To express gratitude to the ex-convict who saved his daughter, the wealthy man offered her a job as a maid. But once he installed cameras, what he discovered terrified him.

Lyuba woke up from the biting cold. Her worn-out jacket, now just a shapeless rag, no longer offered any warmth. Autumn had firmly set in: nights grew longer, winds more piercing, and even beneath the roof of an abandoned attic, the chill was unbearable. Come winter, survival here would be out of the question… but Lyuba had no other options. The shelter had turned her away—her criminal record made her ineligible. Jobs were scarce too; once people learned she had “done time,” their expressions shifted, and the conversation ended. As though it were tattooed on her forehead: “Outsider.”

Just across from the tiny window in her makeshift hideout, a massive advertising billboard glowed: bright visuals, persistent banners, musical jingles—all broadcasting a life so different from hers, one brimming with light, noise, warmth. A life that felt both near and entirely out of reach. In the screen’s corner, the time displayed. Lyuba had chosen this attic precisely for that reason. At least she could track the hours. It was now 8:20.

Fumbling through her pockets, she found a few crumpled coins. Maybe enough for a bun and some kefir—something like breakfast. She splashed water from her bottle onto her face and washed quickly. Her short hair stuck out in every direction; she tried smoothing it down. She always tried to stay neat: washing her clothes when she could, wiping her shoes with scraps or sticks. She clung to the last shreds of normalcy, to dignity.

Near the grocery store, a group of homeless folks gathered around dumpsters. They sifted through boxes, scavenging. Lyuba shuddered—would she become one of them soon? Not yet. She was still trying, still seeking odd jobs. But who wanted an “ex-con,” as people so scornfully labeled her? Occasional gigs barely held poverty at bay.

After buying kefir and a bun, Lyuba sat on a bench and ate slowly. The warmth of the bread felt like a celebration. A thought spun in her mind: maybe today she’d go see Kuzmich, the janitor. So many leaves had fallen overnight; he couldn’t manage alone. “I’ll go ask. Maybe he’ll help,” she resolved, heading toward the crosswalk.

But she didn’t make it to the zebra stripes. Her heart froze: a girl, maybe ten years old, was speeding across the red light on a scooter. From the other direction, a truck barreled down, horn blaring. The girl wore headphones—she didn’t hear a thing.

“Hey!” Lyuba shouted, but the girl didn’t respond.

Without thinking, Lyuba lunged forward, grabbing the child by the jacket and yanking her back. The girl collapsed at her feet, and just then the scooter was crushed beneath the truck. A screech. A crunch. Shards of plastic everywhere.

“Where are you off to? Didn’t you hear the horn?” Lyuba gasped, scolding.

“No… I was listening to music…” the girl stammered, eyes brimming with tears.

“Don’t cry. It’s okay to be scared. Are you upset about the scooter?”

“Uh-huh… But my dad would buy me a hundred more. That’s not it…”

“Let’s get to know each other. I’m Lyubov. You?”

“Nadya…”

“Well, Nadya, that’s a good start—we’ve met. Let me take you home. We don’t want any more near misses.”

Nadya lived nearby—just three blocks away. They walked in silence; the girl was still rattled. They arrived at a grand mansion with a tall fence and intercom. A uniformed guard stood at the gate.

Nadya pressed the button and entered. The guard stopped Lyuba.

“She’s with me, Roman,” Nadya said firmly. He let her in begrudgingly.

“Is Dad home?” Nadya asked. Getting a yes, she turned to Lyuba. “Wait here, okay? I’ll be quick.”

Lyuba thought of leaving but Nadya’s determined gaze made her stay. She stood by the fence, twisting her sleeve, feeling out of place. The guard muttered something about “street rats,” scanning her up and down. His eyes showed disgust and contempt. He tried guessing her age—twenty-five? Thirty? Life had etched every year onto her face.

Inside the house, Viktor Nikolaevich—a poised, middle-aged man—sat reviewing documents. His furrowed brow showed displeasure. Nadya burst in.

