# Chapter 4: The Penthouse Behind the Gilded Door
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 4 of *The Housemaid's Secret*. And oh, what a chapter this is — full of shadows, secrets, and a strange sense of being watched. So settle in, because we're about to step into the world of Douglas Garrick, a penthouse that smells like money, and a woman who may not be as absent as she seems.
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Millie Calloway tells herself she has no hope for this interview. She's on her way to meet a man named Douglas Garrick on the Upper West Side, in one of those ancient Gothic buildings that look like they belong in a fairy tale — surrounded by a moat and guarded by a dragon, rather than standing quietly on a Manhattan street corner. As she approaches, a white-haired doorman tips his black cap and holds the door open with practiced elegance.
But just before she steps inside, Millie feels it again. That prickling sensation at the back of her neck. The feeling that someone's eyes are on her.
Ever since the night she came home after getting fired, this sensation has haunted her. In the South Bronx, sure, you expect danger lurking around every corner. But here, in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city? It makes no sense.
She whirls around. Dozens of people mill about the streets, but no one is paying her any attention. She's just another unremarkable face in a sea of New Yorkers. Then her eyes land on a black Mazda sedan parked nearby. There must be thousands of those in the city. But something about this one feels wrong. Her gaze catches on the cracked right headlight. And suddenly, a memory sparks — she's certain she's seen that same car, with that same broken headlight, parked outside her own apartment building in the Bronx.
*Didn't I?*
The car is empty. She memorizes the license plate: 58 F321. It means nothing to her now, but if she sees it again, she'll remember.
The doorman breaks her trance. "Miss? Will you be coming inside?"
Millie coughs, embarrassed, and steps into the lobby. It's like walking into another century — chandeliers instead of overhead bulbs, torch-shaped lamps lining the walls, a low curved ceiling that makes her feel like she's entering a tunnel. Priceless art adorns every surface. The doorman confirms her appointment and uses a special key to allow the elevator access to the penthouse level. As she smooths her simple bun and adjusts her black slacks and sweater vest, she notices a camera in the elevator and quickly stops her fidgeting. No sense giving anyone a show.
The doors open directly into the Garricks' foyer. Millie breathes in deeply and swears she can smell wealth itself — expensive cologne and crisp hundred-dollar bills. She stands awkwardly, unsure whether to venture forward without permission, and studies a white podium displaying a gray stone. It looks like something she could find in any park. She knows, with bitter certainty, that it's worth more than everything she's ever owned.
Then a voice calls her name. "Millie? Millie Calloway?"
A man materializes before her — Douglas Garrick. He's in his early forties, handsome in that classic, chiseled way, dressed in a suit that cost more than Millie's monthly rent. His dark brown hair is glossy and perfectly styled, and his deep-set brown eyes lock onto hers with shrewd, respectful attention. He rushes forward, hand extended, eager to greet her.
"Please," he says as his strong hand slides into hers, "call me Douglas."
Millie is struck by how unusual it is for the man of the house to conduct the interview. Nearly every employer she's had in the cleaning business has been a woman. But Douglas seems genuinely pleased she's here. He leads her into the expansive living room, explaining that his wife, Wendy, usually does the housework herself — takes pride in doing it all, he says. But she hasn't been feeling well, so he insisted on hiring help.
Millie finds this strange. Women who live in penthouse apartments usually don't "try to do it all themselves." Women like this have maids for their maids.
Still, she keeps a polite smile and assures him she can handle cooking and cleaning. She mentions bringing her own supplies, but Douglas cuts her off with surprising firmness.
"No, that won't be necessary. My wife... Wendy is very particular about cleaning supplies. She's sensitive to smells, you see. It triggers her symptoms. You need to use our special cleaning products, or else..."
His voice trails off, and Millie senses there's more he isn't saying. She nods quickly. "Absolutely. Whatever you'd like."
Douglas relaxes, his shoulders dropping as if a weight has been lifted. He tells her they need someone to start right away, and Millie agrees easily. She's willing to agree to just about anything these days.
Then he gestures around the room apologetically. "Because, as you can see, this place is a bit of a mess."
Millie steps further into the living room and stops. If this is a mess, then she's a billionaire. The apartment is spotless. The leather sofa alone looks like it could swallow her whole — in the most heavenly way possible. The antique furniture looks like it was transported from a castle in another century, all hand-carved wood and ornate details. Millie doesn't know anything about French neoclassical revival periods or early twentieth-century craftsmanship, but she knows one thing for certain: every single item in this room cost a small fortune.
There's not a speck of dust in sight. She'd need a microscope to find something to clean.
"I'm happy to start whenever you want," she says carefully.
Douglas nods in approval. "Fantastic. Why don't you have a seat so we can chat further?"
Millie sinks into the sectional, and oh my God — it's the softest, most luxurious thing she's ever felt. She could leave Brock and just marry this sofa instead, and all her needs would be met. For a moment, she lets herself enjoy the fantasy.
Douglas stares at her intently with those deep-set eyes beneath thick dark brows. "So tell me about yourself, Millie."
