Chapter 4 – Interview at the Mansion
The morning light slid across the marble floors of Cross Estate like liquid gold, touching the veined stone and vanishing into glass. Elena Cross stood before the tall window of her study, her reflection layered over the manicured gardens beyond. The city, distant and obedient, shimmered under a pale haze; it existed merely as background to the quiet precision of her world.
A faint chime sounded—the outer gates opening.
Maxwell had informed her that the young man from Murphy Restaurant had arrived for "the interview." She found the word almost amusing. Interview, as though she were hiring a clerk and not measuring the fibre of a stranger who had once blundered into her life with a misplaced parcel and the audacity to look her in the eye.
She turned slightly, her silk robe whispering against the parquet.
"Bring him through the east corridor," she said into the discreet console on her desk. "And, Max, observe him first. I wish to know whether honesty wears nervous shoes."
"Yes, ma'am," came Maxwell's voice—smooth, loyal, faintly ironical.
Elena switched to the monitor embedded in the bookcase. The security feed blinked awake, presenting a soft, silent image of the entry hall. There he was—Robert Murphy—standing just within the threshold, his hands loosely clasped, his expression uncertain yet stubbornly calm. He wore no arrogance, no desperate humility either. A curious balance.
Her brow lifted. "So, the delivery boy returns."
She had not expected him to come back after being thrown out the previous day. Yet here he was, wearing a jacket that tried to look formal, glancing around with the awkward dignity of a man determined not to appear small.
---
"Mr Murphy," Maxwell greeted him in the hall, every syllable precise. "Miss Cross appreciates punctuality."
Robert nodded. "I was afraid being early might be impolite."
"Impolite?" Max echoed mildly. "An interesting fear. Most applicants fear being late."
"I'm not applying for anything, sir," Robert said quietly. "I was… requested."
The butler studied him, a man carved from patience. "Follow me."
Elena watched them move through the east corridor. The camera caught Robert glancing at the art pieces—a silent mural of sea and fire—then quickly away, as though he feared his gaze might trespass. He was observant; she marked that.
They stopped in the small reception salon, an oval chamber of marble and muted light. A single chair faced a low table where crystal water waited. Maxwell gestured to the seat but remained standing.
"Miss Cross values discretion," he began. "Suppose, during your work here, you overheard something… personal. Would you repeat it?"
"No," Robert replied.
"Not even for money?"
"No."
"Not even for truth?"
He hesitated—a small, telling pause. "Truth doesn't always belong to the one who tells it," he said finally.
Elena felt a flicker of amusement. A thinker, then—perhaps inconveniently so.
Maxwell continued, his tone mild but the questions tightening like invisible string. "You claim to manage your family's restaurant, yet yesterday you handled a delivery. Why?"
"Because it was short-staffed," Robert said. "And it was my father's order. I'd rather cover the mistake myself."
"You consider mistakes yours to carry?"
"If I'm part of the name that made them—yes."
The butler's head inclined. "Admirable answer," he murmured. "Yet honesty sometimes masks pride. Which of the two guides you more?"
Robert's lips quirked faintly. "Depends who's watching."
Elena almost smiled. He can parry.
---
She leaned closer to the screen, her chin resting lightly upon one hand. In the glow of the monitor, Robert's eyes held a muted steadiness—a quiet defiance that did not flare but endured.
"Offer him tea," she instructed over the intercom.
A moment later, Maxwell poured from the silver pot. The test of manners began. Robert accepted the cup with both hands, careful but not servile. He waited until Maxwell was seated before sipping. Subtle, observant, naturally respectful.
The camera angle changed. Elena could almost hear the faint click of porcelain, the measured breaths. She watched every small hesitation—how his thumb traced the rim of the cup, how his eyes flicked toward the antique clock, reading the room's rhythm.
Maxwell said, "You stood your ground yesterday when Miss Cross accused you of intrusion."
"She had reason," Robert replied. "I'd stepped past a locked gate."
"Yet you argued."
"I explained."
Elena's expression barely shifted, yet the corner of her mouth softened. Explained,not argued. The distinction was one most men in her circles forgot.
Maxwell pressed on. "You still insist you were not at fault?"
"I am at fault for the confusion," Robert said. "But not for delivering what I was sent to deliver."
"Then you believe intent outweighs result?"
"I believe effort should count for something, even when it fails."
For the first time, Elena turned off the monitor. She wanted to see him without the flattening lens of technology, to judge tone and presence herself.
---
Elena rose from her chair, her robe falling in liquid folds around her. She walked the length of the corridor—soft heels striking the marble in even, unhurried rhythm. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and polished stone. At the end of the hall, the double doors of the reception salon stood half-closed, voices murmuring beyond.
