The Frost estate looked like it had never seen a speck of warmth.
Three stories of cold gray stone, iron gates that didn't creak, and windows so polished they reflected the storm clouds gathering above. The hedges were trimmed with mathematical precision. The grass, flat and lifeless. Even the air felt colder on this street.
If Anna hadn't triple-checked the address—twice on the train, once more in the cab—she would've sworn she was in the wrong place.
She paused at the curb and tugged her blazer straight for the fifth time, palms damp against the fabric. Her curls had frizzed from the humidity, and her ballet flats were soaked from an unplanned puddle detour. She patted her bag, checking for her resume again, as if the paper inside could protect her from the wall of intimidation looming ahead.
"It's just an interview, Anna. Walk in, smile, don't panic. You need this." She said to herself repeatedly, under her breath.
The front door opened before she even knocked—of course it did—and a woman in her early forties stepped out like she'd been waiting with a stopwatch. Tall, angular, clipboard tucked to her chest like a weapon, and an expression that said she had zero patience for pleasantries.
"Miss Rivera?" the woman asked, already frowning. "You're late."
"I—I know. I'm so sorry. The train was delayed and the cab driver—" she tried to explain but the woman in front of her did not seem impressed.
"Mr. Frost does not appreciate tardiness." She turned sharply on her heel. "Follow me. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Anna opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. She swallowed the knot in her throat and stepped inside.
The interior of the mansion was exactly what the outside promised—sleek, cold, and clinical. Black marble floors that clicked under her shoes, white walls with no art, and steel railings that caught the light in a way that felt more surgical than stylish. The air smelled like fresh linen and expensive silence.
This was not a house. It was a fortress. A museum. A statement. It was something out of a novel. One she could only imagine.
And yet, as they passed the grand staircase, Anna caught a flicker of life.
A small figure peeked out from behind the bannister—just for a second. A little girl, maybe six or seven. Brown waves framed her pale, almost translucent face. Wide gray-blue eyes watched Anna with cautious curiosity. She clutched a worn, off-white bunny to her chest like a shield.
Anna's heart squeezed. She softened her face, gave a little smile.
"Hi, sweetheart," she whispered.
The girl didn't answer. She didn't retreat either. Just… stared.
"This way," the assistant snapped, already halfway down the hall.
Anna hesitated, gave the child one last smile, and followed.
"Is that his daughter?" she asked softly.
"Isla," the woman said, without turning. "You'll address her only when appropriate. Don't assume familiarity."
Of course. No nicknames. No comfort. Anna nodded to herself. This wasn't going to be easy. But she needed the job.
The hallway ended in a heavy door. The assistant knocked once and opened it without waiting.
Mr. Frost's office was colder than the rest of the house. All black and gray and glass, with a towering window overlooking the back gardens—neatly symmetrical, completely empty.
He stood there, back to them, hands in his pockets. His posture said control. His stillness said power.
"Miss Rivera," he said, voice clipped. "You're late."
"I apologize, Mr. Frost," Anna said quickly. "There was—"
"I don't need the reason. Just the truth." He turned slowly, like a man accustomed to being obeyed. "Are you the kind of person who makes excuses or gets results?"
Anna blinked once, twice. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears. "I get results."
He studied her. Not a flicker of expression. Just those steely eyes, scanning every inch of her like a flaw would appear if he stared hard enough.
Zane Frost was tall, with a jaw that looked carved from stone and a voice that didn't need to be raised to be felt. He looked like someone who ironed his soul every morning along with his shirt.
"You're the fourth candidate this month," he said, taking his seat behind a pristine glass desk. "None have lasted longer than two weeks. My daughter is… sensitive. Quiet. I don't want anyone trying to 'fix' her."
Anna nodded once. "I wouldn't try to fix her, sir. Just understand her."
Stillness.
Then, the smallest shift—barely visible. A blink too slow. A breath too deep.
"Do you have children of your own?" He asked her with a slight raise of his brow.
"No. But I've worked with them since I was nineteen. Special needs, trauma care, behavioral challenges. I've seen a lot of little hearts carrying heavy things." Her response was profound even to her.
He leaned back slightly, still watching her. "And what would you say to a man who believes emotions are distractions and attachments are liabilities?"
Anna met his gaze. "I'd say that sounds lonely."
For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes. Not pain. Not surprise. Something older. Something buried.
A sound broke the silence—a faint shuffle at the doorway.
They both turned.
Isla stood there, bunny in hand, still half-hidden behind the doorframe. Her eyes flicked between them, uncertain.
Zane looked confused. "She doesn't usually interrupt."
Anna knelt slightly, softened her voice. "Hey, Isla. I like your bunny. What's her name?"
The girl hesitated. Tightened her grip on the toy. Then, almost inaudibly:
"…Clover."
Anna smiled. "That's a perfect name. Clover's lucky to have you."
Isla blinked, like she wasn't sure how to respond. Then—two small steps forward. Just enough to prove it wasn't fear keeping her still. It was caution. Testing the waters.
Zane stared at his daughter, then at Anna. And for the first time, something in his perfect armor cracked. Confusion, maybe. Or something like awe.
He cleared his throat. "You start Monday. Against my better judgment."
Anna straightened. "I—what?"
"You heard me. One-month trial. Live-in. No overstepping. And don't confuse kindness with closeness, Miss Rivera. This is a job."
She met his gaze, chin high. "Understood, Mr. Frost."
But as she followed the assistant back through the hall, she stole one glance over her shoulder.
Isla was still there. Still clutching Clover. Still watching.
But this time… her eyes weren't guarded.
They were hopeful.
And hope, Anna knew, was the first crack in any wall.