The Santorum sprint
Yeah, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation my legs in the air in my boss’s study, and now being chased down a multi-million-dollar estate by a woman wielding a high-end chef's knife.
Yeah, that’s my life. That’s literally what I do for a living.
I’m Sharon, and to the rest of the world, I’m just a quiet, hard-working housemaid who wipes down marble countertops and vacuums vintage Persian rugs. But to the filthy rich, weak-willed husbands of this city, I’m their worst mistake. I find the men who think their money makes them untouchable, play the irresistible, innocent domestic help, seduce them right in their own homes, and make sure their pockets end up a whole lot lighter before I make my exit. I don't just take a few bills out of their wallets, though I play the long game. Or, at least, I’m supposed to.
Today’s target was Mr. Harris. Fifty-two, hair plugs, more money than sense, and a habit of looking at me just a little too long whenever I dusted the bookshelves in his private study. It had taken me three weeks of deliberate eye contact, coy smiles, and dropping dust ruffles to get him right where I wanted him: pinned against his mahogany desk, completely oblivious to the world around him.
The plan was simple: get him hooked, gain access to his private office, let him think he was the master of the universe, and stay long enough to grab his personal security keys and private banking credentials.
What wasn't part of the plan was Mrs. Harris coming home two hours early from her luxury spa retreat.
The door had burst open with a bang that rattled the crystal decanters on the side table. Mrs. Harris didn't even scream at first. She just stood there, staring at her husband’s bare rear end and my legs hitched over his shoulders. Then came the screech a blood-curdling, high-pitched noise that could have shattered glass followed by the sudden realization that she had just bought a set of Japanese steel kitchen knives yesterday.
Which brings us right back to now.
I vaulted over the manicured hedges, my crisp white apron flapping in the wind, my black dress hitched up to my thighs as I sprinted down the long, cobblestone driveway of the Harris estate.
"I'll kill you, you little slut! I'll cut off your hair!" Mrs. Harris screamed behind me, her silk robe billowing like a villain’s cape, a eight-inch Santoku knife glinting violently in the afternoon sun.
Mr. Harris was nowhere to be seen, likely still trying to pull his trousers up in the study. I didn't look back. I just dug my heels into the gravel, hit the main gates, and sprinted three whole blocks until I slammed into the back of a waiting cab, breathless, half-undressed, and victorious only in the sense that I was still alive.
Twenty minutes later, I kicked open the door to our cramped, two-bedroom apartment, drenched in sweat, my sleek hair completely ruined, and one of my stockings ripped straight down the knee.
Jane didn't even turn around right away.
She was seated in her favorite spot in the whole world a squeaky, faded ergonomic office chair pressed up against a desk stacked with three massive computer monitors, illuminated only by the glow of cascading lines of blue green code. As an IT student by day and the criminal mastermind behind all my operations by night, Jane practically lived in front of those screens.
"You're late," Jane said coolly, her fingers flying across her mechanical keyboard with the rhythm of an automatic weapon. "And you smell like expensive cologne and cheap desperation."
I collapsed against the front door frame, sliding down until my butt hit the linoleum floor, panting like a stray dog.
"Mrs. Harris..." I wheezed, clutching my chest. "Mrs. Harris has incredible cardio. I think she does marathon training."
Jane stopped typing. Her chair spun around with a slow, dramatic creak. She adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses and took in the visual catastrophe that was currently her best friend: ripped outfit, smudged mascara, missing one shoe.
"Please tell me you're lying," Jane said, deadpan. "Tell me you did not get caught again."
"It wasn't my fault!" I gasped, pulling off my remaining black flat and tossing it across the room. "She came home early! Who leaves a spa day after only two hours? Isn't the whole point of a spa day to stay there until you look like a raisin?"
"Sharon," Jane groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "The Harris job was supposed to net us fifty grand! I was thirty seconds away from cracking his secondary vault code through the root access you were supposed to plug into his desktop! Did you plug the flash drive in?"
"I was a little busy keeping my throat intact, Jane! The woman came at me with a Japanese chef's knife! A chef's knife! Do you know how sharp those are? She wasn't playing! She wanted my blood on her Italian tile!"
Jane stared at me for three long seconds before a tiny, traitorous smirk broke through her stern expression. "Did you at least get your shoes?"
"I lost the left one in the hydrangeas," I groaned, throwing my head back against the door. "And Mr. Harris's face... oh my god, Jane. When she opened the door, his soul left his body. I swear he shrunk two inches on the spot."
Jane burst out laughing, leaning back in her chair. "Serves the old creep right. But seriously, Sharon, you look like you got dragged through a hedge backward."
"Because I was dragged through a hedge backward! I leaped over their front landscaping like an Olympic hurdler!" I pushed myself off the floor, limping heavily toward the kitchen island to pour myself a massive glass of tap water. "I'm retired. That's it. I'm calling it. I'm going to get a normal job at a coffee shop where the only thing chasing me is customer service reviews."
"Yeah, right," Jane snorted, turning back to her screens. "You'd last two days before you tried to hustle the manager. Drink your water, go take a shower, and brush whatever garden debris is currently living in your hair."
I chugged the entire glass of water, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I mean it, Jane. We need a break. My nerves are completely shot."
"Well, your nerves are going to have to un-shot themselves," Jane said, her voice dropping into her official 'business mode.' She clicked a few keys, bringing up a high-resolution profile of a sprawling, magnificent country estate that looked less like a house and more like a royal palace. "Because while you were playing track and field with Mrs. Harris, I was busy."
I paused, setting my glass down on the counter. "Busy doing what?"
Jane pointed a manicured finger at her main screen. "I just submitted your application and glowing credentials for a private, live-in housekeeping position."
I blinked. "Jane..."
"This isn't another mid-tier businessman, Sharon," Jane said, her eyes gleaming behind her lenses with cold, strategic ambition. "This is the Vance Family. As in Vance Global Enterprises. Old money, offshore accounts, billions in liquid assets. The patriarch, Richard Vance, is notorious for two things: spending half his time working in his private study at the estate, and replacing his domestic staff every three months because he's a perfectionist asshole."
She turned back to smile at me a sharp, brilliant, dangerous smile.
"I forged your references, scrubbed your digital footprint from the Harris disaster, and placed your file right at the top of their hiring agency's stack. You have an interview tomorrow morning at eight."
I looked at the picture of the massive Vance mansion on the screen. It was intimidating, grand, and smelled like more money than I had ever seen in my life.
"The boss?" I asked quietly, a familiar, wicked spark returning to my chest.
"The boss," Jane confirmed with a nod. "You get in, you play the sweet, obedient maid, you charm Richard Vance, and I drain their accounts so bad their grandkids will feel it. Now go shower. Tomorrow, we start the big mission."
