At a Westchester mansion where every napkin had to…

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The morning at the Walker Estate in Westchester County began before New York City had fully lifted its head from sleep. The mansion stood high on a quiet hill behind a black iron fence, hidden from the road by neat rows of arborvitae and a lawn so perfectly trimmed it looked less grown than arranged. Inside, that same kind of order lived in every room, the kind that did not happen by itself.

It was built by people who could spend half an hour straightening linen napkins until every edge lined up with the table to the last careful inch. Elena Walker belonged to that kind of people. She crossed the living room from the tall windows to the fireplace, then from the fireplace to the staircase, moving like a general preparing for inspection.

She wore a pale pantsuit and designer heels that barely clicked against the marble floor, but even those soft clicks revealed how tense she was that morning. On the low table lay a folder stamped with the logo of a staffing agency, and beside it, her phone kept lighting up with new messages. Three young women stood near the wall.

They were close in age, yet so different they might have come from three separate worlds. The first had a soft, round face and shoulders that sloped inward, as if she were already apologizing for taking up space. She clutched a handbag and kept looking toward the door, clearly hoping the meeting might end before it began.

The second was red-haired, straight-backed, sharp-eyed, and watchful, the kind of woman used to trusting herself before anyone else. The third was thin, dressed simply, with a neat braid and wide gray eyes that took in everything without moving too fast. The third young woman was named Anastasia Graham, though most people called her Stacy.

In Elena Walker’s mouth, her name had not yet been spoken, but it already felt as if it had been judged. “Here is how this works,” Elena said, without offering a greeting. “This is not a public hallway, and it is not a dormitory.

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