Chapter 1 - The Four Chairs at the Table
The interior of the Flores estate was a masterpiece of cold, monochromatic stone and bulletproof glass.
As Ricardo Flores led me through the cavernous foyer, my secondhand boots sounded like gunshots against the black Italian marble. He didn't offer to take my bag, nor did he make small talk about the rain lashing against the canyon windows. He walked with a calculated, predatory grace—a man accustomed to commanding rooms without uttering a word.
“The interview takes place at dinner,” Ricardo said, his deep voice slicing through the hum of the central heating. “My children expect punctuality.”
I paused in the hallway, adjusting my coat. “Children? Plural? Ms. Patterson told me you had a daughter. Valentina.”
Ricardo turned slowly. Under the warm glow of a minimalist chandelier, his silver-flecked gray eyes pinned me to the spot. A faint, cruel smirk twitched at the corner of his sculpted mouth.
“Ms. Patterson gave you the sanitized version so you wouldn't run before signing the non-disclosure agreement,” he said smoothly. “Valentina is the oldest by four minutes. But there are four of them. Nine-year-old quadruplets.”
Before I could process the absurdity—or the sheer impossibility—of managing four traumatized nine-year-olds at once, Ricardo pushed open a set of heavy mahogany double doors.
The dining room was vast, dominated by a dark walnut table designed to seat twenty people. But only five place settings were laid out with sterling silver and gold-rimmed china.
Sitting in four identical high-backed leather chairs were the quadruplets.
They did not look like children; they looked like a tiny, terrifyingly synchronized tribunal.
To the far left sat Valentina—dark hair tied in a sharp ponytail, posture rigid as a needle, staring at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Next to her was Mateo, who was methodically carving deep, sharp lines into the cloth napkin using a silver butter knife.
Beside him sat Leo, wearing heavy noise-canceling headphones, holding an iPad that flashed complex green lines of code.
And on the far right sat Sofia, the smallest of the four, who was staring down at a silver bowl of hot soup with absolute stillness, refusing to blink.
“Children,” Ricardo announced, stepping to the head of the table. “This is Elena Castillo. She is your new music instructor and live-in supervisor.”
Valentina didn't hesitate. She stood up on her chair, crossed her arms, and looked down at me like a miniature queen addressing a peasant.
“She won't last until dessert,” Valentina declared. Her voice was sharp, cultured, and dripping with venom. “The last one cried when Mateo put the spider in her soup. The one before that quit when Leo wiped her bank account. How long do you give yourself, Ms. Castillo?”
The room went dead silent. The house staff standing near the kitchen doors turned their eyes to the floor, waiting for the inevitable explosion—or my immediate retreat.
I stood my ground. I looked at Valentina, then at Mateo’s silver knife, then at Leo’s tablet, and finally at Sofia’s untouched soup.
I set my heavy backpack on the mahogany floor with a loud, dusty thud.
“Well,” I said, pulling out the empty chair directly across from Valentina and sitting down calmly. “I’ve worked for five years teaching rich kids who hated piano practice, my landlord threatens to evict me every Tuesday, and I once dealt with a mother who tried to sue me because her son couldn't play Beethoven after two weeks.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out an apple I had brought for the drive, and set it on the table.
“So unless one of you has a weapon that can pay my mother’s medical bills,” I said, looking Valentina dead in the eye, “I’m not going anywhere.”
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Mateo stopped carving his napkin. Leo pulled one side of his headphones down. Sofia slowly raised her big brown eyes to look at me.
And at the head of the table, Ricardo Flores leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.
