1
Kitty
Everyone told me this was a mistake, that taking a job as a live-in cook and housekeeper for a man—a billionaire recluse—who lived out in the middle of nowhere was the worst mistake I’d ever make. They told me I’d regret it, that I was leaving my friends and family. They said I was selfish for wanting to disconnect.
Maybe they were right, but at twenty-two years old, I felt far too old for my age. I felt like I’d been disconnected for so long already. I felt like they were wrong and this decision was the absolute best one I’d made in a long time. Because it was for me. There were no expectations for this job except cooking edible meals and cleaning one man’s house.
No trying to excel at school. No trying to make people happy, to laugh at stupid jokes or always put on a smile. No trying to convince my parents that just because I didn’t have a boyfriend—that I’d never had one—didn’t mean there was something wrong with me.
College wasn’t working out, the city life was too hectic and consuming for me, and I just wanted to escape to breathe. I had no intent to make this a lifelong career, tending to a billionaire’s domestic affairs, but for a short while, it seemed like it would be a good reprieve. It would be mindless work that could let me focus on so many unimportant things.
Maybe my mind could start to heal from the toxicity that surrounded me from the world.
To be honest, I hadn’t even expected to get the job. I had no experience with professional domestic duties and had no references to back up that I was this incredible worker who wouldn’t disappoint.
I’d even been brutally honest in my application, and maybe it was that honesty that had gotten me the job. I’d written that my life was too busy, that the prospect of disconnecting seemed like euphoria. I’d been blunt, not really catering, admitting I needed this reprieve. It had only depressed me more.
I also noted that I didn’t want to make this my life’s mission, that this wasn’t a career for me. And it was because of that honesty that I really thought I’d be overlooked, seemed unprofessional and not a good fit.
But then I’d gotten an email saying the job was mine.
Relocation fees included.
A sign-bonus included.
Room and board provided.
Weekly paychecks directly deposited into my account.
Honestly? It sounded too good to be true, and I was waiting for the catch.
A big part of me assumed that my new employer was probably the biggest asshole to ever walk the face of the earth. And after doing a quick internet search, trying to confirm my suspicions, all I’d come up with was that Finland Hawthorne was as mysterious as he was aloof. He was quiet, as he was disengaged with society.
Antisocial was what he’d been called many times.
But that worked well for me.
Maybe it would be like my own little oasis, a vacation where I never actually had to see my employer, where I did my job, got paid, and I wouldn’t have to worry about pleasing anyone face-to-face.
I turned onto the dirt road, the GPS having absolutely no damn clue where I was at this point, but I had a roadmap spread across the passenger seat. Thankfully, I’d been smart enough to grab one at the last gas station I stopped at when I started to notice civilization becoming scarcer and my cell coverage vanishing.
The road was bumpy and uneven; long gone was anything paved. Woods surround me on all sides, and I swear the deeper I drove up this backroad—if you could even call it that—I actually felt the temperature drop the higher I climbed.
I’d obviously done my research before applying for the job, then more research before accepting the position. He was single, a billionaire in the oil industry, with no children, and wasn’t seen much in the social scene. His home—a three-story gargantuan cabin—was half an hour from any kind of civilization. I didn’t know if he had others who worked for him to tend to such a large place, but I hoped so. Because there was no way in hell I could even attempt to keep it all clean and organized with just myself.
I came up to a set of massive wrought iron gates. There was a keypad on the driver side of the car, and I rolled my window down to reach out and press the button. I could see the camera pointed directly at me and waited with my heart in my throat as I was granted entrance.
Only a second passed before there was a buzz, and the gates opened, the doors swinging inward. I rolled my window up and squeezed my hands around the steering wheel as I pressed on the gas and made my way up the winding, narrow gravel driveway.
The road seemed to go on forever, but finally there was a break in the trees, and the massive cabin-like estate came into view. It was even more gorgeous than the images online. In fact, I could easily picture it on one of those home and garden elite magazines that showcased rich and famous people’s dwellings.
Once my car was in park and the engine off, I sat there a moment and looked out the window. I was nervous, not because of the job, but I’d finally be meeting Finland Hawthorne for the first time. Strangely enough, there hadn’t been one clear image of him that I could find on the Internet. They were either blurry and out of focus... or there just weren’t any.
So technically, I was going in blind here. Maybe he’d be some scarred and awful man, hater of all things that brought pleasure. Maybe he’d be such a cruel bastard that I’d want to leave as soon as I met him.
How much worse could he be than some of the men I’d come across living in the city?
Well, here goes nothing.
2
Fin
When I placed the ad for a domestic professional online, I hadn’t been picky and had little preference and specifications on who I wanted to work for me. As long as they had some kind of experience in the field, respected my privacy, and knew what they were getting into when working for a recluse, I would’ve given them the job.
But then I’d come across her application, a brutally honest one in the most refreshing way. She had zero experience in this field of work, but was candid about it to the point it should have been deemed unprofessional and an automatic refusal of the job.
But not in my case.
My interest had been instantly piqued to the point I couldn’t ignore it. I needed to know more about her, who she was, what she liked. So I researched her, dug up as much information as I could about Catherine Monsieur.
She was a twenty-two-year-old undergrad for Social Science at Clayton Community College.
She still lived with her parents and worked at the local pub… well, up until a couple weeks ago, when she’d given her notice after accepting the position from me. She had no significant other and only surrounded herself with a small circle of close friends.
Her friends and family called her Kitty.
I had taken one look at her picture, and something in me had stirred, awakened. It was like a dormant, primal beast had felt its heart beat for the first time in its life.
It was an unexplainable, all-consuming sensation. I didn’t understand it, but I sure as fuck liked it.
And so I hired her on the spot for the simple fact that I wanted to get to know her, wanted her close.
Seeing the picture of her instantly made me want her in the most obscene, filthy ways. I’d never felt such irrefutable desire before. I hadn’t been with a woman in so long that I didn’t even know how to be tender, how to be soft and caring to the gentler sex. I was a beast, having been called “inhuman” because of my size. When people described me, they said I could snap bones like twigs in my hands.