The house did not feel like mine anymore.
Even with daylight pouring in through the tall windows, even with the quiet hum of normalcy, the ticking clock, the distant sound of water pipes, the faint breeze brushing the curtains, the mansion felt occupied by something unseen. Something patient. Something listening.
So many weird thoughts are going through my mind and I can't even explain them
I sat on the edge of the couch, my hands folded tightly in my lap, trying to steady my breathing. Amanda had helped me with the paperwork the night before. She had been calm, methodical, her lawyer instincts taking over as she searched through agencies, verified credentials, and ensured everything was done cleanly. Legitimate.
That was how Brittany came into the picture.
A name on paper.
A face from outside the estate.
A solution that felt necessary… even if it didn't feel safe.
The following morning, I woke to an unfamiliar silence.
Amanda's side of the bed was empty.
For a moment, panic crawled up my throat before I noticed the folded paper on the bedside table. Her handwriting was rushed but familiar.
Gone to get some things. I'll be back soon. Don't panic. Lock the doors.
I exhaled slowly, pressing the note to my chest before placing it back down. I trusted Amanda. I had no reason not to. Still, trust had become a fragile thing lately, thin as glass, easy to fracture.
The doorbell rang less than an hour later.
My body stiffened immediately.
I stood still for a full minute, listening. The doorbell rang again, sharper this time. I walked toward the door with careful steps, peering through the security screen before unlocking it.
She stood there with a small suitcase beside her.
Brittany.
Late twenties, maybe. Calm expression. No excessive friendliness. No visible nervousness. She wore plain clothes, nothing flashy, nothing that stood out. If I had passed her on the street, I wouldn't have remembered her face.
That unsettled me more than anything else.
"Good morning, ma'am," she said politely.
I nodded and stepped aside to let her in.
She didn't waste time looking around. Didn't ask questions. Didn't comment on the house. She went straight to the kitchen and began working like someone who already knew where things were.
I followed her, my eyes scanning every movement she made.
I laid out the rules clearly. Firmly. No visitors after ten. No opening doors to anyone unless I approved it. Every strange sound, every unusual movement, reported immediately. No exceptions.
She listened. She nodded. She didn't argue.
"Yes, ma'am."
That was it.
No curiosity. No resistance.
I went upstairs afterward, my chest tight, unable to tell whether her obedience was reassuring… or unsettling.
By afternoon, she was cleaning the living room when Amanda returned.
I saw Amanda freeze the moment she stepped inside.
It was subtle. A flicker. But I noticed it.
Brittany greeted her. Amanda responded, but her voice was different. Controlled. Guarded.
I signaled Amanda quietly and pulled her upstairs, locking the bedroom door behind us.
"What is it?" I asked.
Amanda rubbed her forehead slowly. "I've seen her before."
My stomach clenched. "Where?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "That's what's bothering me. Her face, it's familiar. Too familiar."
The unease settled deeper.
"Could it be nothing?" I asked.
"Maybe," she said. "But I don't like maybes anymore."
Neither did I.
Still, there was nothing we could prove. Nothing concrete. So we buried the feeling and moved on.
A mistake, perhaps, but at the time, survival demanded it.
Amanda left two days later.
She had things to fix. Loose ends she couldn't ignore. She promised she would return soon. I watched her drive away from the gate, my chest heavy with a sense of exposure.
The house felt larger without her.
Too large.
I busied myself with paperwork, online searches, half-finished thoughts. I tried to distract myself from the growing weight in my body, from the constant awareness of the life forming inside me.
Eventually, I decided to go to the prison.
I needed to see Damian.
The moment I saw him, something inside me shattered quietly.
He looked smaller.
Thinner.
The strength he once carried so effortlessly had been dulled by exhaustion and confinement. His eyes lit up when he saw me, but the light didn't last. It faded when his gaze dropped to my stomach.
We sat across from each other, separated by glass and rules and cruelty.
"I feel like someone is watching me," I told him softly. "Like they know everything."
His jaw tightened.
I told him about the surveillance. About the unease. About the maid.
He didn't like it.
Not one bit.
Damian had always trusted his instincts. And right now, every instinct in him screamed danger.
Then he told me about Paquito.
A man in his cell. A former employee. A scapegoat.
The name alone made my heart race.
Paquito had worked for the previous owners of the estate.
Amanda's sister. Her brother-in-law.
Framed. Discarded. Forgotten.
Just like Damian.
The pattern was undeniable now.
"They use people," I whispered as I drove home later. "They burn them and move on."
The realization sat heavy in my chest.
When I reached the estate, something was wrong.
The front door was open.
I stopped the car at a distance.
That was when I saw her.
Mrs. Alexander.
She was stepping out of my house.
With Brittany.
They were talking.
Close. Familiar. Comfortable.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel as my heart slammed violently against my ribs.
Brittany laughed at something Mrs. Alexander said.
Then they parted ways.
Mrs. Alexander walked back toward her own mansion.
And Brittany… went back inside mine.
I sat there, frozen, unable to breathe.