The morning light slanted through the grand windows of the Cross estate, pouring over velvet drapes and polished floors like spilled gold. Ashley stood at the edge of it, feather duster in one hand, eyes fixed on the chandelier above the grand staircase. It sparkled, but not with warmth-only with cold, unreachable beauty. She hadn't expected to feel so out of place.
"Miss Ashley," Mrs. Hale's voice rang from down the corridor. "Don't forget the west wing drawing room. Dust collects under the piano."
"Yes, ma'am," Ashley responded, adjusting the lace apron that felt too starched for comfort.
She moved quietly, almost too quietly, down the marble corridor. She passed portraits that looked older than her grandmother, and vases that looked like they would cost more than her childhood home. Every step felt monitored-even though she knew no one was watching. Or so she hoped.
The drawing room was dim, smelling faintly of lemon polish and old books. She bent down, brushing carefully beneath the carved piano legs, her arms trembling from the awkward angle. As she worked, her mind wandered back home. Her mother's laughter, low and sweet like a lullaby. The soft hum of the ceiling fan, the smell of pork roll and cheese sandwich on Saturdays. Her throat tightened.
"Do you miss her?" a soft voice asked behind her.
Ashley jumped, knocking her shoulder on the piano's underside. She turned quickly. It was Elise, the youngest of the maids, with a tray of glassware balanced in her hands.
"I-what?"
"Your mom," Elise said, stepping carefully inside. "You keep touching that bracelet on your wrist like it's her."
Ashley looked down at the thin gold band her mother had given her before she left. She had not realized she was holding it.
"Yeah," she said softly. "I miss her every second."
Elise gave a small smile. "Same. Mine passed away two winters ago."
That quiet moment between them was broken by the clatter of silverware echoing from the hallway.
"I should go," Elise murmured. Before Ashley could say another word, Elise slipped out with the tray in her hands, with her heels tapping softly against the marble. The door clicked shut behind her.
Ashley exhaled and straightened up, knees aching slightly as she stood. She stretched her fingers, cramped from holding the cloth too tightly. The silence returned-deep and pressing-and with it, the weight of her new reality.
She still had four rooms to dust, one hallway to sweep, and the laundry rota had her name etched across most of the evening shifts, and her arms felt like overcooked noodles. No one had warned her that the mansion, beautiful as it was, would demand so much of her.
She moved into the next room, a library with more shelves than she could count and high windows that trapped the afternoon heat like a greenhouse. The air was still, but heavy, like it didn't want her there. She rolled up her sleeves, ignoring the sweat that trickled down her neck. As she wiped down the second bookshelf, her cloth snagged on the edge of an ornate carving. It tore. She bit the inside of her cheek and quickly stuffed it into her apron pocket. A new cloth would cost her time, and she didn't have much of that left before dinner preparations began.
"Ashley!" barked a voice from the corridor. It was Mrs. Hale again.
Ashley scrambled to the doorway. "Yes, ma'am?"
"You were supposed to take the fresh linen to the east wing twenty minutes ago," she snapped, arms crossed.
"I-I was told to finish the dusting in the library first-"
"And you think that's an excuse for delay? Choose, Miss Ashley: dust or discipline."
Her cheeks burned with the humiliation, but she lowered her head. "I'll take the linen now, ma'am."
She didn't wait for a response. She hurried down the corridor, slippers whispering across t the floors, heart racing. The laundry room was tucked away past the servants' entrance, already steaming from hot water and fresh folds. A pile of pressed sheets taller than her waist waited near the door, and she braced herself before lifting a stack. They were heavier than they looked. They were crisp, perfumed but weighty, like they knew she was struggling.
As she trudged up the stairs with the linen in her arms, the silence of the mansion wasn't peaceful-it was accusing. Every step sounded too loud, every breath too fast. And at the back of her mind was always the fear: one misstep, one broken vase, one complaint from a cross guest-and she'd be gone.
The ease wing smelled different. It was cleaner and colder. The halls were lined with portraits of men in suits and women in pearls, staring down their noses with blank expressions. As she approached one of the quest rooms, a door suddenly opened.
"Watch it!" a tall butler snapped, nearly colliding with her.
She staggered back, muttering an apology, arms wobbling under the linen. He walked off without even glancing back. Ashley blinked fast. She wouldn't cry. Especially not over a man who couldn't even hold a door. She finally dropped the linen off and leaned against the wall for just a second, letting her aching muscles rest. Her apron was damp with sweat, and her back was stiff. She wasn't sure she had ever been this tired-not even during exam week at her old tutorial center.
By the time she returned downstairs, the sun had dipped, casting the halls in amber. Her name was already scribbled on the list for polishing the silverware in the formal dining room. She paused at the door, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was frizzy, apron wrinkled and eyes were super heavy.
"This place eats people alive," a voice mumbled beside her.
She flinched. It was Paul, another maid-older, with deep smile lines that didn't match the bitterness in his tone.
"You're new. They are testing you," he said, without looking at her. "Don't break."
Ashley tried to smile, but it barely made it to her lips. "I'll try."
He shrugged. "Trying ain't enough here." He walked away.
She turned toward the long table. Every fork, every spoon, every plate had to shine like moonlight. She picked up the first and started to polish, shoulders aching with every slow, circular motion.
The evening dragged longer than it should have. She scrubbed until her knuckles hurt. She cleared dishes until her fingers went numb. She endured sharp glances, silent judgments, and cold corridors that stretched on forever. The walls whispered nothing-but they didn't need to. Their silence said it all: You don't belong here.
It was late when she finally reached her room in the attic. The air was cooler now, but the ache in her bones pulsed with every step. She collapsed on the bed, arms spread wide, face toward the ceiling.
Outside her window, the mansion stood tall and shadowed. Its velvet walls pulsing with secrets and expectations. Ashley closed her eyes. She wasn't quite sure how long she could keep this up for. But quitting definitely wasn't an option. Not when this job was the only thing standing in between her and the life she promised herself.