“Six months,” the man said. “Twice a week, every week, for six months. That’s how long I want you to clean this house.”

Amy set down the vase she’d been dusting and turned. She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t heard anyone move that quietly in a house this size, but his voice left no room for doubt that he expected her to say yes.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He was somewhere in his sixties, well-built for his age, though not the kind of well-built that made her look twice. Just the kind that made her stand a little straighter.

“Sir, I…”

“Five thousand dollars a month.”

Amy’s mouth fell open. It had been two years since anyone had offered her money in the thousands, and her brain took a full second to catch up with her ears.

“Are you going to answer, or just stand there?” He was already moving toward the door, unhurried, like the outcome was settled.

Who was she to argue? Three months behind on rent. An eviction notice on her kitchen counter. Even her plants had given up on her.

“Yes.” The word came out before she’d fully decided to say it. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

“Good. Tomorrow, four o’clock. We’ll sign the contract.”

“Contract?”

He paused at the door, back to her, and she caught the edge of a black suit, grey shirt cuffs, the glint of gold at his wrists.

“I’m a businessman, Miss Carter. Nobody works for me without one.”

The door closed behind him before she could answer.

One day earlier

Amelia Grace Carter had cleaned twenty three apartments in the past four months, but none of them came with iron gates, armed security, and a warning not to make eye contact with the owner.

The cleaning agency van rolled to a stop in front of the Williams estate, and Amy stared through the window.

“This has to be a joke,” she murmured.

The wrought iron gates were taller than her apartment building. Beyond them stood a mansion so large it looked more like a luxury hotel than a family home, or the setting of one of those horror movies where rich people mysteriously disappeared.

She could almost hear the eerie violin music playing in the background.

“Miss Carter?” The driver’s voice snapped her back to reality. “We’re here.”

“Oh, right.”

Amy grabbed her cleaning caddy, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and stepped out of the van.

The afternoon breeze brushed against her face as she looked down at herself. Faded blue jeans, a plain purple T-shirt, white sneakers that had once been white, then back up at the mansion.

She suddenly felt very small. Not because of the building. Because she didn’t seem like she belonged anywhere near it.

A security guard opened the gate after confirming her name with the agency. As she walked up the long driveway, she counted the luxury cars parked outside, one, two, three. The fourth probably cost more than she’d earned in the last five years.

She laughed softly to herself. “If one tire goes missing, I know nothing.”

The joke eased her nerves. A little.

She hated to admit it, but the place was stunning.

A pair of gardeners carefully trimmed the rose bushes lining the driveway, shaping them into perfect domes. Somewhere farther ahead, another worker swept fallen leaves from the stone pathway.

By the time she reached the front porch, her palms were already damp. She pressed the doorbell once. Nothing. She waited, then pressed it again. Still silence.

“Well,” she muttered. “Maybe billionaires don’t hear doorbells.”

She reached for the handle, half-expecting it to be locked. To her surprise, the massive wooden door swung open without resistance.

“Seriously?”

She stepped inside cautiously. Most people would have noticed the grand staircase first, or the crystal chandelier, or the marble floors stretching across the entrance hall. Amy noticed something else.

Dust. A thick layer coated the console table by the entrance. Fingerprints stained one of the glass cabinets. Muddy footprints led toward the staircase, at least a week old. Whoever lived here clearly had more money than time.

“No wonder this is a two day job,” she murmured.

Just then, a chef and what looked like his assistant stepped out of the kitchen entrance, both carrying their bags as if their shift had just ended.

“Good evening, ma’am,” the head chef said.

“Good evening,” she replied, while they walked past her, heading out of the mansion.

That was when her eyes drifted to the grandfather clock against the wall. 4:30 p.m. She froze.

“Oh, shoot.” She was late. Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make.

Without wasting another second, Amy tied her ponytail tighter, slipped on her gloves, and got to work.

Cleaning wasn’t the career she’d imagined for herself.

Two years ago she’d been presenting marketing campaigns to clients in downtown LA. Now she was scrubbing fingerprints off furniture that probably cost more than her old annual salary. Life had a strange sense of humor. Still, a job was a job, and rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

Amy always approached every task the same way. If she was going to do it, she’d do it properly. She dusted every shelf instead of just the visible ones, replaced the dead flowers in the vase with fresh ones she found in the pantry, and polished every glass surface until it reflected like a mirror.

