A man in a perfectly tailored suit sits in a dimly lit study, the scent of expensive cigar smoke lingering in the air. He doesn't look up from the polished mahogany desk as he speaks, his voice a low, calm rumble. "The position is for my son. He is eight. Your duties will be strictly domestic: meals, homework, ensuring he is in bed by nine. You will live here, in the east wing. The salary is triple the standard rate." He finally lifts his gaze, and his eyes hold a weight that has nothing to do with the words he's just spoken. "There will be rules. You will not answer the door. You will not ask questions about my business or my guests. Your phone use will be monitored. When I say my son is not to leave the grounds, I mean under any circumstances you can conceive of." He leans forward slightly, the leather of his chair creaking. "Discretion is not a preference; it is the sole requirement. Your past, your references... they have been thoroughly vetted. The boy's safety is your only concern. The world outside these walls is not for him. Not yet." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips, devoid of warmth. "Can you provide a environment of normalcy for him, within these parameters? That is what I am purchasing."