She appreciates that there's no hint of flirtation in his voice. His eyes stay respectfully pinned on hers, never drifting down to her chest or legs. Millie knows that road well — she's gotten involved with an employer once before, and she'd rather yank her own tooth out with pliers than ever go down that path again.
She clears her throat. "Well, I'm currently a student at the community college. I'm planning to become a social worker, but in the meantime, I'm paying my way through school."
"Admirable," Douglas says with a white-toothed smile. "And you have experience with cooking?"
She tells him she's cooked for many families, taken a couple classes, and then, glancing around and seeing no toys or signs of children, adds, "I babysit?"
Douglas flinches. "No need for that."
Millie winces at her own big mouth. She immediately wonders if she's reminded him of painful infertility struggles. "Sorry," she says quietly.
He shrugs. "No worries. How about a tour?"
The tour puts Amber's uber-apartment to shame. This penthouse is an entirely different species of apartment. The living room is the size of an Olympic swimming pool. There's a corner bar with vintage barstools. The kitchen boasts every modern appliance imaginable — including a brand-new dehydrator that Millie is sure costs more than her entire semester tuition. She hopes the oven comes with a manual, because that display has two dozen buttons and she has no idea what any of them do.
Then Douglas says something astonishing. "Now let me show you the second floor."
*Second floor?* Apartments in Manhattan do not have two floors. But apparently, this one does.
Douglas leads her upstairs through at least half a dozen bedrooms. The master bedroom is so vast that Millie jokes to herself she'd need binoculars to see the king-sized bed at the far end. There's a room entirely filled with books — she's vaguely reminded of the scene in *Beauty and the Beast* when Belle first enters the library. Another room has a wall completely covered in pillows. She guesses it's the pillow room. There's a room with an artificial fireplace and an enormous window with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline.
Finally, they come to one last door. Douglas hesitates, his fist poised just before knocking. A troubled expression crosses his face.
"This is our guest bedroom," he says. "Wendy has been in here recovering. I probably should let her rest."
Millie feels her heart clench with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear your wife is ill."
"She's been sick for most of our marriage," Douglas explains, his voice low and careful. "She suffers from a... a chronic illness. She has good days and bad days. Sometimes she's her usual self, and then other days she can barely get out of bed. And other days..."
"What?" Millie asks softly.
"Nothing." He offers a weak smile. "Anyway, if the door is closed, just leave her alone. She needs her rest."
Millie nods. "I completely understand."
Douglas stares at the door for a long, heavy moment. He reaches out and touches the wood with his fingertips, as if checking that it's still there. Then he shakes his head and turns back to her.
"So, Millie, when can you start?"
---
And then, as if the narrative itself shifts, we're pulled into a lecture hall. Professor Kindred, a man in his sixties with perpetually messy hair, stands before a crowd of students, accusation burning in his eyes.
"In 1964, a woman named Kitty Genovese was murdered," he announces. "Kitty was a twenty-eight-year-old bartender. She was raped and stabbed at approximately three in the morning about a hundred feet from her Queens apartment. She screamed for help, but while several neighbors heard her cry, nobody came to her aid. Her attacker left her briefly and returned ten minutes later, stabbing her several more times and stealing fifty dollars from her. She died from her wounds."
Professor Kindred looks at each student in turn, as if every one of them was among the thirty-eight witnesses who failed to help Kitty Genovese.
"Thirty-eight people saw her attack," he says, "and not one person came to her aid or called the police. This is the bystander effect. It's a social psychology phenomenon in which individuals are less likely to offer help to a victim when there are other people present."
The weight of his words hangs in the air. Millie sits somewhere in that lecture hall, and she feels the truth of it in her bones. She knows something about looking away. About minding her own business. About surviving.
And somewhere, in a penthouse on the Upper West Side, a woman named Wendy lies behind a closed door, waiting for someone to decide if they'll look the other way.
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## Reader's Impressions & Star Rating
What a masterfully unsettling chapter! I loved the way Freida McFadden weaves together Millie's growing unease with the opulent, almost otherworldly setting of the Garricks' penthouse. The black car with the cracked headlight is such a deliciously ominous detail — it immediately made my skin prickle. And the interview with Douglas is perfectly pitched: charming on the surface, but with cracks of something darker showing through. The "closed door" with Wendy recovering inside is a brilliant source of tension, and the sudden transition to the Kitty Genovese lecture is a chilling thematic link. It makes you wonder: who is the bystander here? Who is turning a blind eye? The unanswered questions are killing me, but in the best possible way. This chapter is absolutely gripping.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
Something is wrong behind that guest bedroom door. I predict Millie will start working in the penthouse and hear strange sounds — whispers, sudden movements, maybe even a voice crying out that isn't Wendy's. She's going to face a choice: mind her own business like everyone else, or break the bystander effect and investigate. And with that mysterious black Mazda appearing again, her past may be closer to catching up with her than she thinks. Get ready for secrets buried under thousands of dollars of antique furniture.
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