By the time nearly two hours had passed, the ballroom looked alive again.

Amy rested both hands on her hips and smiled proudly.

“Now that’s better.”

She continued to admire the beauty that was hidden under all that dirt, and that was when she noticed an old man sitting on the first floor, just past the staircase, holding a book. He looked as though he’d been sitting there for quite some time, completely absorbed in it.

Amy ignored him and packed her supplies, then glanced toward the darker wing of the mansion. Unlike the bright entrance hall, this side felt colder. Quieter. Almost untouched. Cobwebs clung stubbornly to the corners of the ceiling. Dust covered nearly every piece of furniture. It looked less like part of a home and more like a place everyone had agreed to forget.

As she moved deeper inside, something caught her eye. Among the dusty paintings and neglected statues sat a single object that looked completely untouched, a golden heart sculpture, without a speck of dust on it.

Someone cleaned this. Regularly.

Curiosity got the better of her. Amy set down her bucket and stepped closer.

“Wow.” The word escaped before she realized she’d spoken aloud. The sculpture wasn’t just beautiful, it looked solid. She wrapped both hands around it and carefully lifted, or tried to.

“Oh my…”

The unexpected weight dragged her forward. The sculpture slipped from her grip with a loud thud against the wooden floor, nearly pulling her down with it. Her heart jumped into her throat.

“Oh no.”

“What exactly are you doing?”

The voice behind her was calm. Cold. The kind that didn’t need to be loud to make someone stop breathing.

Amy spun around so quickly she nearly lost her balance again. Standing a few feet away was a man who looked to be in his early thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly tailored black trousers, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.

He wasn’t just handsome, he was the kind of handsome that looked expensive. Everything about him, from the polished shoes to the silver watch on his wrist, suggested he belonged on the cover of a business magazine.

Unfortunately, his face looked like smiling had been outlawed years ago.

Amy swallowed. “I… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond. Instead he walked past her without so much as a glance, bent down, lifted the golden heart sculpture with one hand as though it weighed nothing, and placed it back on its pedestal.

Amy blinked.

‘Did we even lift the same thing?’ she thought to herself.

“I said I’m sorry,” she tried again.

Still nothing. He adjusted the sculpture until it sat perfectly straight before finally turning to face her. His grey eyes settled on her cleaning uniform, then the bucket, then back to her.

“Who are you? And what are you doing in this wing?”

For a moment Amy forgot how rude he’d been. Old habits won. She smiled politely and stretched out her hand.

“Amelia Grace Carter.”

Silence. He looked at her hand, then at her, and made no attempt to shake it.

Right. Not a handshake person. Trying not to cringe, she withdrew her hand and tucked it behind her back.

“I’m from Sparkle Cleaning Services,” she explained. “I’m here to clean the mansion.”

“You shouldn’t be. I don’t need a cleaner.” He turned and started walking away, as though the conversation had ended.

Amy stared after him, then at the room, then back at him. “Excuse me?”

He stopped. Slowly. Without turning around. “What?”

She couldn’t help herself. She pointed dramatically around the room.

“This place looks like an abandoned museum. There are cobwebs in every corner. I think one of the spiders pays rent.”

That made him turn, not because he found it funny, but because he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

Amy folded her arms.

“I’ve cleaned apartments that looked better after a burglary.”

His jaw tightened.

‘Was this woman criticizing his house?’

“You were hired to clean the main living areas,” he said evenly. “Not this section.”

“So you’re telling me you want the cobwebs?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“They’re not your concern.”

“Oh.” Amy nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand now.”

For one brief second he thought she’d finally gotten the message. Then she smiled.

“You’re Spider-Man.”

Silence.

The room itself seemed offended.

“I mean, someone has to be protecting all these spiders.”

He stared at her. She stared back. Neither moved.

‘Who is this woman?’

Everyone who worked for the Williams family either feared him or avoided him. No one argued. No one joked. No one called him Spider-Man.

He should have called security to escort her out. Instead, the corner of his mouth almost moved, almost, before he caught it and straightened.

“Clean the rest of the house,” he said.

“Just stay out of this room.” He turned and disappeared through the hallway without another word.

Amy only let out the breath she’d been holding once he was completely out of sight. She looked toward the doorway, then the cobwebs, then back again.

“I still think this room needs help,” she muttered.

A voice behind her chuckled.

“You’re either incredibly brave, or you have absolutely no idea who that was.”