Three months had passed, and Millie still felt like she was stuck in quicksand.
Job applications went out every week, and every “we’ve gone with other candidates” email landed like another kick when she was already down.
She was starting to wonder if she was cursed, if rejection letters were just her new hobby—collecting them like some depressing scrapbook.
Cody was long gone, but the hurt from the breakup hadn’t faded much.
It wasn’t only the cheating; it was how stupid she felt for believing him, for letting things drag on as long as they did.
Still, being on her own was starting to feel less like drowning and more like breathing.
Yeah, her meals were mostly instant ramen, and her bank account lived in a permanent state of panic, but at least no one was lying to her face every day.
That had to mean something.
Right now, she was in the back of a sleek black SUV, flying down a Montana highway next to Clara.
It was a far cry from Bert’s rusty cleaning van that rattled like it might fall apart at any second.
The driver—a guy with a sharp jaw and zero expression—hadn’t said a single word since he picked them up at the airport.
Millie kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, half-convinced this was how people ended up in those true-crime stories about organ harvesting.
She leaned closer to the tinted window, watching mile after mile of green fields roll by.
Pretty sure, but the silence in the car made her skin crawl.
She nudged Clara with her elbow.
Clara was chewing her bottom lip, staring out her own window like she was trying to figure out an escape route.
Millie’s mind kept drifting back to Bert’s office three weeks earlier.
He’d called them in, looking shifty even for him.
A two-month cleaning gig at some remote Montana estate.
The pay was ridiculous—way more than she’d ever seen on a check.
Too good, really.
But with her rent overdue and her savings basically a sad handful of change, she couldn’t say no.
Bert had been vague on purpose.
“Private client,” he’d said.
“Unique setup. You’ll love it—fresh air, good money, no drama.” Then he’d slid the contracts across the desk.
Those papers were no joke.
Pages and pages of legal stuff, non-disclosure agreements thick enough to stop a bullet, and confidentiality clauses that basically said breathe wrong and you’re sued into the next century.
The worst part?
They had to hand over their phones for the whole two months.
No calls, no texts, no doom-scrolling to kill time.
Total blackout.
Two months cut off from everything?
It sounded more like jail than a job.
But the money… god, the money.
Enough to catch up on everything, maybe even put some aside so she wasn’t one bad week from couch-surfing again.
Bert had grinned like he was Santa Claus.
“Think of it as a paid vacation, ladies. Mountains, home-cooked meals, fat paychecks. No ex-boyfriends causing trouble, right, Foster?”
She’d forced a smile, the mention of Cody twisting something sharp in her chest.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Clara, always the one who asked the real questions, leaned forward.
“What about days off? We’re not machines.”
Bert didn’t blink.
“Everything’s covered—food, housing, the works. You won’t need to run to town for anything.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed.
“Days off aren’t just for errands, Bert.”
He leaned back in his chair, still smiling.
“Seventy an hour, Clara. Even when you’re eating or sleeping. You want days off that badly? I can offer this to May instead.”
Millie caught Clara’s eye.
Clara let out a long breath and slumped back.
“Fine,” Clara muttered.
“We’ll take it.”
Bert clapped once, loudly.
“Perfect. Flights are booked for Monday. Two tickets to Montana.”
Millie’s brain had been screaming red flags the whole time—too secret, too perfect, too weird.
But what else was she going to do?
Say no and keep eating noodles while the rejection emails piled up?
She and Clara had shared one long look across Bert’s desk, the contracts sitting there like a dare.
Then they both picked up the pens and signed.
No turning back.
Now the SUV was climbing higher into the mountains, trees closing in thick on both sides.
Sunlight barely broke through the branches.
The world she knew—crappy apartments, late-night takeout, endless job hunts—felt farther away with every turn.
Millie pressed her forehead to the cool glass, watching the green blur.
Her stomach knotted tighter the deeper they went.
Then the trees opened up, and the SUV rolled into a wide clearing.
Three guys stepped into view.
Millie’s breath caught.
These weren’t friendly ranch hands in faded jeans.
They wore black vests and heavy boots, with rifles slung across their chests like it was normal.
One of them—a buzzcut guy with a face like stone—gave the SUV a hard stare before waving them through.
Millie’s heart dropped.
This wasn’t a rich person’s getaway house.
Clara, quiet for most of the ride, leaned forward.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said to the driver.
“Why are there so many guys with guns out here?”
The driver’s eyes flicked to the mirror, held hers for a long two seconds, then went back to the road.
No words.
Just heavy silence.
Millie’s pulse hammered in her throat.
She shot Clara a look—Clara’s eyes were wide, mirroring the same bad feeling creeping up Millie’s spine.
Whatever they’d signed up for, it was starting to feel way bigger than scrubbing floors.
The SUV kept going down a dirt road.
More men appeared—standing straight, hands on rifles, watching everything.
Off to one side, near some trees, sat a line of big black vehicles—armored-looking, mean, like they belonged in a movie about mercenaries, not a ranch.
Millie’s stomach twisted hard.
“We’re almost there,” the driver said finally.
His voice was low and clipped.
First words he’d spoken in hours.
Clara let out a small laugh that didn’t sound happy.
“Thank god. My legs are killing me worse than that double shift at the Landers’ place.”
The SUV rolled to a stop on a wide gravel drive, dust kicking up around the tires.
The driver got out first.
Millie and Clara exchanged a glance—both of them stalling before unbuckling.
Their legs felt stiff from the long ride, and the whole vibe had them on high alert.
Millie stepped out into crisp mountain air.
It smelled like pine and something sweet—maybe wildflowers.
A woman waited on the wide porch steps of a huge house.
Silver streaks in her dark hair, pulled back neatly.
Black skirt, white blouse—sharp, professional, and completely out of place against the rugged mountains.
“Welcome to Cedar Ridge,” the woman said.
Her smile was warm but practiced, like she greeted nervous people all the time.
She stepped forward and offered a hand.
“I’m Sheila.”
Millie shook it, forcing a smile back.
Sheila seemed okay—friendly even—but the armed guys patrolling the perimeter and the fortress feel of the place weren’t exactly screaming “relaxing retreat.”
Clara shook Sheila’s hand next, then muttered under her breath so only Millie could hear, “If this turns into a horror movie, I’m blaming Bert.”
Millie gave a small, tight laugh.
She couldn’t argue with that.