The Alstro residence sits in solitude by the sea, overseer of all that the waves take and diminish. Swaying to and fro the shoreline, glistening by the glare of Florida’s sun. A stale, salty scent comes to sting at your nose as a breeze passes on and through. The distant resonance of wavering waves floods the space of your ear, just as the sparkle of sea stuns your eyes.

You can’t bring yourself to tear away.

Against the beautiful backdrop of the beach, the home itself isn’t as astonishing except within its exaggerated size and ten too many windows to marvel at the outside. A simple modern home resting peacefully at the foot of a surface, as if it were in solace at the end of the earth. For something so striking yet peculiar and peaceful—it seems impossible that it could exist.

Your hand itches to undo the belt of your bag, to retrieve your camera and capture the momentous sight that lays bare before you. Temptation is terrible; you almost give in, too, and lose yourself in its wonder, but somehow find the will to tear away and start slowly towards the door. The hairs along your arms prick against the fabric of your shirt with each nearing step.

Nervous, yes, and perhaps a bit scared too. You aren't quite sure what to expect. The Alstros are, from what scarce information there is online, a formidable few—a baseless assumption due to the obscurity of the family’s proceedings. The head of the family, Larks Alstro, is said to be a reserved and imposing figure, who is quite accomplished with the generational success of the CroCus Shipping Co.

There wasn’t much else to look into besides that. The obscurity of the whole situation is unsettling, to say the least, but it can’t be helped. It’s the best opportunity there is for a stable paycheck, considering how light the labor is, so you try not to ponder and make haste of what little steps remain. Although, a ring to the bell doesn’t do very much in scouring away anticipating assumptions.

As you stand before the colossal door, your heart pounds in your ear with each suspected step taken towards it. The thumps through your chest nearly fall in sync with every passing second until the door is finally pulled open. The elegant frame of a woman steps from behind, her slender hands folding graciously at the waist as her head dips in a welcoming nod.

“Right on time. How punctual!”

A chignon of blonde-white hair and a pair of sparkling green eyes greet you gleefully. Her countenance almost conceals the few wrinkles creasing her skin as if she were much younger. Ms. Ann Thurium took great amusement when giving you a guess at her age during your initial meeting. You hadn’t suspected her to be anywhere over forty, and yet here she is, nearing the prime of senescence.

She beckons you inside with the fluid motion of her hand. “Oh, Lottie… It’s wonderful to see you again!”

A faint flush sweeps across your cheeks, just as a small smile takes to your lips. “I could say the same for you, Ms. Thurium. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Please, drop the formalities. I told you, just ‘Ann’ is fine!”

She nudges you playfully as you step inside, giggling as if she were a blooming maiden. Ms. Ann Thurium had proven herself to be quite the character. You met in a public library just last week; you had been scanning the shelves for a particular textbook and just when you had found it, her hand brushed up against yours.

It would have been a cliche if she were much younger, where the possibility of romance wouldn’t have fallen too far out the window (in complete disregard for her age, she had a peculiar beauty you could only attribute to nobility). She introduced herself as a former English professor who wanted to catch up on the current curriculum of World Literature.

You apologized and left her and the book without much thought, but she was oddly persistent in pampering you with even more textbooks after catching sight of the half-written essay you returned to. She offered to look it over, and was taken aback by your fluid wording—quite literally—her dramatic gasps and praises nearly caused the two of you to be removed from the library.

Over hushed whispers, Ms. Ann had rambled endlessly about her granddaughter, Daisy, who was in need of ‘academic guidance’. Not a moment later, she offered you work as a tutor, and with dubious hesitance, you accepted. It had been all too long since anyone gave you the light of day, much less with such intensity. You couldn’t figure out why she had even bothered with your timidness, but perhaps your turn for attention had finally come.

After looking into the family’s background, it almost felt too good to be true. But you were drowning deeper in debt and there wasn’t anyone to spare you the light of day, and still isn’t, so you find yourself slipping off your shoes at the foot of the Alstro’s marvelous home.

Ms. Ann instantly notices the gesture and gasps, “My, what a gentleman! I’ve really hit the jackpot, haven’t I? Please, make yourself at home! I’ll let Larks know you’re here.”

You step in further as she wanders off someplace. You don't take in the surroundings until you’re a good few feet from the door. The interior is incredibly spacious; the amount of furniture and decor is kept to a minimalistic degree, but not to so little as to say that the space is barren. You’re sure there's more to see beyond the halls and upstairs, likely in matching modesty, but that’s all that fits the frame for now.

Flat white walls, some portions engraved with gray stone while the rest are taken by windows. The ceiling lights are kept low, save for what shines past the panes to obscure other parts into shadows. You can see the glistening glimmer of the ocean from where you stand. Around ten meters beyond the entrance lies an enormous pane stretching up the stairs, pristine in its view of the outside.

