Chapter 6 - Whispers in the Gallery
The atmosphere below stairs had soured into something toxic and suffocating within hours of Patricia’s suspension. Word of the impending staff overhaul had spread through the pantry and laundry rooms like wildfire, and every hostile glance hurled in my direction carried the weight of impending doom. I stood by the long stainless-steel prep table in the industrial kitchen, scrubbing down the counters with a damp cloth, while three senior parlor maids—led by Evelyn—loitered near the massive commercial stove, murmuring low, venomous insults just loud enough for me to hear.
"Some people just don't know their place," Evelyn muttered loudly, tossing a stack of silver forks into a polishing bin with a sharp metallic clatter. "Crawling out of the woodwork, cozying up to the master the second a vacancy opens up. It's pathetic, really. Backstabbing trash pretending to be a savior."
I kept my back to them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I wiped down the counter methodically, focusing on the rhythmic friction of the sponge against the steel. I knew why they were panicking. Patricia hadn't just managed the household; she had run a tight, corrupt little fiefdom where privileges, kickbacks, and stolen luxuries were distributed among her inner circle. With Luca auditing the books and demanding accountability, their comfortable little scams were crumbling into dust, and they were desperate to place the blame on the new girl who had dared to look beneath the surface.
"Ignore them, Claire," a quiet, trembling voice whispered from beside the doorway. It was young Mia, a pantry maid who had always been too timid to join Patricia's clique. She stepped into the kitchen, holding a tray of freshly chopped fruit. "They're just scared because Mr. Luca's security team is already reviewing the security logs from the north wing."
"I'm not scared of them, Mia," I said, turning around to offer her a reassuring smile. "Let them talk. Words don't change what's in that ledger."
Before Mia could respond, the heavy swinging door from the main dining hall pushed open, and Luca strode into the kitchen. The sudden drop in temperature among the gathered staff was instantaneous. The murmuring ceased completely, replaced by a tense, heavy silence so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Evelyn froze, her hands hovering awkwardly over the silver bin, while the other two maids hastily pretended to busy themselves with scrubbing roasting pans.
Luca didn't even spare them a glance. His dark gaze scanned the room, bypassing the whispering group entirely until his eyes found mine.
"Claire," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet room. "Your mother is asking for you upstairs. She refuses to let anyone else help her settle into the solarium for the afternoon. Can you break away?"
"Of course, Mr. Luca," I said, immediately untying my apron and tossing it onto the clean counter.
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"Good. Come with me," he instructed, turning on his heel.
I followed him out of the kitchen, leaving Evelyn and her cohorts staring after us with a mix of sheer disbelief and venomous fury. As the heavy kitchen doors swung shut behind us, I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The war in this house was no longer hidden beneath polite smiles and polished silver; it was out in the open, and there was no turning back.
