Working demand
870 Words
By day five, Leah had memorized the floor plan of the east wing.
The library was her favorite. Not because she had time to read — but because it was the only place in the house that felt… lived in. Most of the rooms were like museum exhibits. Perfect. Untouched. Cold.
But the library had a soul. Books left open on armrests. Notes scribbled in the margins. A glass of scotch once forgotten on a side table.
She didn’t dare clean too deeply there.
It felt like the one place he might return to.
Whoever he was.
"You’re early," Rebecca said on Friday morning, her usual frown in place.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Leah admitted. She hadn't, really. The house creaked strangely at night — the kind of sounds you can’t unhear once you notice.
Rebecca handed her a clipboard. “Guest linens, restock pantry items, polish lower banisters.”
“No breakfast setup?”
“Mr. Westbrook doesn’t eat with the staff.”
Leah blinked. “He lives alone?”
Rebecca gave her a look. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“And don’t move the books in the library.”
“I don’t.”
“They’re color-coded by theme. He notices.”
Leah bit back a comment. What kind of man color-coded philosophy and fiction?
The kind who hides in his own house, apparently.
It was mid-afternoon when she found the envelope.
It had slipped behind a dresser in the guest suite — aged, cream-coloured, unopened. Her cleaning cloth caught the edge and pulled it out.
She picked it up carefully.
To D.W. — unopened
Leah stared at the initials. D.W.
Mr. Westbrook.
She didn’t dare open it — she wasn’t that reckless. But she studied handwriting. Sharp. Slanted. Not Rebecca’s, for sure. It looked personal. Like something meant to be read — but never was.
She tucked it gently back where she found it.
Later that evening, she ran into Henry — the night cook. He was older, round-faced, always whistling.
“Long day?” he asked, rinsing a tray in the kitchen sink.
“They’re all long,” Leah said, smiling tiredly.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he chuckled. Wait till a real storm hits. "The whole place feels like it’s breathing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s comforting.”
Henry grinned. “Don’t worry. The ghosts are friendly.”
She laughed — but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Hey,” he said more gently, drying his hands. “Don’t let this place swallow you up." It’s beautiful, yeah — but it gets lonely.”
“I’m used to being lonely,” she said before thinking.
He tilted his head. “You got family?”
“A son,” she replied quietly. “Eli." He’s three.”
Henry’s face softened. “That’s a good age.”
“Yeah. He’s staying with a friend until I’m settled. I’m trying to bring him here soon.”
“Well… when you do, he’ll like the garden. There’s a swing out back that nobody uses.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
That night, Leah passed the hallway near the west wing again.
A faint hum caught her attention. Low. Metallic. Like classical music playing behind thick walls.
She stopped.
Listened.
It stopped.
The silence after that felt louder than the sound itself.
She exhaled and turned to leave—only to hear it again.
A door clicked softly shut somewhere down the corridor.
But when she looked over her shoulder, there was no one there.
Just her reflection in the hallway mirror.
Eyes wide. Breath held.
Alone.
Or not.
Saturday morning brought something new — a delivery.
A courier appeared at the gate with a small package. Rebecca wasn’t in yet, so Leah signed for it.
The label read:
To: Dominic Westbrook
From: Easton-Roe Law Group, Raleigh, NC
Leah froze.
Raleigh.
Her heart stuttered.
Her one night — the night that changed everything — had started in a hotel just three blocks from that law firm. The man had said he was in town for a conference. Legal tech, he’d mentioned.
No name. No number. Just a drink, a moment, a choice.
She stared at the envelope.
Dominic.
Not David. Not Daniel.
Dominic.
She whispered it under her breath, as if testing the weight of it.
Her fingers tingled.
“Leave it on the study desk,” Rebecca said when she arrived. “Mr. Westbrook will retrieve it later.”
Leah obeyed. But as she stepped into the study, her gaze swept the room—this time with new eyes.
The books. The scent. The order.
And there, on the edge of the desk, was a photo frame. Face-down.
She paused.
A thousand instincts said don’t touch it.
She turned it over anyway.
A blurry picture. A man standing next to a sleek black car. Laughing. Relaxed. Sunglasses on.
It was him.
The man from that night.
Her stomach dropped.
Her knees went weak.
It wasn’t a resemblance.
It wasn’t a maybe.
It was him.
Dominic Westbrook.
And she’d been working in his house for a week.
With his child hundreds of miles away.
And he had no idea.
- Writer