The home itself exudes an aura of elegance that you find yourself, once again, longing to capture it all with the curt click of a camera.

There isn't as much to marvel at when Ms. Ann comes back around to lead you further inside. The kitchen, dining, and living room are all typical in their simplicity and dull colors. Scattered bits of furniture lie here and there, littered across carob-stained vinyl. Nothing is exactly eye-catching, but there isn't anything not to be amazed by either.

It's fascinating in the most senseless of ways.

She soon stops at one of the few doors of the first floor, completely astray from the more communal areas of the home. Ms. Ann takes a curt moment to look you up and down, her eyes crease up slightly with an emotion you confuse for awe. Her graceful hands come to smooth back the cool brown locks of your hair before dropping down to the collar and the button beneath.

“Loosen up a little, Lottie. He’ll only cut a finger if your shirt isn’t buttoned up all the way,” she teases.

You watch her hands carefully as they undo the top button, then fall to her side. Her unsettling words lay trapped in the narrowness of your throat, which you find all the more difficult to swallow down so suddenly. She seems to notice; you suppose so because of the way she rests your hand on your shoulder.

She smiles gently, “I’m kidding! Larks may act tough, but he’s really a mommy’s boy. You’ll do just fine, I know it!”

Despite the nod you give to convey an understanding, a tremor takes over your hand when opening the door. One blind step inside is all it takes for Ms. Ann to suddenly disappear, nowhere to be seen among scant surroundings by the time the door closes shut.

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Like the rest of the home, sunlight from the distant windows is what illuminates the room. It's a simple study room, basic in its necessities albeit a bit more vibrant in color than what you have seen so far. There’s a fish tank off to the center that displays hues of all forms with whatever sea creatures roaming within.

You inch closer, drawn in fascination to the little fish. But a quick glance at the man sitting behind the desk, waiting expectantly, is what sends you past the tank. Larks gestures for you to take a seat with the flick of his hand, which oddly feels more demanding than any verbal request you have come to hear—like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Larks is a well-built man, the shape of his muscles is prominent through the fabric of his clothing. His sharp eyes shine like emeralds as they narrow over the resume you had printed for Ms. Ann back at the library. You watch in tense silence. Larks’ face remains expressionless as he skims through the resume. His eyebrows lay flat, unfurrowed, and dark like his hair. There isn't a single hint of emotion on his face, yet you can't help but feel intimidated.

“Lot Mone… are you Irish?”

You tilt your head, raising your brow as your lips part in confusion, but no words come out. You’re taken aback by the tone of Larks’ voice. It's like the ocean; deep, dark, disquieting, yet oddly smooth and serene. It's ironic in some way, you don't know what. In any case, your name is at the top of the page. You question whether Larks was actually reading through or just trying to figure out your name’s origins by himself.

Larks keeps his gaze firm at the name, going on to ask, “If not, then how is it pronounced? Moné, or Möne? Perhaps Móne, or is it Monè?”

Each syllable rolls off his tongue evenly, sounding as if he were fluent in each language of origin pronounced. You catch yourself staring at the subtle bobs of his throat.

“It’s a rather odd name, I know. But however you interpret it is fine. I’ve heard just about everything at this point.” You find it in yourself to laugh nervously, simply because you aren’t quite sure either.

You have never met anyone to share your name with. It’s always written down somewhere on something insignificant like a lunch box or some stray paper, hence it’s treated as so. Your mother never taught you any better; she was gone before you knew to converse with strangers. Mone is only a word now, left at the mercy of whoever pronounces it. Although, you can’t say that you aren't fond of the way Larks treats it. It almost makes you feel special.

Larks sighs, “You can’t take the hint, can you?” His gaze shifts from the paper.

“I’m sorry… I really don’t understand.”

You stare back with just as much uncertainty, perhaps even more as irritation pronounces itself upon the man’s features. Your eyes follow the sheet as it’s let loose, eventually settling on the desk like a feather. Carefully, you watch as Larks leans forward, intertwining his fingers and stilling them on the slick surface before him.

The emerald of his eye studies every bit of subconscious reaction, settling sternly, “You don’t have much of a work history. At this point, I would shred the resume and ask never to see you again.”

The weight of his words rests wearily upon your shoulders. You feel your face flush red, a mix of embarrassment and humiliation. Your limbs feel light as they unfold for you to stand. A tenuous twitch takes your knees when turning towards the door.

“Sit down.”

The severe sternness of Larks’ voice drops you right back down onto the chair. You feel your stomach start to churn as the air holds still at your head. It really was too good to be true. The urge to drop down convulsing, crying, choking all at once disperses at the sound of Larks’ sly tone.

