The woman standing at my front door looked me over the way people examine furniture in a showroom—quickly, dismissively, and with absolute confidence that whatever they’re seeing holds no value.

I had answered the door in black slacks, a cream blouse, and an apron lightly dusted with flour because I’d been in the kitchen finishing a peach tart for a client dinner my husband had conveniently failed to mention until that morning. Our home in Buckhead, Atlanta, was immaculate, the silver polished, the staff gone for the day, and I was handling the final details myself because I prefer precision over excuses.

She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, maybe twenty-six, with perfectly styled hair, a camel coat, and the kind of designer handbag people carry to signal status they haven’t actually earned. She smiled at me as if we shared an inside joke.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m here for Graham. You can tell him Savannah’s here.”

I opened the door a little wider and asked, “And you are?”

She let out a small laugh. “I just told you. Savannah.” Then her gaze dropped to my apron. “You must be the help.”