When Destiny Keeps Knocking
1189 Words
Morning sunlight crept through the cracked blinds of the tiny apartment, crawling across the floor and nudging at Nancy’s face like an unwelcome guest. She groaned softly, rolling onto her side, one leg half-draped off the mattress on the floor. Her body ached—not from what happened last night, but from the weight of everything else that hadn't stopped happening.
The soft rattle of a key in the front door didn’t stir her. But the sudden thud of feet and the rustling of a paper bag did.
“Still sleeping?” Maya’s voice broke through the room like sunlight cracking through clouds. “Girl, it’s ten. Wake your ass up.”
Nancy peeked through a half-open eye. “What do you want, Maya? I just got in a few hours ago.”
Maya, tall and wiry with untamed curls tied in a scarf, plopped down beside her. She smelled of cigarettes and cheap perfume.
“Don’t give me that tone,” Maya said, dropping the plastic bag near Nancy’s head. “Brought you some milk and bread. And… maybe a few cookies for Elsie.”
Nancy muttered, “Thanks,” and stretched, her arm flopping toward her bag by the bed. “If you need a few bucks, check my purse. Last night was… different.”
Maya raised an eyebrow and didn’t hesitate. She opened the faded leather purse, fingers diving into its contents until they brushed against something stiff.
“What the hell is this?”
Nancy sat up, eyes barely focused. “What?”
Maya held up a sleek black business card with silver letters embossed in bold italics. She read aloud slowly, “Marco DeLuca. Private Residence. Contact—” She paused, lips parted. “Girl… did you sleep with a damn CEO?”
Nancy blinked, then frowned, reaching for the card. “I didn’t know he put that in there.”
Maya held it back, away from her grasp. “Wait. Marco DeLuca? Why does that name sound like money?”
Nancy rubbed her forehead. “He offered me a job… last night. After. Said he wanted me to be a nanny for his daughter.”
Maya stared. “Wait, back up. You sleep with a stranger, and instead of tossing you out, he offers you a job to care for his child?”
Nancy nodded slowly. “Said I had a soul. Whatever the hell that means.”
Maya blinked again, hard. “Are you hearing yourself, Nance? This dude could be a serial killer. Or a trafficker. Who offers a street girl a nanny job after one screw? That’s not normal.”
“That’s what I told him,” Nancy muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Told him he had the wrong person. I told you—it’s crazy. Told him to shove the idea.”
“Yeah?” Maya stood, card still in hand. “Then why didn’t you throw this away?”
“I didn’t know it was in my bag!” Nancy snapped.
“Well, now you do.”
Nancy’s voice cracked. “Just throw it out, Maya.”
Maya didn’t respond. She turned the card over, fingers tracing the embossed lettering. Her silence said more than any reply.
Nancy flopped back onto the thin mattress. “Just toss it in the trash. Please.”
Maya didn’t. She slipped it into her own pocket.
That night, after Nancy had gone to bed early with a headache and silent tears, Maya sat alone in her own cramped apartment, laptop on her lap, her thumb worrying at the corner of the business card.
Curiosity was stronger than caution.
She typed Marco DeLuca into the search bar.
The results flooded in: CEO of DeLuca International Holdings, Divorced in 2021, Net worth estimated at over $400 million, Father to a five-year-old girl
Maya sat back slowly, exhaling.
So he was real. Not just real—rich, powerful, and apparently, honest. Or at least not lying.
Her eyes wandered to the photo on the sidebar—a man in a tailored suit, the same man Nancy had described. And a girl, perched on his lap, giggling into his chest. Bella.
Maya didn’t sleep much that night. She stared at that photo longer than she wanted to admit. Nancy’s tear-streaked face kept floating to the front of her mind—her exhaustion, the way she curled herself on the mattress like a ghost trying to stay warm.
She’d never seen her friend cry like that.
And the next morning, Maya made a call.
“Yes, I’m calling about the nanny job,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “My name is Nancy Maxwell. I’m ready whenever Mr. DeLuca needs me.”
Nancy was half-awake when the knock came. A soft, firm rap. Not the kind that belonged to landlords or neighbors.
Elsie was still asleep in the other room. Her mom was out back, collecting water from the communal tap. Nancy rubbed her eyes and dragged herself up.
Another knock.
“I’m coming,” she grumbled, adjusting her oversized T-shirt.
She opened the door, only to find two sharply dressed men standing outside. Not threatening. But not exactly friendly either.
“Miss Nancy Maxwell?” the taller one asked.
She blinked. “Who’s asking?”
“We’re from Mr. DeLuca’s household,” the shorter one said. “He said you’d be ready by ten.”
Nancy stared at them, confused. “Excuse me?”
“You confirmed yesterday that you’d accept the nanny position,” the taller man continued, glancing at his phone. “Mr. DeLuca’s driver is waiting. We’re here to escort you to the residence.”
Nancy’s stomach twisted.
“I think you have the wrong person,” she said. “I… didn’t make any confirmation.”
They exchanged glances, then looked back at her.
“This is the address we were given. And your name matches. If this isn’t the right place—”
Nancy’s heart dropped. The card. Maya.
She stepped back, holding the doorframe like it could keep her from falling.
“You sure you didn’t speak to him?” the man asked.
Nancy shook her head. “I told him no. Told him to forget it. But… I gave the card to my friend. I told her to throw it away.”
A silence passed between them.
Nancy turned and glanced toward the hallway where Maya sometimes crashed when she stayed over. The couch was empty. She hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning.
“You said you’re from his house?” she asked, quieter now.
“Yes. Shall we wait while you get dressed?”
Nancy didn’t answer. Her mind spun like a broken record. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t even want this. But part of her… part of her suddenly did.
Not because of the money. Not even because of the job.
Because Maya—crazy, stubborn Maya—had believed in her enough to pretend to be her. To lie, to step in for her, to give her this shot.
Maybe it wasn’t just Marco who thought she still had a soul.
Maybe Maya did, too.
- Writer