“I want to hear your worth,” he rejoins. “Tell me why I should bother. You need the money, don’t you?”

You look off to the side, eyes scrambling to find something else to focus on besides the prominent presence projecting before you. You search inwardly for words—genuine ones about yourself, and your accomplishments. You’re sure that you have something, but it seems all too difficult to remember in the heat of the moment.

There had never been anyone present to celebrate and remind you of such things with celebrations, so those memories had scattered off to some secret place; where all insignificant things go to rest until they rot. But then you think back to the library, the book, and recollect reluctantly:

“… To be honest, your mother—Ms. Ann, she offered me to come by after reading an essay I was working on at the time. It’s not that I’m intelligent at all, I just—”

“The self-degrading type, huh? That’s just wonderful.”

“Not like that!” Your interjection is dismissed by the mild disinterest Larks wears on his face.

You try once more, urging, “I just can’t promise more than what I’m capable of. I’m sure you understand—how many people have you come to hire on the basis of skill and they turned out to be everything but?”

“None. My perception of people is rather thorough.” Larks notes.

You open your mouth to speak, but all sense of reasoning has run off somewhere. In essence, things haven’t gone as promised. It’s not as if you were all that much promising, anyway. Desperation forced you into an unfathomable situation with the only people who have ever bothered to speak to you willingly.

And you’ve ruined it simply by being incompetent.

“I admire your honesty, I’ll give you that, and your efforts aren’t to be overlooked either. However, you’re either clumsy or foolish for leaving that button undone.” Larks stares in scorn.

You look down at your collar in panic. Your fingers scramble to fix the button in place as you rush, “Ah! That was Ms. Ann, you see, she—”

“I know. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

The impulse to correct your appearance diffuses; you watch your hands as they slowly fall back into your lap. You don't dare to look up at Larks' perceived smugness. You feel helpless.

He muses, “You really are all that she claimed you to be.”

You find yourself wondering what that was exactly. You don't recall showing any weakness, you were just acting yourself, although you only knew very little of who that is. You can’t help but feel as if the two were in on some sick joke, mocking your helplessness under the false pretense of hope.

You hear a sigh from the man before you, something you fear foreshadows your defeat until Larks’ voice floods the space like a sea.

“Starting Monday to Friday, you’ll be here from nine till noon. Accommodate any classes or plans you’d have around that schedule. My chauffeur will take you to and fro every day; from here to your home. Taxis are annoying.”

Your head jolts up, weightless. For a lingering moment, you stare at him in pure disbelief, questioning the faultiness of your ears, or if the joke wasn’t quite over yet. You had virtually been signed off without the slightest hint of potential, nor a discussion of terms.

“But, I—”

Larks counters, curt. “I trust that I don’t need to reassure any of those baseless doubts. You should know that your efforts will be rewarded appropriately. Don’t play a fool for me, Lot.”

He must have assumed you already looked into their background, so you shouldn’t worry about a fair paycheck. It had to be decent, or even better—enough to keep you afloat. Perhaps Larks knew of your situation, too. You wonder once more, rather than a joke, if this was some kind of act for charity.

It isn’t as if you had much of a choice in the matter. You don't have anyone else to rely on besides yourself, and you can only bear to be turned down by so many.

Despite everything, you feel as if you are about to cry. Your eyes sting, and you’re almost certain that your nose is burning red, too. The whole situation is just so ridiculous that you could bawl your eyes out right there and then; in front of a man who would most definitely care less because he could never understand.

“ … Thank you,” you manage instead.

Larks’ nod is taken as a dismissal. The chair jars against the vinyl as you struggle to stand. You dip your head in a slight bow out of habit; a gesture for when you can’t find any other words to express yourself, or simply when you haven't much energy for interaction. You make sure to tuck the chair back in before starting off towards the door.

When you walk, it’s as if your feet scarcely sweep across the floor. You feel light, both tremendously relieved and elated. The pallid flesh on your fingers latch onto the door handle but before you can pull it, Larks calls out once more.

“Is there anyone else? If something were to happen to you, I’d need to know who to contact.”

You turn to look back at him. Even from the distance at the door, the glow of that glistening green is still vibrant. Only now, something in them perverts and you feel your heart twist along with it. Although it could just be from how far off he seems, you aren't sure.

“It’s just me.”

The features of his face mellow down into a frown. “I see.”

Not a moment later, the door pulls open. You take a step outside and don't dare look back as it clicks shut behind you. You’re greeted once again by Ms. Ann’s cheeriness. She beckons you closer and eases any stray tension with a rub of your shoulder.

She smiles teasingly. “See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it? I have a feeling, Lottie! You’re just going to love it here…”