Chapter 1 — Through Glass Walls

Calla

Calla Reyes tightened her grip on the strap of her paint-spattered messenger bag, the familiar texture grounding her as she stood before the towering gates of the mansion. The bag, its canvas worn and speckled with a riot of paint stains, felt like a defiant splash of color against the cold, monotone sterility of the scene before her. Beyond the gates, the sleek, symmetrical lines of glass and steel shimmered under the muted gray of the late afternoon sky. The mansion loomed on the hill like a fortress—a beautiful but impenetrable thing, reflecting the world back at her while revealing nothing of itself.

She exhaled slowly, her breath forming a faint cloud in the crisp autumn air. This place was a world apart from her neighborhood, where vibrant murals breathed life into brick walls and the hum of street vendors spilled onto the sidewalks, filling the air with the scents of roasted corn, chilies, and strong coffee. Here, everything was unnaturally quiet. Lifeless. Even the air felt different, as though it carried a faint chill of disapproval.

Calla adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped forward. The crunch of gravel beneath her sneakers broke the silence, the sound sharp and out of place in the oppressive stillness. The gates responded to her presence with a low hum, parting with the kind of smooth precision that spoke of wealth and calculation. Beyond them, a driveway stretched toward the mansion like an unyielding path, the hedgerows flanking it trimmed with surgical exactness. A sprawling garden to one side displayed rows of identical flowers, their perfection so disconcerting it made her fingers itch to reach for a brush and paint them out of alignment.

As Calla approached the front door—a seamless expanse of glass that reflected her like a distorted mirror—she hesitated. There was no visible doorbell or knocker, just the unbroken surface staring back at her. The sight of herself—cheeks flushed pink from the chill, dark curls escaping the bun she’d hastily tied that morning—felt almost intrusive against the mansion’s flawless symmetry. She raised a tentative hand to knock but froze, unsure if even that was allowed.

Before she could decide, the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Margot Greene appeared. The woman exuded a quiet authority, her silver-streaked hair neatly tied back and her dark eyes sharp with observation. She was dressed in slacks and a crisp blouse, the picture of practical elegance.

“You must be Calla Reyes,” Margot said, her voice brisk but not unkind. Her gaze swept over Calla, pausing for a moment on the paint-stained bag before returning to Calla’s face. “Come in. Please wipe your shoes and try not to track anything in.”

Calla nodded quickly. “Of course,” she murmured, stepping into the foyer and onto a pristine rug that seemed to absorb even the sound of her sneakers. The air inside was colder than she’d expected, faintly scented with lemon polish and something metallic she couldn’t quite place.

Her first impression of the mansion’s interior was a visceral one: stark and unwelcoming. The polished marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting, and the walls were painted a blinding white, broken only by minimalist artwork—abstract pieces in muted tones that seemed to disappear into the background. Every surface appeared untouched, every line deliberate, as if the house itself rejected anything spontaneous or imperfect.

“Mr. Grayson is in his study,” Margot said, already walking briskly down a long, silent corridor. “You may not see much of him today. He values his privacy and prefers not to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.”

Calla followed, her sneakers squeaking softly against the marble. “Understood,” she replied, though her voice caught slightly in her throat. She cleared it quickly, feeling uncomfortably out of place in her thrifted jeans and scuffed shoes.

As they moved through the house, Calla’s unease grew. The hallways were eerily still, the kind of silence that felt heavy, pressing against her ears. The lifelessness of the space made her grip her bag tighter, a small but stubborn reminder of the world she’d left outside. Her mind began to wander, her artistic instincts taking over. She imagined color blooming across the walls—vivid murals with sweeping lines and bursts of texture that would shatter the oppressive uniformity. She pictured mismatched rugs softening the echo of footsteps, plants spilling from ceramic pots, and warm light filtering through vibrant fabrics. Anything to bring life to this hollow structure.

As if sensing her distraction, Margot glanced back briefly. “You’ll get used to it,” she said, her tone softer this time. “The house takes some… adjusting.”

Calla offered a weak smile, unsure if she ever could. “It’s certainly—impressive,” she said, carefully choosing her words.

Margot didn’t respond, leading her into a large open room with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched across one wall. Pale sunlight filtered through, casting long shadows that only seemed to emphasize the cold sterility of the space. The furniture—sleek, angular, and muted—was arranged with precision, as if untouched by human hands.

At the far end of the room stood a man, his back to them. He was silhouetted against the glass, his posture straight and still, his hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the horizon. Even from a distance, there was something magnetic about him, an energy that filled the space despite his motionlessness.

“Mr. Grayson,” Margot announced, her tone softening only slightly. “This is Calla Reyes, the new cleaner.”

The man turned with deliberate precision, every movement controlled. Elliot Grayson’s charcoal suit fit him impeccably, the sharp lines accentuating the angular features of his face. His gray eyes, piercing and unreadable, landed on Calla with an intensity that made her throat tighten. He assessed her in a single sweep, his expression betraying nothing—not curiosity, not approval, not judgment. Just calculation.

“Miss Reyes,” he said, his voice calm and precise, each word enunciated as though chosen with care. “Welcome.”

Calla swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his gaze, though her pulse quickened. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. There was nothing overtly hostile about him, but his presence was overwhelming in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“I trust Margot has explained your responsibilities,” he said, his tone polite but distant.

“She has,” Calla replied. “I’m here to… keep things tidy.”

A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his face, but it was gone so quickly she wondered if she imagined it. “Good,” he said simply, then turned back to the window, his dismissal as precise as his movements.

Calla felt a spark of irritation flare in her chest. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but being treated as little more than a functional necessity wasn’t it. Her grip on her bag tightened.

Margot cleared her throat softly, gesturing for Calla to follow. The tour that followed was brisk, each room a study in monotony. By the time they finished and Margot left her to begin her work, Calla felt disoriented. She unpacked her cleaning supplies in the kitchen, taking a moment to collect herself. The countertops gleamed like mirrors, reflecting her blurred expression. She felt ridiculous being here, an uninvited splash of chaos in a place that seemed designed to repel it.

Then she noticed—her bag was gone.

Panic surged as she retraced her steps in her mind. She must have left it somewhere during the tour. Her sketchbook was inside, filled with drawings that felt far too personal for anyone else—especially someone like Elliot Grayson—to see. Her heart pounded as she hurried back through the corridors, her eyes scanning every surface for the familiar canvas strap.

“Did you forget something?” Margot’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp but not unkind.

“My bag,” Calla said quickly. “I think I left it somewhere.”

Margot nodded, her features softening. “Let’s find it. Don’t worry—Mr. Grayson isn’t the sort to rifle through personal belongings.”

Calla managed a faint smile, though the tightness in her chest didn’t ease. She wasn’t so sure.

When they found the bag near the entrance, exactly where she’d set it down, relief washed over her. She hugged it to her chest briefly, the worn canvas and faint smell of paint grounding her once more. But even as she slung it over her shoulder, a new unease crept in. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d left something behind—not in the physical sense, but a small, vulnerable piece of herself, exposed in a place that seemed designed to swallow such things whole.

As she left the mansion at the end of her shift, the sun dipping low on the horizon, she glanced back at the towering glass structure. She couldn’t help but wonder about the man inside—the one who looked out at the world but never seemed to truly see it.

And somewhere within the mansion, Elliot Grayson stood alone in his study, his sharp gaze lingering on a paint-spattered sketchbook he had found lying forgotten on a counter. His fingers hovered over the pages, tracing the vibrant lines of a world so unlike his own.