Chapter 4 - The Second Encounter
Two days later, Abby returned to the penthouse.
She pushed her battered cleaning cart across the marble entryway with a heavy heart. Ever since Tuesday, she had been tossing and turning in her sleep, terrified that the billionaire owner of the penthouse—whoever he was—would realize money was missing, check his security cameras, and accuse her of theft. She had debated quitting five different times, but the agency threatened to withhold her back pay, and rent was due.
She stepped into the master suite, her eyes immediately darting toward the dresser.
The money was gone.
Abby let out a sharp, ragged gasp of relief, slumping against the doorframe. Thank God. He must have moved it. He didn't notice anything missing because nothing was taken.
She set to work with renewed energy, dusting the mahogany surfaces, vacuuming the plush Persian rugs, and wiping down the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. As she reached into the walk-in closet to tidy the shoe racks, something unusual caught her eye.
Sitting neatly on the bottom shelf of her supply caddy—which she had left zipped shut in the utility room—was a small, heavy velvet box.
Abby frowned, lifting the lid.
Inside sat a brand-new, high-end smartphone with a single note embossed in heavy silver lettering:
*“For your official work communications. Do not leave it behind.”*
Abby’s heart pounded. She turned the phone over. There was no carrier logo, and the SIM card slot was already pre-configured to a secure, private network.
Before she could process what this meant, her agency supervisor called her personal cell phone.
“Abigail?” the supervisor’s voice barked through the speaker, sounding unusually eager and polite. “Listen, there’s been a change in your contract. Effective immediately, you’ve been assigned to exclusive VIP private maintenance for Mr. Julian Cross. Your hourly rate has been adjusted from twenty-two dollars to seventy-five dollars an hour, retroactive to last month. Plus, full health insurance coverage for your entire household.”
Abby froze mid-stride in the middle of the master bedroom. “Seventy-five dollars an hour? Exclusive? Wait, Ms. Gable, there must be a mistake. Mr. Cross doesn't even know who I am!”
“Mr. Cross knows exactly who you are, Abigail,” the supervisor replied smoothly. “He personally requested you. Don’t ask questions, just show up tomorrow at 8:00 AM sharp.”
The line went dead.
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Abby stared at the phone in her hand, then looked around the empty penthouse. She wasn't just being watched. She was being targeted by a man who played games she couldn't possibly understand.
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