Chapter 2: Retreat To The Servants Quarters
The heavy mahogany doors of the grand dining hall clicked shut behind me, muttering away the warm glow of the chandeliers and the heavy scent of roasted meats. Elena's fingers remained clamped onto the stiff wool of my maroon maid uniform sleeve, her grip tight enough to bruise. Her slicked-back white hair caught the cool, gray fluorescent striping of the back corridor, stripping away the refined elegance she wore in front of the master and replacing it with pure, hard venom.
"You don't belong near the head of that table," Elena hissed, shoving me hard enough that my shoulder blade struck the damp plaster of the service wall. "A girl of your station, carrying a bastard nobody asked for, parading around like a nursemaid to a dying man. Lorenzo has half a mind to have you thrown out onto the county road right now."
I didn't flinch, though my breath hitched in my throat. I pressed my right hand flat against my belly, feeling the faint, reassuring warmth beneath the white apron and lace collar. The elderly man's words—*She saved life, Lorenzo*—echoed in my ears, shielding me against the immediate chill of her threats.
"I was only doing my job," I whispered, keeping my gaze locked on the linoleum floor. "He needed assistance."
"Your job is to stay out of sight and scrub the baseboards," Elena snapped, stepping closer, her black suit jacket brushing against my apron. "If you so much as look toward the upper corridor again, I’ll personally see to it that you leave this estate with nothing more than the clothes on your back. Am I understood?"
She waited for a nod, her eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of gray glass, before turning on her heel and clicking her way back toward the dining hall entrance.
I stood in the dim corridor for a long moment, listening to the rhythmic tap of her heels fade into the distance. The back hallway smelled of old bleach and damp laundry, a stark contrast to the opulence twenty feet away. My legs felt shaky, the adrenaline of the confrontation slowly giving way to a deep, hollow exhaustion. I walked slowly toward the heavy swing door leading to the main kitchens, needing water, needing a moment to breathe where the air didn't taste like ozone and malice.
The kitchen was mostly quiet at this hour, save for the hum of the giant walk-in refrigerators and the soft clink of stainless-steel pots. Arthur, the head cook, stood by the prep counter chopping root vegetables with steady, rhythmic thuds of his heavy cleaver. He didn't look up immediately as I slipped past the swinging door, but he paused his knife when he saw the state of my apron.
"She caught you, didn't she?" Arthur asked quietly, his voice a low gravel rasp that carried years of kitchen service behind it.
"She was at the door before I could finish," I murmured, leaning against the edge of a stainless-steel counter to steady my knees.
Arthur set the knife down, wiped his large hands on a checkered towel, and reached beneath the counter. He pulled out a fresh, unopened bottle of bottled water and slid it across the metal surface toward me. I picked it up, my fingers cold against the condensation, and unscrewed the cap with a quiet twist.
"You shouldn't have gone in there tonight, girl," Arthur said, his eyes softening as he looked down at my uniform. "Lorenzo and Elena... they've been circling that old man like crows on a fence post for months. Ever since his health started slipping. They don't want nurses or maids showing him kindness. They want him isolated."
"He called me by name earlier," I said softly, taking a small sip of the cold water. "He knows what they're doing."
"Knowing and stopping them are two different things," Arthur warned, glancing toward the double doors that led back to the manor proper. "Elena runs the staff with an iron fist, and Lorenzo handles the legal side of things—or whatever version of it keeps the money flowing into his accounts. If you want to protect yourself, and that little one you're carrying, you keep your head down. Take my advice: go straight to your room, lock the deadbolt, and don't open it for anyone until morning shift bell."
I gripped the plastic water bottle tighter, the chill biting into my palm. "He's alone in there with them now, Arthur. Lorenzo looked at him like..."
"I know how he looked," Arthur interrupted, his face darkening with a grim seriousness that brooked no argument. "Which is precisely why you can't do a damn thing tonight. If you get fired or thrown out on the street, you won't be able to help him at all. Go on now. Get down to the basement quarters before Elena sends someone else to check on you."
Nodding slowly, I clutched the water bottle against my chest and turned back toward the narrow service stairwell. Every step down into the lower level felt heavier than the last, the concrete floor cold beneath my worn shoes.
When I finally reached my small room at the end of the basement corridor, I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside. The room was tiny, holding little more than a narrow cot, a small wooden dresser, and a single high window looking out at ground level against the brick foundation. I closed the door behind me, threw the brass deadbolt into place with a sharp metallic clunk, and dropped the heavy iron latch for good measure.
May you like
Safe for the moment, but entirely isolated.
I sank down onto the edge of the narrow cot, resting both hands protectively over my rounded stomach. The baby gave a faint, rhythmic flutter beneath my palm, a quiet heartbeat in the dark room. Upstairs, through the thick timber and stone of the old estate, the elderly man was sitting under the watchful eye of Lorenzo and Elena. I closed my eyes, listening to the distant, muffled hum of the mansion's heating pipes, and vowed that morning couldn't come fast enough.
