I never imagined that my new cleaning job would lead to something so surreal. It started out as a simple opportunity—just another gig to make ends meet. The mansion where I was hired was nothing short of extravagant. From the moment I walked through the gates, I was in awe of the grandeur. The manicured lawns, the towering columns, the sparkling windows—everything about the place screamed luxury. I had worked in upscale homes before, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer opulence of this one. The walls were adorned with priceless artwork, and the floors were made of the finest marble I had ever seen. It felt like stepping into a different world, one I’d only seen in movies.
I was hired by the family that lived there to maintain the cleanliness of the estate. My responsibilities included dusting the vast collection of rare artifacts, vacuuming the massive rooms, and tending to the spotless bathrooms. While the work was tiring, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride each time I cleaned one of the rooms. The mansion had everything anyone could ever dream of, and I was entrusted with maintaining it. However, I quickly noticed something strange: despite the mansion being incredibly grand, the family members were rarely seen.
The first few days went by quietly. I worked alone most of the time, which was fine by me. The silence gave me a chance to soak in the mansion’s beauty, to imagine the lives of those who called it home. I had been told that the family who lived there were private and didn’t entertain guests often. But then, on my fourth day, I had a chance encounter with one of the family members—one that left me speechless.
I was dusting the library when a figure walked in. He was tall, well-dressed, and had a look of authority about him. As he approached, he gave me a polite nod and introduced himself as Mr. Wallace. I shook his hand and tried to remain professional, but something about him seemed off. He had a certain air of control, like he was accustomed to being in charge.
As we exchanged pleasantries, I couldn’t help but notice a few details. His accent was unmistakably British, and there was something about his demeanor that felt strangely familiar. I tried to push the thought aside, chalking it up to my overactive imagination. But then, as we spoke, he mentioned something casually: “My father always insisted that the estate remain in perfect condition. He’d be quite pleased with how you’re maintaining it.” His mention of his father piqued my curiosity.
I paused for a moment, then asked, “Who owns the estate, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Mr. Wallace gave a slight, almost imperceptible smile. “It’s been in the family for generations. My father built it with his own hands. You might have heard of him—Charles Wallace.”
My heart skipped a beat. Charles Wallace? The name was suddenly too familiar. I had read about him in the news—the billionaire real estate mogul who had made his fortune in international business. His name had been on the covers of magazines, his face plastered across every headline. But what struck me the hardest was the fact that he had disappeared years ago, leaving behind nothing but rumors and unanswered questions.
I stood there, frozen, my blood running cold. Mr. Wallace, the man standing before me, was none other than the son of the elusive Charles Wallace. The mansion, the grandeur, everything now made sense. I was cleaning the house of a man whose legacy was shrouded in mystery, and his son—quiet, private, and regal—was the one who had hired me.
I didn’t know whether to feel honored or terrified. This was a world I could never have imagined stepping into. And as I left the room that day, my mind was racing, wondering just how deep the secrets of this family really went.
