Chapter 5: A Quiet Morning In The East Wing
The gray light of dawn filtered through heavy linen drapes, casting pale rectangles across the polished walnut floor of the guest suite. For a long moment, I lay staring up at the plaster molding of the high ceiling, trying to anchor myself in a room that felt entirely too vast. There were no narrow iron bunks here, no smell of damp laundry or the low, steady murmur of twenty other girls sharing the sub-level dormitory. The air smelled of cedar, dry laundry sheets, and something faint and metallic—rain on the courtyard stone outside.
I sat up, pulling the thick white duvet around my shoulders. My clothes lay folded over a velvet-backed chair by the hearth: the gray housekeeping uniform, freshly brushed, and the stiff white bonnet. Last night felt like something I had imagined while half-delirious from hunger. The dark pantry, the cold rice on the cracked porcelain plate, the blue glare of his smartphone showing numbers that didn't match the heavy ledger in my apron pocket—it all seemed too sharp to be a dream, yet too impossible to belong to my actual life.
My fingers brushed against the wool of the gray skirt as I dressed. I pinned the white bonnet over my blonde hair with shaking hands, smoothing down the apron with automatic care. Habit is a stubborn thing. Even when the ground falls out from under you, you reach for the uniform because it tells the world who you are supposed to be. But stepping out of the heavy double doors into the corridor of the East Wing, I knew the uniform felt different today. It felt like armor I wasn't sure how to wear.
The hallways were silent, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock downstairs. As I turned toward the service stairs, a door further down the corridor clicked open. Mrs. Gable stepped out, her arms laden with fresh linens, her gray hair pinned into its usual unyielding bun. She stopped dead when she saw me emerging from the guest wing.
Her dark eyes swept over me from the brim of my white bonnet down to the hem of my gray skirt. There was no warmth in her gaze—only a sharp, measuring suspicion that had governed the staff quarters for as long as I had worked here.
"You weren't in the dorm at roll call," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into that flat, gravelly register that signaled trouble. "The girls on the lower landing said you never came back down after the evening shift."
My throat tightened. "I... Mr. Sterling found me in the pantry last night," I managed, keeping my voice low. "He gave me a room here so we could look over some paperwork."
Mrs. Gable's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, the skin around her mouth hardening into a thin line. "Mr. Sterling does not bring maids into the East Wing for paperwork. Whatever game you're playing with the schedules, girl, it won't end well for you. The board doesn't look kindly on girls who think they can curry favor in the private quarters."
Before I could answer, a sharp double-knock echoed from the end of the hall, coming from the heavy oak door of the master study.
"That's him," Mrs. Gable muttered, shifting her pile of linens. "And he's already at his desk. Go on, then. But remember where you stand in this house."
She turned and marched down the service corridor without looking back. I stood in the quiet hallway for a heartbeat, drawing a slow, shaky breath. My fingers curled into the fabric of my apron. Then I walked down the runner, lifted my hand, and knocked twice on the heavy wood.
"Come in," his voice called from within.
May you like
I pushed the door open. The room was dim, lit only by a single brass desk lamp cutting across scattered papers and open ledgers. The 38-year-old boss sat behind the dark mahogany desk, his black button-down shirt rolled at the cuffs, his sharp jawline shadowed in the amber light. He looked up from his screen, his dark eyes fixing on me with an intensity that made the breath catch in my chest.
"Close the door," he said quietly. "We have a long morning ahead of us."
