Six Months to Fall

Chapter 3: The Offer

Her alarm went off at 6 a.m. like it had personally chosen violence.

“I need more sleep,”

she groaned, squinting against the morning light. But rent didn’t pay itself, and eviction notices didn’t disappear just because she wished hard enough.

She showered, dressed, and ate bread and jam standing at the counter, the last of what was in her cupboard, while sorting through a stack of bills that all seemed to be shouting at her at once.

Two days.

That was how long she had before the eviction notice stopped being a warning and started being real.

“I should get paid today,” she told the bills, as if they might apologize.

By 9 a.m. she was out the door, back to finish what she’d started.

The mansion looked different in daylight, less like a horror movie set, more like an actual, functioning house.

Chefs, butlers, security, drivers, all moving in and out with quiet efficiency.

“Wow. These guys are rich rich,” she muttered.

She stepped inside once more. Sunlight poured through the tall windows.

The smell of polished wood.

The silence.

The echo of her own footsteps.

Today she was on Jacob’s side of the house. Dust and grime, sure, but nothing like the neglected wing from yesterday. By ten, she still hadn’t seen either brother, just staff.

‘Are they even up yet?’ she wondered, then caught herself. “Wait, why do I care?” she said out loud, mostly to shut the thought down.

She got to work. Two hours in, with almost no interruptions, that side of the house was done, and she moved upstairs to the guest rooms.

“Good morning, sir,” she said to the same older man she’d seen the day before, seated in the same spot on the first floor.

He gave a slight nod without lifting his head.

‘Rude,’ she thought. ‘Must be related to them somehow. That tracks.’

While cleaning, she noticed one door left slightly open, light spilling out. Someone was inside. She tiptoed closer, curiosity outrunning caution, and promptly tripped over her own mop handle, sending the bucket clattering across the floor.

“Ouch!”

Footsteps. She scrambled to get up before the embarrassment could fully set in, and felt a sharp twinge in her arm as she pushed herself upright.

“Are you okay?” It was Jacob, stepping out of the room.

He offered a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m fine,” she said, face burning.

“You’re not. You bruised your arm.” He nodded at it.

“Oh. Didn’t even notice. It’s just a bruise.”

“Which can get infected if you ignore it.” He took her hand and inspected it like a doctor running a diagnosis.

“There’s a first aid kit next door. Come on.”

“Okay,” she said, following him like a lost puppy.

He found the box, cleaned the bruise, and taped on a bandage while Amy sat there half listening, half wondering why a billionaire’s son knew exactly how to dress a wound without flinching.

“Amelia.”

His voice pulled her back. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if that feels better.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” He closed the box and slid it back into the closet.

“What are you even doing up here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Getting away from the noise. Everyone, really. I come up here to breathe.”

“I didn’t see either of you all morning. Just staff.”

“Yeah, we tend to keep to ourselves until later in the day. Yesterday you came in the evening, so the house was already emptying out. Everyone clears out by four except the gate security.”

He paused, then huffed a laugh. “Why am I even telling you all this?”

They both laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to rob you guys. Though I might kidnap your brother. Teach him some manners.”

“Cut him some slack. He’s a good guy underneath it all.”

“Good? I haven’t seen a trace of that yet.”

Even though he’d been a little kind to her yesterday when she was struggling with the furniture. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around that part.

“That’s not usually his first impression,” Jacob said.

“Maybe he should work on that.”

Jacob grinned. “Maybe you should tell him that before you leave.”

“Oh, no thank you. I’d be thrilled if I didn’t see him at all today.”

She didn’t. Though that wasn’t the reason she ended up at Gabby’s door that evening, screaming with excitement.

On her way out, cleaning supplies packed and ready to go, Amy paused in the main hall to give one last vase a final polish.

“For a thousand dollars, I’d clean you a hundred times,”

she told it, buffing a smudge near the rim. “Well, the agency takes almost half. But six hundred would still do a lot for me right now.”

“You take a lot of pride in your work.”

Amy nearly dropped the cloth. She spun around, heart jumping into her throat, and found the older man from the first floor standing a few feet behind her, the one who’d barely nodded at her that morning.

Her face went hot with embarrassment. She’d been talking to furniture like it could hear her, and apparently someone else had.

“Good evening, sir,”

she managed, straightening up fast and tucking the cloth behind her back like that might undo the last thirty seconds.

“I noticed you moved the furniture in the east wing.

Cleaned behind it, not just around it.”

So he had been watching. Not just sitting there ignoring her, but actually paying attention. She wasn’t sure whether that made her more nervous or less.

“That’s where the dust was,” she said, with a small shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. The first crack in an otherwise unreadable face.

“Most people only clean what can be seen.”

“My grandmother used to say your character shows in what you do when nobody’s looking.”

She hadn’t meant to say something that honest to a total stranger, but it slipped out before she could stop it.

Something shifted behind his eyes. He came down the last few steps unhurried, and Amy found herself standing a little straighter without deciding to, the way you do around people who take up more space than their body actually occupies.

“Six months,” he said. “Twice a week, every week, for six months. That’s how long I want you to clean this house.”

Amy blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Sir, I…” She didn’t even know what she’d been about to say. Her mind was still catching up.

“Five thousand dollars a month.”

The words landed somewhere behind her ribs. Her mouth actually fell open. She felt it happen and couldn’t stop it. Five thousand. A month. It had been two years since anyone had offered her money in the thousands, and for a second the whole hall seemed to tilt slightly, like she’d stood up too fast.

For a moment, Amy just stared at him, the words still ringing in her ears.

‘Is this a dream?’ she asked herself.