Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Mansion
By the fourth week of Mason's employment at the Hart estate, a strange routine had established itself within the massive, cold walls of the mansion.
Every evening at seven, Mason would begin his secondary shift. And every evening at seven-fifteen, Sophie would appear.
She never said she was glad to see him. She never offered to help in a way that seemed friendly. Instead, she shadowed him like a tiny, vigilant security guard, watching his every move with critical eyes.
If he was polishing the brass fixtures in the foyer, she would sit on the bottom step of the grand staircase, swinging her legs and offering unsolicited critiques of his technique.
If he was changing high-altitude lightbulbs in the library, she would hold the base of the aluminum ladder, claiming she was only doing it so he wouldn't fall and break her mother's expensive rugs.
"You're late tonight," Sophie said one Tuesday evening, leaning against the doorframe of the primary laundry room while Mason sorted fresh linens.
"Traffic on the bridge," Mason replied, placing folded white towels into a neat stack. "And Noah had a project for school."
Sophie’s ears perked up instantly. "Who's Noah?"
"My son."
"How old is he?"
"Seven."
Sophie crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "Why don't you ever bring him here?"
"Because this is my job, not a playground," Mason said. "Besides, he has homework and early school mornings."
"My mom brings her work home all the time," Sophie muttered. "Her work lives in her laptop, her phone, and her head. It takes up all the rooms."
Mason didn't contradict her. He picked up a basket of clean tablecloths and walked toward the dining room. Sophie followed three paces behind, her small slippers clicking against the hardwood.
"Is your son nice?" she asked suddenly.
"Usually," Mason said. "He likes dinosaurs and builds terrible forts out of sofa cushions."
"My mom's house doesn't allow sofa cushion forts," Sophie said flatly. "The designer said it ruins the structural line of the living room."
Mason stopped in the middle of the grand dining room—a room featuring a twelve-foot polished oak table that looked as though it had never hosted a family dinner in its existence. He set the basket down and looked down at the girl.
"Designers aren't always right," Mason said softly.
Sophie looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the warm glow of the chandelier above. For a second, the defensive mask slipped, revealing the profound, aching loneliness beneath.
"Mason?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Why did my mom hire a janitor instead of another nanny?"
"Because the last nanny quit," Mason answered truthfully. "And your mom needed someone to keep the house clean while she searches for a new permanent agency director."
"She isn't searching very hard," Sophie whispered, looking down at her slippers. "She hasn't had anyone interview since Thursday."
"Maybe she thinks the house is doing alright the way it is," Mason offered gently.
"No," Sophie said, her voice dropping to a harsh, razor-thin whisper. "She's just waiting until I do something bad enough to send me away to that school in Switzerland her friends talk about."
Mason frowned, crouching down so he was at eye level with her. "Has she ever told you she's sending you away?"
"She doesn't have to tell me," Sophie spat, her eyes suddenly brimming with hot, angry tears that she refused to let fall. "I hear her on her calls! She says I'm 'unmanageable'! She tells her assistants that she can't manage a tech firm with four thousand employees and a child who breaks everything she touches!"
She stomped her foot against the floor, her small body trembling with rage.
"I hate her!" Sophie shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the empty dining room. "I hate her, and I hate this house, and I hate everyone who works here!"
She turned and bolted out of the room, her footsteps pounding wildly up the stairs before her bedroom door slammed shut with a deafening crash that seemed to rattle the heavy oak dining table.
Mason remained crouched on the floor for a long moment, listening to the heavy silence that settled over the mansion after the storm.
He stood up slowly, his joints aching from twelve hours of manual labor between his two jobs.
He didn't go after her immediately. He knew enough about emotional meltdowns to know that forcing a frightened child into a conversation while their adrenaline was spiking was useless.
Instead, he went back to his utility cart, pulled out a fresh cloth and a bottle of lemon-scented wood polish, and began meticulously wiping down the dining table.
An hour later, as he was wrapping up his shift near the kitchen, he saw Evelyn standing near the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in her silk housecoat, holding a glass of iced water, looking up toward the dark second-floor corridor.
She had clearly heard the slam.
"Did she have another episode?" Evelyn asked as Mason walked past with his mop bucket. Her voice sounded exhausted, drained of its usual corporate sharpness.
"She's upset," Mason said simply.
"She's always upset," Evelyn sighed, rubbing her temples. "I buy her whatever she asks for. She has tutors, horses, music lessons, the best medical care money can buy. Yet every single day is a battle. I don't understand what she wants from me."
Mason set his mop down. He looked at the powerful, wealthy woman standing in front of him—a woman who could command boardrooms and negotiate multi-million-dollar tech acquisitions, but had no idea how to talk to the eight-year-old girl sitting alone in a bedroom upstairs.
"She doesn't want things, Mrs. Hart," Mason said quietly.
Evelyn's eyes snapped to his, a flicker of cold annoyance returning. "And I suppose you know what she wants, Mr. Reed?"
"She wants to know if you'll still be here if she stops being impressive," Mason said without fear.
Evelyn stiffened as if she had been slapped. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles turning white around her water glass. "That is an extremely rude and inappropriate assumption."
"It's not an assumption," Mason replied, his voice remaining utterly calm. "It's what kids think when they only see their parents when they're angry or busy. They start testing the walls to see how hard they have to push before the structure collapses."
"I work to provide her with a future!" Evelyn said, her voice rising slightly. "My husband left us when she was two years old! He took half his assets and moved to Singapore without looking back! I built this life out of nothing so she would never have to worry about security!"
"She's eight," Mason said gently. "Security to an eight-year-old isn't a bank account. It's knowing that when she throws a fit, the person she loves doesn't pack a bag and leave."
Evelyn stared at him, her chest heaving slightly, her lips parted in shock. No one had spoken to her with such blunt, unvarnished honesty in fifteen years.
May you like
Before she could respond, Mason picked up his bucket.
"I'll see you on Friday, Mrs. Hart," he said softly, and walked out into the cool, dark rain.
