Chapter 3: Packing the Duffel
The narrow staff quarters smelled of lemon polish and old laundry detergent. I clicked the brass zipper of my canvas duffel bag shut, sealing away my spare black trousers, plain shirts, and the small leather pouch containing my passport and modest savings.
A sharp rap sounded on my wooden door before it pushed open. The head butler, Arthur, stood in the frame, his posture stiff as a ramrod, though his eyes held a sympathetic shadow.
"Mr. Vance gave instructions that you are not to be escorted off the grounds by security," Arthur said quietly, stepping into the small room.
"That's generous of him," I replied, lifting the duffel by its strap and slinging it over my shoulder.
"He's a complicated man, Rachel. The Vance Foundation brings a lot of money and a lot of very dangerous attention through these doors." Arthur hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floorboards. "When you caught that shoe... none of us were surprised you knew how to handle yourself. We just thought you'd left that life behind when you took the apron."
"Some habits don't wash out with bleach, Arthur," I said, offering him a faint, reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself here."
"And you, girl. The world outside these gates doesn't care about your past unless it can use it."
I walked out past the industrial washing machines and into the damp night air of the service courtyard. My ancient gray sedan was parked near the trash compactors, tucked safely away from the luxury imports belonging to the gala guests.
As I unlocked the driver's side door, a pair of headlights swept across the brick wall. A sleek black sedan cut the corner too fast, blocking the narrow exit lane. The engine idled softly, and Julian stepped out from the driver's seat, closing the door behind him with a dull thud.
He didn't wear his tuxedo jacket now; just his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking entirely different from the polished executive inside the ballroom.
"You're leaving," Julian stated, walking over until he stood two paces from my car.
"My shift ended the moment Miss Evelyn tried to kick my teeth in," I said, resting my duffel on the roof of my sedan. "And your house rules forbid staff from retaliating against guests."
"I'm not asking you to apologize to her," Julian said, his voice dropping low against the night wind. "I'm asking you to look at the bigger picture. The note left on her mirror this morning wasn't a prank. It said: Your crown won't stop the bleed."
May you like
I paused, my hand resting on the canvas bag. "Who has access to her dressing suite?"
"Only domestic staff," Julian said grimly. "And you."
