A familiar Stranger

Here's a draft of your chapter with rich descriptions, emotional depth, and tension.

Chapter 8

Sienna's heart pounded as she stared out of the cab window, watching the mansions roll past like something out of a dream. Each estate stood alone, separated by long, winding roads lined with towering cypress trees, as if demanding privacy even from their neighbors. These weren't just homes—they were palaces.

She swallowed hard, gripping the straps of her bag. What was she doing here? People like her didn't belong in places like this. It was clear whoever owned these estates lived in a completely different world. One where money flowed like water, where even their staff probably earned more than she did in a year.

The cab pulled up in front of a sprawling estate, and she glanced at the meter before sighing. The number was nauseating. With a tight jaw, she transferred the money from her dwindling account. When her phone vibrated with the debit alert, she cursed under her breath.

"Fantastic. Just fantastic."

Rolling her eyes, she shoved her phone into her bag, grabbed the ingredients she had carefully packed that morning, and stepped out.

It was then that she truly took in the house before her.

The mansion stood like a fortress, its grand façade looming over her. The estate stretched in every direction—a manicured garden to the left, a pristine tennis court to the right, and further down, the glimmer of a luxurious swimming pool. Staff bustled about—maids tending to the plants, a group of men conversing near the entrance, their voices low. Everything about this place screamed wealth, control, and untouchable power.

And then there was her.

She shifted uncomfortably, brushing invisible dust from her outfit, suddenly self-conscious. She hadn't heard from Hector all morning, and his last words still clung to her skin like a stain.

"You really think they'd pick someone like you?"

Shaking the thought away, she walked toward the tall, iron gate. A guard, dressed in black, eyed her with suspicion.

"Who are you?" His voice was clipped, authoritative.

Sienna cleared her throat. "I'm here for the job interview. The cooking position."

His gaze dragged over her, assessing. She squared her shoulders, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny.

After a moment, he gave a curt nod and pressed a button on the security panel. The gate buzzed open. "Go in."

She stepped through, her fingers tightening around the handles of her bag.

The closer she got to the mansion's entrance, the heavier the air felt. The house was magnificent—no, intimidating. A set of enormous double doors stood before her, carved with intricate designs. As she hesitated, the doors swung open, and a woman appeared.

She was older, with soft brown eyes and a kind but knowing expression.

"Hello, child." Her voice was warm. "I'm Gracie. You must be here for the competition, yes?"

Sienna exhaled, nodding. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Follow me."

As they stepped inside, the opulence of the house nearly stole her breath. The high ceilings stretched forever, grand chandeliers casting a golden glow. The floors gleamed, marble so polished she could see her reflection. Maids moved with practiced efficiency, some tending to statues, others vanishing down hallways.

Yet, despite its beauty, the house felt… empty.

Cold.

The dark walls, the eerie silence despite the movement—it was as if the mansion had swallowed any warmth it once held.

Gracie turned to her. "The competition begins at four. You arrived early, which is good. The master isn't home yet."

Sienna frowned. "The master?"

Gracie nodded. "The one who owns this house."

A shiver crawled down Sienna's spine, though she wasn't sure why.

Gracie led her through a series of hallways before stopping in front of a gleaming, modern kitchen. Inside, four other contestants were already setting up. Three women and one man.

Sienna barely had time to take them in before she heard the whispering.

"How did she get in here?"

"Has she seen her size?"

"The master wants sexy cooks, not… her."

Sienna's jaw clenched. She didn't even glance at them, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

"You guys should stop," another voice giggled, though it was anything but kind. "Not that it matters. I'll be the master's choice anyway."

Sienna exhaled slowly. Everywhere she went, her body was a topic of conversation. As if she owed the world thinness. As if her worth was measured by how small she could make herself.

She let them talk.

Instead, she unpacked her ingredients. She was going to make a dish from her childhood—Cielo y Tierra—a simple but deeply comforting meal her mother used to make. It was a Spanish-inspired dish of mashed potatoes and sweet plantains, served with slow-cooked, spiced beef.

She smiled slightly as she touched the ingredients. She could almost hear her mother's voice, feel the warmth of those early years when she and—

Her breath hitched.

Rocco.

He had loved this dish too.

The thought made her pause. Wait… Rocco Montenegro…?.

He couldn't be the man she met at the hotel right?.

That would just be crazy. She hadn't seen him in twenty years, there was no way, she'd know what he looked like.

He might not even remember who she was anymore.

She frowned, shaking her head. No, it couldn't be.

But the thought lingered as she continued prepping.

After the disappearance of her mom, she completely lost contact with Rocco.

After a while, boredom crept in. The master still hadn't arrived, and the thought of being stuck in one place made her restless. She decided to explore.

The house was even more massive than she had realized, endless hallways stretching in all directions. Some staff ignored her, others side-eyed her presence.

Then she saw it.

A study.

The door was slightly ajar, and curiosity pulled her forward. She stepped inside, greeted by walls lined with bookshelves, deep mahogany furniture, and the scent of leather and whiskey.

It was dark. Too dark.

Her eyes landed on a single framed photograph on the desk. Something about the way it had been turned upside down unsettled her. Slowly, she reached for it.

And froze.

The breath in her lungs vanished.

It was him.

Rocco. A younger Rocco, standing beside a woman with soft eyes. His mother.

Her hands trembled.

What the hell…?

A voice sliced through the silence.

"¿Qué carajo haces en mi oficina?" [What the fuck are you doing in my office?]

The frame slipped from her fingers.

She spun around, heart hammering against her ribs.

And there he was.

The man from the hotel. The same cold, intimidating figure. But now, as she looked at him—really looked at him—she saw past the expensive suit, past the sharpness of his gaze.

It was him.

Rocco Montenegro.

Her childhood best friend.

But his expression held no recognition. No warmth. Only ice.

He didn't remember her.