The Silent Interview

The mansion loomed like a fortress of secrets.

Perched on the jagged cliffs of Harrow’s Point, the sprawling black estate rose from the mist like a myth come to life. Ivy snaked along its stone walls, iron gates towering high and unwelcoming. It was the kind of place that devoured sound. Even the wind, which should have howled across the gothic towers, seemed to hush itself as if afraid to disturb whatever slept inside.

Aurora Quinn stepped out of the town car, her boots crunching against the gravel path. The cold bit through her jacket, but she stood tall, one hand clutched around the worn leather strap of her satchel. Her breath fogged in the crisp autumn air, though no sound escaped her lips.

She never made a sound.

The driver gave a nod and pulled away without ceremony. She preferred it that way.

Before she could knock, the massive door creaked open. A tall woman with sharp features and an even sharper uniform appeared in the doorway. Her slate-gray attire was as severe as her expression.

“You’re late,” the woman said. Not kindly, but not cruelly either—just cold.

Aurora offered a tight smile and reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out a small notepad and scribbled quickly:

There was an accident on Route 9. I apologize.

The woman’s eyes flicked down, then up again. “You’re the mute.”

Aurora gave a calm nod.

“Mr. Thorne doesn’t tolerate delays,” the woman continued, stepping aside to let her in. “Nor does he tolerate weakness. Speak only when spoken to—if you can manage that.”

I always do, Aurora wrote, lifting the page with a quiet poise that bordered on defiance.

The woman didn’t smile, but something in her expression shifted—just slightly. Approval? Curiosity? It passed too quickly to read.

“The child is in the east wing,” she said. “But Mr. Thorne will see you first.”

Aurora followed her through long, hushed corridors, the sound of their steps absorbed by thick rugs and pristine marble. The house was beautiful in a sterile, unfeeling way—abstract paintings, glass chandeliers, mirrored corners. Every surface gleamed. Every corner watched.

They stopped at a pair of double doors, carved from obsidian-black wood. Without knocking, the woman gave a nod and murmured, “Good luck,” before disappearing down the hall.

Aurora inhaled and opened the doors.

The study was vast and lined with bookshelves stretching floor to ceiling. A wall of windows overlooked the cliffs and the violent sea below, where rain danced in ribbons against the glass. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting orange light on the room’s polished surfaces.

Behind a massive onyx desk sat Damien Thorne.

He didn’t look up immediately. He was writing in a leather-bound journal, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms were strong, dusted with dark hair, a silver watch catching the firelight. There was something coiled about him—refined, but dangerous. Velvet over steel.

When he finally lifted his gaze, their eyes locked. Something flickered. Not recognition. Not attraction. Something far more dangerous.

“You’re late.”

Aurora slid her notepad from her coat and wrote: Accident on Route 9. I apologize.

He read it, then let the corner of his mouth curl—not into a smile, but something more… interested. Like a predator watching unfamiliar prey.

“No voice. No past. No references. Just a silent girl who wants a job in my home.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she wrote quickly: I have training. I’m CPR certified. I taught at a special needs facility for four years.

He rose from the desk, a slow, deliberate motion, and approached her like a shadow stretching across the floor.

“You wrote that,” he said, “but didn’t explain why you left.”

Her pen scratched again: I needed to disappear.

She paused, then added beneath it: Ivy needs someone who won’t speak lies. I’m good at listening.

At the mention of his daughter, Damien’s gaze narrowed, sharpening like a blade.

“My daughter doesn’t talk much either,” he said, voice low and edged with something dark. “But she screams at night. Screams until she can’t breathe.”

Aurora’s spine stiffened.

“She doesn’t like nannies. Sent four away in three months.”

Aurora hesitated, then wrote: Let her decide.

“You’re not afraid she’ll hate you?”

No, she wrote. Then, after a beat: I don’t scare easily.

He studied her for a long moment. The fire crackled. Rain pelted the glass harder. At last, he gave a curt nod.

“Follow me.”

He led her through the endless halls until they stopped outside a pale blue door, decorated with stickers—stars, rainbows, planets.

He knocked softly, then opened the door.

Inside, a little girl with unruly brown curls sat cross-legged on the floor, building a Lego fortress. She didn’t look up when they entered.

“Ivy,” Damien said gently, “this is Miss Quinn. She wants to be your new nanny.”

Aurora moved to her knees, placing herself at the child’s level. She said nothing. Just watched.

Ivy glanced at her, then returned to her building.

Without a word, Aurora reached into her bag and pulled out a small, porcelain unicorn—hand-painted, no larger than her thumb. She set it beside Ivy’s Lego castle, then waited.

Ivy’s eyes widened. She picked up the figurine like it was treasure, staring at it for a long time. Then she looked up at Aurora.

“I like her,” she said softly.

Damien blinked, stunned. “Well, shit.”

Aurora smiled, lips curving gently, but she didn’t speak.

“She stays,” Ivy said, then turned back to her blocks with all the decisiveness of a queen.

Damien lingered, watching Aurora with new eyes. She rose and followed him from the room.

In the hallway, he didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You start tonight. Guest wing, last door. Don’t go anywhere else unless summoned.”

She nodded once.

Then he turned to face her, stepping closer than necessary. His voice dropped, cool and lethal.

“If I find out you’ve lied about anything, I’ll make you regret ever stepping foot inside this house.”

Aurora met his gaze without blinking. Calmly, she raised her pen.

Everyone lies, Mr. Thorne. Some of us just don’t say it out loud.

He laughed then. Low, dark, dangerous. A sound that rippled through her like smoke and thunder.

“Dangerous girl,” he murmured. “I like that.”

Her room in the guest wing was elegant but lifeless. White walls. Chrome fixtures. Nothing personal. She unpacked in silence—just a small journal, a toothbrush, and a single folded photograph she never looked at but always kept close.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

At 2:16 a.m., she heard it. Footsteps. Small, fast, frightened.

She slipped from bed and opened her door.

Ivy stood there in her pajamas, trembling.

Aurora knelt again and opened her arms.

The child ran into them without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around Aurora’s neck.

No tears. No words. Just a need to be held.

Aurora carried her back to bed and stayed until Ivy’s breathing evened out, stroking her hair gently in the darkness. Neither of them spoke.

Down the hall, in the shadows of his study, Damien Thorne watched the monitor. The screen flickered with black-and-white footage of the hallway. His hand paused the video just as Aurora turned her head—staring directly into the camera.

Unblinking.

Almost like she knew he was watching.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed, fingers steepled under his chin.

“She’s not what she seems,” he muttered.

Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out a manila file. Inside was her application—sparse, inconsistent. No background. No family. No record before two years ago.

He tapped a photograph of her with his pen.

“What are you hiding, little mute?”