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Chapter 3 House Rules
The strong smell of bleach and disinfectant lingered in the bathroom long after Heira was done, her hands raw and cracked as she let her wounds air dry. She leaned against the tiled wall for a breath, the ache in her ribs persistent, dulled only by the chill that radiated off the floor. Another shift ended. Another day survived.
She lay on the cot that passed for a bed in the servant quarters—bare metal frame, thin mattress, blanket too short to cover both her shoulders and feet in the harsh cold weather. Sleep didn't come right away. Her body begged for rest, but her mind kept slipping back to the slap, the glass, the silence that followed. She hadn't cried. She wouldn't. That part of her had long since learned its lesson.
The annual Darnell charity gala was approaching. Everyone in the estate could feel it. Like the weight of a storm pressing down on the windows. It was their biggest event of the year—photographers, politicians, executives, strangers who smiled with empty eyes. Heira knew what it meant: more work, tighter scrutiny, harsher punishments. She hoped her wounds would turn to bruises sooner rather than later, she knew she'd have to be very lucky for the wounds not to leave scars once healed but considering her recent luck she didn't put her bet on it. She doubted she'd be lucky anytime soon.
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The estate never truly slept.
It shifted in rhythms—early morning like a heartbeat skipping. Doors opening. Lights flickering on. A soft but constant hum of pressure and expectation. Heira woke before the bell rang. She always did now. Dressed in the same uniform, still damp from yesterday's wash, she crept out with the others, mop in hand.
The marble staircase waited for her—twelve steps, each wider than her cot, each polished to a dull gleam. She started from the bottom, working upward. Her knees ached by the third step, but she didn't stop. Her fingers moved on muscle memory alone, the mop dragging across the marble with rhythmic strokes. She didn't think. She just worked.
Calliope's laugh echoed from the second floor. Sharp. Mocking. Somewhere, silverware clinked gently onto porcelain. An engine started in the back lot—the black SUV, probably, the one with tinted windows and a dedicated driver. Everyone important had somewhere to go.
Heira didn't look up. That wasn't allowed.
She finished just as the sun broke through the tall arched windows, washing the hallway in gold. It didn't touch her. Not really.
In the kitchen, one of the older maids passed her a half-slice of toast folded into a napkin. No words. Just a flick of the hand and a glance away, as if she'd already forgotten who she gave it to. Heira didn't say thank you. Gratitude could get them both punished.
She ate behind the dryers in the laundry room, crouched low, trying not to breathe too loudly.
After breakfast, she was sent to deep-clean the east wing. No explanation given. None expected.
The east wing of the mansion felt colder. The windows were longer, the ceilings higher. Everything echoed—footsteps, buckets sloshing, even breath. She cleaned quietly: floors, doorknobs, baseboards. The sconce lights were gold-leafed, already gleaming. Still, she polished them until her reflection was a blur in the curves.
By the third room, her arms trembled from the strain. Her ribs burned when she bent over to scrub. She pressed her lips together and kept moving.
She passed a corridor lined with framed photographs. Her feet slowed despite herself. One glance. That's all. Just a flash of blue: a dress. Her dress. Her arm around William's waist. Her mother's hand on her shoulder. She was smiling in the picture. Not a real smile but the polite, public smile.
She turned away before her throat could tighten.
By noon, the air had shifted again.
A new list went up on the bulletin board in the servant quarters, pinned with an uneven staple. Heira glanced without stopping, eyes trained from years of quick reading. Her name. 7 PM. Dining hall. Serving duty.
Her stomach dropped like lead.
She hadn't been back in that room since the night of the verdict. Since her father's cold silence had become the law of the estate.
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Dinner that night was formal. The kind of formal that meant coats with cufflinks and crystal glasses set just so. Outside guests. Inside danger.
Heira stood behind the buffet table, arms at her sides, in the crisp white uniform they made her wear for events. Her skin itched under the stiff collar. Her scalp throbbed where the bun had been tied too tight. She kept her eyes on the table never the faces.
The long dining table stretched across the room like a runway. At the head sat her father, upright and still, as if carved from the same granite as the estate's pillars. Her mother sat beside him, her smile polished but not warm. Calliope sat to the left, arms draped over the chair like royalty. William was opposite her, beside a guest, she doubted that William lived in the house but he did come around to visit.
Declan Rourke.
Heira recognized him. He'd been here before, years ago, something about a difficult investment partnership which he smoothed over. He was older now. His face leaner, sharper. He looked like someone who had lost things and replaced them with ambition.
She approached when the butler gave the signal. The wine needed pouring.
The bottle was heavy in her hands. She uncorked it without a sound and moved to Declan's glass first.
He watched her. Not politely. Curiously.
"No need to be nervous," he said in a tone meant to be low enough that only she could hear. "We've met, haven't we?"
She said nothing. Poured the wine. Moved to the next.
Calliope's laugh rang out again, tinny and sharp. "Don't bother with her, Declan. She's not good for conversation anymore."
Heira didn't flinch.
Once the glasses were filled, she stepped back. Her feet found the marked place on the floor where she was supposed to stand. The bottle still in hand. Invisible again.
Dinner unfolded like a play—smiles, polite laughter, the gentle clink of forks. Her mother complimented Declan's watch. William chimed in with something about stocks. Her father nodded once telling Declan they had business to discuss in his office.
Declan stood after dessert. As he passed her, he paused.
"You used to smile," he said quietly. "You were sharp. I remember that."
She didn't move. Didn't blink.
"What happened to you?" he asked.
"Ask the papers," she replied, voice flat.
He didn't press. Just nodded like someone solving a riddle. Then he left.
The silence that followed was louder than the noise had been.
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The rest of the night passed in fragments.
Scraping plates. Polishing silver. Folding napkins. Her muscles burned. The skin on her hands white from so much time soaked in water and slightly where the detergent had eaten through. She didn't notice until the blood marked a clean plate, she looked at her hands and noticed she was bleeding her wounds from the previous night reopened.
Midnight. She collapsed onto the cot, still in uniform not making any moves to take care of her injuries. The springs creaked beneath her. Her eyes stayed open long after the room went dark.
No dreams. Just silence.
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Days passed without remark.
The gala loomed closer with each new assignment—more floors, tighter deadlines, fewer mistakes tolerated. Any slip was corrected in whispers, or with the threat of worse.
Heira was assigned to the laundry room and to her mother's bedroom, alternating days. The laundry room was small and hot, filled with the roar of machines and the weight of silence. Towers of sheets surrounded her. White on white. Endless and clean.
She kept her thoughts focused. Declan's words tried to linger, but she shut them out. They were distractions. Dangerous.
The way forward was unclear, but it had to exist. Somewhere, beyond the walls. Beyond the estate.
She kept moving.
She always kept moving.