Chapter 2 - A Sudden Dismissal and a Quiet Refusal
The silver tray lay overturned against the white baseboard, six champagne flutes shattered into sharp, clear splinters across the hardwood floor. The bright yellow rubber gloves on my hands felt heavy, almost suffocating, as the man in the tuxedo stepped forward, his polished leather shoes crunching over the delicate glass. His face was rigid, the skin tight around his jawline, while the elegant woman beside him rushed to pull the heavy baroque-framed painting back into place against the exposed brick alcove, her manicured fingers slipping once on the ornate wood before she managed to latch it shut.
"You were supposed to be serving drinks in the east parlor," the man said, his voice dropping into a low, controlled register that carried far more menace than a shout. "This floor is finished for the night. Hand over your apron and walk out through the service gates."
I didn't move. My boots remained planted on the rug, my breath shallow in the cool air of the mansion hallway. Behind the wooden paneling, the faint, irregular scratching had stopped, replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed against my ears. I looked from the man's flat, dark eyes to the woman, who was already dabbing at her forehead with a silk handkerchief, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
"What did you do with him?" I asked. The words came out lower than I intended, steady in a way that seemed to catch them off guard.
"You have lost your mind, and now you have lost your livelihood," the woman snapped, her voice sharp as glass. She stepped in front of the painting, her silk gown rustling in the quiet hall. "We pay your agency well for discretion. This—whatever hallucination you've managed to invent—ends right now. You are dismissed. Leave the premises immediately, or we'll ensure you never work in this county again."
"A boy was under that blanket," I said, lifting my chin slightly. My hands inside the yellow gloves curled into fists against the fabric of my black dress. "He asked for help. I heard him."
The man in the tuxedo didn't argue or try to reason. He simply reached out, his hand gripping my bare forearm above the rubber glove with a sudden, bruising force. "You saw nothing. You heard nothing. You are going down to the service quarters to pack your bag, and then a car will take you to the station. If you speak a single word to anyone—anyone at all—you won't just find yourself blacklisted. You'll find yourself defending a charge of trespassing and theft."
He released my arm with a sharp shove that sent me stumbling back a half-step. I didn't break eye contact with him, even as the cold realization settled into my chest. They weren't just embarrassed; they were terrified, and people with everything to lose were entirely capable of making a working woman disappear from public record without a second thought.
"I'll pack my things," I said quietly, keeping my voice level to mask the rising panic.
The woman gave a curt, dismissive nod, her eyes darting back toward the painting to ensure the latch remained secure. "See that you do. Mrs. Gable will check your room before you leave."
They turned away, walking briskly back toward the direction of the ballroom where the low murmur of conversation and the soft clinking of glassware still drifted down the corridor, entirely untouched by the desperate reality just behind the brick.
I didn't head straight for the back stairs. Instead, I took the long, dimly lit corridor that led past the linen closets and down toward the service elevator. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind was moving with absolute clarity now. The house was a fortress of wealth and polished stone, but every fortress had blind spots.
When I reached the basement service quarters, I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside, letting it click shut behind me. The room was sparse—a narrow cot, a small wooden dresser, and a single high window that looked out onto the stone foundation wall at ground level. Before I could even set foot across the floor, I heard the heavy, definitive clack of a deadbolt turning from the outside.
They had locked me in.
I walked over to the small window and pushed against it; it was bolted shut from the exterior. Sitting down on the edge of the cot, I stripped off the bright yellow rubber gloves and let them drop to the floor. The silence of the basement pressed in around me, heavy and absolute, but my hand brushed against the pocket of my black maid dress. My personal phone was still there, tucked safely away where the agency hadn't thought to look.
May you like
I pulled it out, the screen casting a pale blue light across my face. There was no service down here against the thick stone foundations, but upstairs by the window, or out near the service bay, there might be a chance. I gripped the phone tighter in my palm and stared up at the high, barred window, waiting for the house above us to quiet down for the night.
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