Chapter 2: Dismissed To The Service Quarters
The heavy silver tray felt less like a piece of serving equipment and more like an anchor dragging me down through the polished oak floorboards. In the sprawling, candlelit dining room, the silence stretched thin and brittle, broken only by the faint, rhythmic clinking of silver against bone china from the surrounding tables. Across the white linen cloth, the dark-haired woman in the red off-the-shoulder silk dress adjusted her diamond bracelet with deliberate slowness, her gaze flicking briefly to my exposed, throbbing fingers before rising to meet the bearded man across from her.
"Leave it," she said, her voice a low, smooth purr that carried a sharp edge of dismissal. "And clear the soup before it completely skins over. Honestly, Julian, where do they find these girls? They can't even handle a basic tray without falling apart."
Julian—the bearded man in the black suit—didn't look at her. His dark eyes remained locked on my swollen, mottled left hand, the skin stretched tight and purple over the knuckles where the heavy east wing fire door had slammed shut on me less than an hour ago. The question hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken scrutiny: That wasn't a closet door.
I couldn't stand there under that heavy stare. My pulse thrummed in my ears, hot and dizzying. I lifted the tray with a sharp intake of breath, using my right hand to take the brunt of the weight while keeping the damaged left tucked awkwardly against my apron.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry," I murmured, dipping my head just enough to break the line of sight.
I turned on my heel, moving as quickly as professional decorum allowed toward the discreet double swinging doors at the far end of the dining room. As I pushed through them into the back-of-house service corridor, the ambient murmur of upscale chatter and the scent of roasted garlic faded, replaced by the sterile hum of industrial fluorescent lighting and the faint, permanent smell of bleach and floor wax.
The service hallway stretched out empty and tile-lined, leading back toward the kitchens and the small, utilitarian staff prep rooms tucked beneath the main staircase. My legs felt shaky beneath the stiff folds of my black dress. By the time I reached the quiet alcove of the prep room and shoved the heavy service door shut behind me, the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving a cold, sickening ache that radiated all the way up to my elbow.
I set the silver tray down on the stainless steel prep counter with a dull clatter that made me wince. The two bowls of untouched soup sat steaming inside their silver housings, mocking me. With trembling fingers, I reached for my spare black glove, gripping the hem with my right hand and peeling it off the injured flesh.
The sight beneath the fabric made my stomach turn. The index and middle fingers of my left hand were twice their normal size, bruised a deep, angry shade of indigo and black. The skin was split slightly across the second knuckle, weeping a clear fluid. It throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a hot, rhythmic pulse of pure agony.
"Damn it," I whispered into the empty room, squeezing my eyes shut as a hot tear slipped down my cheek.
This wasn't just a minor kitchen scrape or a stubbed finger. It was severe enough that I wouldn't be able to pull another glove on without blinding pain, let alone lift trays or polish silver. And worst of all, Julian had seen it. He had recognized right away that the injury didn't come from a standard service mishap. If management found out I had been trapped in the restricted east wing—where the heavy security doors were wired into the estate's central monitoring system—they wouldn't just fire me. They would make sure I never worked another hospitality job in the city.
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I opened a supply cabinet beneath the stainless steel sink, my fingers rifling blindly through the clutter until I found a roll of coarse medical gauze and a small bottle of antiseptic wipes. Moving with deliberate, agonizing care, I began to clean the broken skin, biting down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out in the quiet room.
The wrap was clumsy, bulky, and completely out of uniform standard. Once I finished, I stared down at the awkward white cocoon wrapping my knuckles. There was no hiding it for long. Sooner or later, someone from upper management—or Julian himself—would demand answers about what really happened behind those locked doors in the east wing. And I was running out of places to hide.