She paused just outside. From within, Robert was speaking again.
"I don't know what Miss Cross wants with me," he was saying, "but I'd rather she heard whatever answer she's looking for herself."
Brave words. Or foolish ones. Elena's lips curved slightly. Then she pushed the door wider and stepped in.
---
The room seemed to inhale. Even Maxwell straightened subtly.
Robert turned—and for a heartbeat forgot how to breathe. The woman before him was no apparition from television; she was more arresting in quiet reality. Silk the colour of storm-light draped her frame; her hair, still unbound from morning, fell in disciplined waves over one shoulder. The expression she wore could have frozen the air itself.
"Mr Murphy," she said. Her voice was low, smooth, measured. "You returned."
"I was asked to," he managed.
She regarded him in silence long enough to make the walls aware of it. Then she moved past him, inspecting the tea service, the placement of chairs, as though his existence were simply part of the décor.
"Maxwell tells me you consider mistakes your own responsibility," she said finally. "A noble creed. Tell me—do you also claim the credit for others' successes?"
"No, ma'am."
"How selective. And why should I believe you?"
He met her gaze. "Because I gain nothing if you don't."
Her eyes narrowed—an infinitesimal shift that could have meant curiosity or irritation. "Honesty is rarely so economical," she murmured. "Sit, Mr Murphy."
He obeyed, posture straight, the tea cooling forgotten beside him.
"Why did you not simply walk away yesterday?" she asked. "Most men would have cursed my name and never looked back."
"Maybe I did," he said lightly. "But you called."
Something unguarded flickered behind her calm; she extinguished it at once. "You interpret invitations loosely."
"It was your assistant," he corrected. "Still felt like an order."
Elena tilted her head. "And you obey orders easily?"
"Only when they sound expensive."
Maxwell coughed discreetly, half in shock, half in admiration. Elena, however, merely studied the man as though measuring the weight of his insolence.
---
She circled slowly behind his chair. "Tell me, Mr Murphy—if hired, what would you expect of this position?"
"I don't know the position," he said. "I wasn't told."
"Then answer in general."
He considered. "To be useful. To learn quickly. To stay out of the way until I'm needed."
"Practical," she murmured. "And if *I* were difficult to please?"
"Then I'd try anyway."
"And if you failed?"
He smiled faintly. "Then you'd find someone better."
"Do you believe there is someone better?"
"I hope so," he said quietly. "Otherwise you'd never improve."
That, at last, earned a whisper of laughter from Maxwell—and the smallest lift of Elena's brow. Bold honesty. Perhaps too bold, but refreshing.
She returned to stand before him. "You speak as though work is a conversation, not a command."
"Maybe both," he said. "Depends on the tone."
"And do you think you could read mine?"
He looked straight at her. "Trying to."
Silence unfurled, delicate as silk yet heavy as storm air.
---
Elena walked to the window. The sun had shifted, throwing a lattice of light across the floor. For a long moment she said nothing, watching the faint shimmer of dust caught in the beam. When she spoke, her tone was softer, though no less exact.
"You mistake this house for a test of wit, Mr Murphy. It is not. It is a mirror. People reflect themselves here—honest or not. Maxwell?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you finished your assessment?"
The butler bowed slightly. "I have, Miss Cross."
"And?"
"He is… unusual. Lacks refinement, perhaps, but not self-respect. Speaks plainly. I found no deceit in him."
Elena nodded once. "Then he has passed your measure."
Maxwell inclined his head. "For now."
Robert rose, uncertain whether to thank them or flee. "So… do I have the job?"
Elena turned, eyes cool and unreadable. "You have no job yet."
He opened his mouth, then closed it, waiting.
She let the silence lengthen—an art she had perfected over years of negotiation. Then, with deliberate grace, she crossed the distance between them until only a breath of air stood in defiance. Her perfume—faint sandalwood and rain—stirred.
Her gaze held his like fine glass over flame.
"I'll decide his worth myself," she said, each word slow and exact.
---
Robert's breath caught. Maxwell bowed slightly, stepping aside. The sun tilted farther through the window, gilding the moment in suspended brilliance.
Elena turned away, motioned with one hand toward the corridor. "See that he's given quarters for the evening," she said coolly. "I wish to continue this conversation tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Maxwell replied.
Robert hesitated. "Miss Cross?"
She didn't look back. "You may speak—tomorrow."
And with that, she left the salon, her steps measured, robe whispering against the marble like a closing curtain.
Behind her, the butler regarded Robert with a faint, knowing smile. "Congratulations, Mr Murphy," he said softly. "You appear to have survived the first act."