I hope I’m not late.

  My heels clack against the damp cobblestone like a metronome of anxiety. Each step echoes louder than the last, though maybe it’s just my pulse pounding in my ears. The streets of Berkswitch stretch out in eerie silence, as if the town is holding its breath, watching me.

  I curse softly, gripping my phone like a lifeline. Seven alarms. I had set seven alarms. Still, I overslept.

  “Take a right,” says the overly calm woman on Maps.

  “There is no right,” I hiss under my breath. The road in front of me splits only into more uncertainty—aged brick walls and tangled hedgerows to one side, the other path lost in a fogged stretch of trees and overgrowth. Still, I take a breath, square my shoulders, and follow the phantom voice through the thicket of vegetation.

  Branches claw at my coat as I push through. The narrow path coils like it doesn’t want to be found. The air grows colder here, heavier. It smells of moss and something older, something… buried.

  And then, like a vision conjured from a fever dream, the gates appear.

  Massive, wrought iron, and crowned with rusting finials—they loom over me like sentinels. “Brooks & Sons Co.” is etched into the metal in elegant, curling script, almost swallowed by ivy. I glance down and wince. My black heels, once pristine, are now caked in Berkswitch mud. I silently apologize to them.

  They’ll see you, not your shoes, I whisper to myself.

  I’m terrible at pep talks.

  “Oh, they’re definitely going to notice.”

  The voice—low, smoky, laced with amusement—makes me jump.

  I spin on my heel, my heart lodging itself somewhere near my throat.

  A man stands a few feet away. Early twenties, tall, sharp-featured, with a mop of rain-damp dark hair and an infuriatingly smug smile that’s far too knowing. His grey eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—mischief, maybe… or something deeper.

  “Are you new here?” he asks, stepping closer.

  I nod, clutching my handbag like a shield. “I’m here for the interview. And you?”

  He chuckles. “I am too. Sorry, that was… a little funny.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls a handkerchief from his coat pocket—dark silk, monogrammed—and crouches. Before I can stop him, he’s gently removing my left heel.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Allow me,” he says softly.

  His fingers brush my ankle, and something electric shoots up my spine. My breath catches. The contact is brief, clinical even, but something in me jolts awake.

  What the hell was that?

  He repeats the gesture with my right heel, carefully wiping the grime from the leather. He replaces them with the reverence of a man handling a relic, then rises, handing me the shoes with a tilt of his head.

  “Here you go, Miss…”

  His gaze finds mine—steady, magnetic, waiting.

  “I—uh—Isabella. Bell. I mean, Isabella.”

  He smiles like he’s just won something. “Well, Isabella, wishing you all the best for the interview.”

  “I’d wish you the same,” I say, recovering quickly, “but you are my competition, Mr…?”

  “Luther,” he says, offering a playful bow. “so Mr. Luther, let’s just say—may the best candidate win.”

  We walk together under the dripping trees. The rain’s slowed to a mist, and the silence between us is almost… intimate. At the entrance, we’re greeted by an elderly woman in a pressed black uniform. She checks our documents with the precision of a surgeon and the warmth of a tombstone.

  “Miss Woods, thank you for appearing. Please wait in the lobby until your name is called. If you need refreshments, do let us know.”

  “Thank you,” I say and step inside.

  The lobby is nothing like I imagined. It’s beautiful in a cold, cathedral kind of way—marble floors, heavy velvet chairs, soft lamps that cast golden halos on everything they touch. It smells like polished wood and lilies. There are nine of us. I spot Luther lounging near the far window, legs stretched, exuding bored elegance. I take the empty seat beside him.

  He turns to me immediately, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room. “So, Belle… Isabella. What brings you to Berkswitch? You’re not from around here.”

  “My grandmother lives nearby. She’s unwell. I’m staying with her now. I needed a job that’s close and pays well. This seemed like the logical choice.”

  He nods, but he’s disappointed. Like he expected something... darker.

  “I’ve heard they keep people here late. You’re not afraid of ghosts?”

  I laugh—too loud. Heads turn. I shrink slightly and murmur, “Humans are far scarier than ghosts. In a graveyard, I’m only afraid someone might bury me alive.”

  That makes him pause. His expression flickers—briefly—and then smooths back into its charming facade.

  “Are you one of those true crime podcast girls?” he teases. “Do thoughts of helplessness excite you, Miss Isabella?”

  His words are light, but something in his tone is not. It digs beneath the skin. Makes me wonder how much of him is performance… and how much is threat.

  I don’t get to respond. The receptionist reappears, clipboard in hand.

  “Miss Isabella Woods, you’re next.”

  I rise, trying to ignore the twist in my stomach. Just nerves. Probably.

  As I reach the door, Luther suddenly steps in front of me and enters the interview room himself.

  I blink, confused.

  And then he walks to the panel, takes a seat beside a man who is a few years older, more severe, more still. The man turns his head slowly, disapproval etched into every angle of his face.

  “You’re late,” he says. His voice is calm, dangerous.

  “My apologies, dear brother,” Luther says, eyes glinting as he looks directly at me. “I was attending to one of the more interesting candidates outside.”

  Brother.

  Luther Brooks.

  Which means...

  The man beside him stands, extending a hand toward me.

  “I’m Arthur Brooks,” he says, voice like cut glass. “And this is my brother, Luther. Welcome to Brooks & Sons Co., Miss Woods.”

  And just like that, the room tilts.

  I am so utterly, completely fucked.