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
Mira shook her head quickly. “No… I… I’ll manage.”
He studied her for a long moment. Then, just as quietly, he said,
“Alright. Keep it simple. I don’t need anything fancy.”
Mira nodded again. Her hands were shaking slightly, but she forced herself to smile politely.
He walked away, muttering something about work calls.
That night, Mira cooked a simple dinner pasta with vegetables. Nothing fancy. She placed it quietly on the dining table, then sat in a corner with her backpack still strapped to her.
Luke came in later. He looked surprised. Not that she had cooked — just… that it wasn’t terrible.
“Thanks,” he said curtly, then retreated to his office.
Mira exhaled. A small victory.
Over the next few days, she started finding a rhythm.
Cooking his meals. Cleaning the floors and windows. Running small errands around the apartment.
Luke rarely spoke to her. But sometimes… sometimes he would watch her.
Just enough to make her feel noticed — but not enough to relax.
And Mira, tired but determined, knew something important:
This job was survival.
Her apartment, her food, her safety — all depended on it.
But slowly, unknowingly, it was also becoming… something else.
Her world had shrunk to this penthouse, this city view, this tall man who avoided her eyes.
And deep down, she wondered… maybe, just maybe… it wasn’t so bad
- Writer
