The rhythmic hum of the espresso machine filled the silence in Alex Steele's office. Morning sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding the edges of his desk in a muted gold. His jacket was draped carelessly over the chair, and his tie hung loose against his white shirt ,signs of a man deep in thought.
In front of him lay a thin brown folder with the name "Mia Thompson" neatly typed across the top. Attached to it was a small photo ,a young woman in her mid-twenties with a soft but determined gaze.
Alex's eyes lingered on the picture longer than he cared to admit. There was something unsettlingly familiar about her. Not just her face ,the way she held herself, calm but assured, like she carried her own quiet weather inside her.
"She's not a criminal, you know," a voice said from the door.
Alex looked up to see Ethan Cole, his best friend and co-founder, leaning lazily against the doorframe, holding two cups of coffee.
"I'm beginning to think you've fallen in love with your new hire," Ethan teased, walking in and setting one cup in front of him.
Alex shot him a flat look. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Then why the intense staring contest?"
Alex tapped the photo. "Do you ever look at someone and feel like you've seen them before? But you can't remember where or when?"
Ethan sank into the seat opposite him. "Can't say I do. You sure it's not one of your old investors or...."
"She's the new chef at the mansion, the one you interviewed." Alex interrupted quietly. "Margaret hired her yesterday. Sent me her file this morning for approval."
Alex leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I've seen her before. I'm sure of it. I just can't remember where."
Ethan's grin widened. "Ah, so it is the classic 'I think I know her from somewhere' plot. Should I call your mother? Tell her you've finally noticed a woman who isn't attached to a board meeting?"
Alex shot him a dark look, but Ethan's laughter only grew louder.
"You're impossible," Alex muttered.
"I prefer charmingly insightful," Ethan countered. "Look, if you've seen her before, it'll come to you. Maybe she catered one of your parents' events."
"Maybe," Alex said quietly, his tone unreadable. "Or maybe it's nothing."
"Or maybe," Ethan said, eyes glinting mischievously, "you're just curious because she's not like the women you usually meet. You know , the ones who can't order lunch without checking their reflection in the spoon."
Alex gave him a dry look. "Remind me why we're friends again?"
"Because I'm the only one who tells you the truth," Ethan said, "Also because I bring the coffee."
Ethan stood, stretching lazily. "I am not trying to insinuate anything, but I'll say this,sometimes the people who feel familiar are the ones meant to change your story."
Alex rolled his eyes, but after Ethan left, his gaze drifted once more to the photograph.
There was something in those eyes. Something that made his chest tighten ever so slightly.
He slid the photo back into the folder and stood, forcing his thoughts back to work. But deep down, he knew this feeling wasn't going away anytime soon. The feeling that there's something about her .
By noon, the mansion buzzed with quiet activity.
Mia stood in front of the massive wrought-iron gate, her heart drumming a rhythm somewhere between excitement and nerves. Her small suitcase sat by her feet, and the crisp uniform Margaret had given her the day before hugged her neatly.
She inhaled deeply. The air smelled faintly of pine and freshly cut grass. This is it, she thought. The real beginning.
Margaret appeared at the entrance, her apron crisp, her expression brisk but not unkind. "You're early," she noted approvingly. "Good. That's a trait that'll keep you here."
"Yes, ma'am," Mia said with a small smile.
"Come on then, let's get you settled. You'll be staying in the staff quarters at the west wing. Breakfast is served early, dinner prep starts by four. You'll find the kitchen quite... spirited."
That was an understatement. When they entered, the kitchen was alive with motion . sizzling pans, clattering dishes, and the low hum of chatter.
Heads turned as Margaret introduced her. "Everyone, this is Mia Thompson, our new cook, Most of you already met her."
"Look who's back!" Clara, the chatty maid, waved from across the counter. "Our prodigy chef returns!"
"Ah, the young one's here again," said Mr. Harold, the head butler, with a faint smile that softened his otherwise stern face. "Let's hope she survives Margaret's perfectionism."
"Oh, hush," Margaret retorted. "You're just jealous she can cook better than you can boil water."
The room burst into easy laughter.
Mia slipped in seamlessly this time, moving with confidence, tying her apron, and setting out ingredients as if she'd been there for months. She laughed when Clara teased her about being "the baby of the mansion" and tried not to blush when Mr. Harris called her "Miss Sunshine" for her constant smile.
The morning passed in a rhythm of chopping, stirring, and small talk , the kind of calm that came from belonging somewhere again.
"Dinner prep starts by four," Margaret reminded her. "You'll be handling the roast tonight. Mr. Steele prefers it simple but precise ,no over-seasoning, no theatrics."
Mia nodded, serious now. "Understood."
"And Mia," Margaret added, lowering her voice, "don't let all that talk about him intimidate you. He's private, yes, but fair. Focus on your work and you'll be fine."
"I will," Mia promised, and meant it.
By late afternoon, the kitchen was a blend of rich aromas , thyme, roasted vegetables. Mia worked with quiet concentration, tasting, adjusting, plating. Margaret watched, arms folded, giving a single approving nod when Mia turned off the stove at just the right moment.
"Not bad for your first full day," she said. "You've got instincts."
"Thank you," Mia said, her face lighting with genuine pride.
"Just don't let it get to your head," Margaret teased. "The mansion has a way of humbling even the best cooks."
They both laughed.
As the trays were carried off to the dining room, Mia allowed herself a small, private smile. She still hadn't met her boss ,the mysterious, unseen Alexander Steele , but something about this place already felt like a new beginning.
Little did she know, in a quiet office upstairs, that same man was watching a live feed from the kitchen monitors , a habit he insisted was for "security purposes."
But his gaze lingered, just for a second, on the woman in white, laughing with the staff, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Ethan's earlier words echoed in his head: Sometimes the people who feel familiar are the ones meant to change your story.
Alex leaned back in his chair, his lips curving slightly.
"Let's see who you really are, Miss Thompson."
And downstairs, unaware of the eyes watching her, Mia wiped her hands on her apron and whispered to herself with a soft, content sigh,
"Day one , done."