“Dad, you won’t believe what happened!”

She told him everything: the scooter, the truck, and the woman who saved her.

Viktor turned pale and hugged her tight.

“You’re not going out alone again!”

“Dad, I’m eleven! I’ll be more careful!”

“No, Nadya. The risk is too high. That’s final.”

He summoned the guard. “Bring in the woman who came with Nadya.”

A minute later, Lyuba entered. She stood modestly, uncertain.

“Thank you,” Viktor said warmly. “You saved my daughter. That’s heroic. I’m a businessman. I believe in paying for value. Name your price.”

“No… no need… I just happened to be there,” Lyuba said, blushing.

But he persisted. He asked about her name, job, and residence. Hesitant, she told him—the attic, odd jobs, and post-prison struggles.

Ashamed, but honest.

“There’s a saying: better a fishing rod than a fish. I have an opening for a housekeeper. It’s simple: cleaning, order. Room on the first floor, meals included. Here’s an advance.” He placed bills on the table. “What do you say?”

Lyuba froze. The sum was large—compared to the coins she lived on, it was enormous. She only nodded, unable to look away.

“Angela Petrovna!” he called. “Show our new employee her room, explain her duties, introduce her to the staff.”

Angela Petrovna, tall, straight-backed, and cold-eyed, carried out her task. She led Lyuba through the house, explaining curtly. The room was small but cozy: a bed, nightstand, wardrobe, a garden-facing window. Shared bathroom. Uniform provided.

“Keep things tidy. I don’t tolerate sloppiness. I hope we’ll get along.”

In the kitchen, Natalia Nikolaevna—the kindly cook—welcomed her with a coffee and sandwich.

“Now you’re one of us! Eat up, don’t be shy,” she said with a wink.

Unexpectedly, Lyuba had entered a new chapter. Viktor didn’t share her background with the staff. But later, in private, he asked:

“Tell me more. I need to know who lives under my roof.”

Lyuba spoke plainly: raised in an orphanage, trained as a nurse. One night, attacked by two drunks. She fought back; one fell, hit his head, died. An investigator believed her—it was self-defense. But she still served four years.

“Now I’m out. No family, no home. No one hires a convict.”

No complaints, just facts. Viktor listened, nodded. He respected her honesty.

Surprisingly, the house welcomed her. The driver—a large man with mustaches and a strict suit—greeted her with a bow:

“My respects, mademoiselle!”

Margarita, Nadya’s mother, gave her clothes.

“Here, take these—dresses, sweaters. Just cluttering space.”

The cook started calling her “daughter,” always offering pastries or fresh pie.

Even stern Angela Petrovna was fair, never mean.

Nadya showed off her Barbies.

“Did you have any?”

“Yes,” Lyuba smiled. “I made clothes from scraps.”

“Really? Will you teach me?”

They sewed together often, Nadya beaming as she learned.

Only Roman, the guard, stayed cold, watching her suspiciously.

Meanwhile, Viktor knew why Nadya had to stay safe. It wasn’t just the accident. His company earned well, and Dmitry Molchanov—”The Moth”—wanted it. A former thug turned crime boss, he’d offered to buy the firm. When denied, he threatened:

“If not the easy way, then the hard one.”

Lyuba knew none of this. She did her job dutifully. On a day off, she took a walk, browsed shops, and visited a café. Sitting by the window, sipping coffee, she noticed two men. One looked familiar. The attacker from years ago. And beside him—his brother, who had died.

The Molchanovs.

Her heart raced. The first man gestured animatedly. The second—his back turned.

She rose to leave unnoticed. But the second man turned.

Roman.

Her own guard.

Shocked, Lyuba rushed back. “Viktor, I saw Molchanov and Roman together—chatting like friends.”

“Molchanov? The same one threatening my company?”

“Exactly.”

Now Viktor understood. The leaks, the threats—they came from Roman.

“We must act now,” he said, heading to the police.

To be continued…