Chapter 10: The Midday Delivery
The heavy white laundry van rolled over the gravel of the service entrance with a low, laboring groan, its tires crunching against the crushed stone just beneath the arched stone windows of the scullery. I stood near the loading dock, my hands resting instinctively against my lower back to ease the persistent, dull ache that had settled there since morning. My maroon maid uniform, stiff with starch and damp with the cold sweat of constant anxiety, chafed against my skin, but I forced my breathing to remain shallow and even. Lorenzo’s guards had been patrolling the perimeter with heightened frequency since the attorney was turned away at the gates, their heavy boots a steady, rhythmic reminder that the perimeter was locked tight.
The van's rear doors swung open with a metallic rattle, releasing a thick, humid wave of clean linen steam into the courtyard air. The delivery driver, a middle-aged man with graying temples and a faded blue uniform shirt, hauled down a large canvas bundle, grunting under its weight. One of the estate guards, a thick-necked man named Miller who rarely spoke except to bark orders, stepped forward to check the manifest against his clipboard.
"Sign here," Miller muttered, thrusting a yellow carbon sheet toward the driver.
The driver patted his pockets, searching for a pen, and muttered an oath. "Left it in the cab. Give me ten seconds."
As the driver turned toward the front of the van, Miller let out a heavy sigh of irritation and tossed his clipboard onto a nearby crate. "Make it quick. We've got a tight inspection coming through." Miller walked over to the side of the vehicle to light a cigarette, his back turned to the open gate path that led out toward the main stone pillars.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a sharp, hummingbird flutter that made my head spin. This was the narrowest margin of opportunity I had been given in days. The attorney’s business card remained wedged in the mortar of the main iron pillar out by the gatehouse, just fifty yards down the gravel drive, exposed to the elements and any casual passerby. If I didn't retrieve it now, before the afternoon shift change, the wind or another guard would sweep it away, and with it, my only remaining lifeline.
I stepped out from the shadow of the scullery overhang, my boots clicking softly against the stone.
"Hey," I called out, keeping my voice level, pitched just loud enough to carry over the rumble of the van's idling engine. "Miller. The driver needs the duplicate signature slip for the office file. I can take it up to the gatehouse logbook while you finish the count."
Miller turned, squinting through the hazy curl of cigarette smoke rising from his fingers. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering suspiciously on the swell of my apron, but the administrative burden of the delivery seemed to outweigh his suspicion. He grunted, waving a dismissive hand toward the drive. "Take the logbook. And don't drag your feet. If Elena sees you wandering the grounds instead of finishing the second-floor linens, you'll answer to her, not me."
"I understand," I said, my voice barely shaking.
I turned and walked away at a brisk, measured pace, forcing myself not to break into a run. Running would draw immediate attention; a steady, purposeful walk looked like authorized errand duty. The gravel crunched loudly beneath my soles, each step sending a dull, jarring vibration up through my spine and straight into my abdomen. I kept my chin up, staring straight ahead at the tall wrought-iron gates that marked the boundary between the estate and the outside world.
The cold autumn wind whipped across the open expanse of the drive, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant highway exhaust. As I neared the massive stone gate pillars, my eyes scanned the mortar joints near the intercom box. There it was—a small, crisp rectangle of heavy white cardstock wedged firmly between two gray blocks of granite, fluttering slightly in the draft.
I reached the pillar, my breath catching in my throat. I glanced back toward the service entrance; Miller was still leaning against the side of the van, deep in conversation with the driver, their backs turned.
With trembling fingers, I reached out and plucked the card from the mortar. The heavy paper felt cool and real against my skin. I didn't need to look at the printed text—I already knew what was embossed there: the name and direct mobile number of the estate’s independent legal counsel. Without a second's hesitation, I slipped the card deep into the pocket of my white apron, pressing it flat against the fabric where it would be completely hidden from view.
Just as my fingers left the pocket, a sudden, cold prickle at the back of my neck made me freeze.
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I slowly raised my eyes toward the grand facade of the manor, scanning the towering rows of arched windows. On the second floor, behind the clean, unbroken glass of the private study, a dark figure stood framed against the heavy velvet drapery. Lorenzo. He was leaning slightly forward, his hands resting on the window frame, staring down directly at me with an expression of cold, unblinking scrutiny. Even from this distance, the dark line of his tailored suit and the sharp angle of his jaw were unmistakable. He wasn't just watching; he was calculating.
I lowered my gaze immediately, forcing my legs to move. I turned back toward the service entrance, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had the card, but Lorenzo now knew I was out of place. The margins had just grown dangerously thin.
