The stone stairs felt like they were growing taller with every step I took. My lungs were burning, not just from the climb, but from the pure, icy terror that I was about to lose everything over a few hours of sleep I never intended to take. I reached the service door to the kitchen and pressed my ear against the wood. Silence, save for the low hum of the industrial refrigerator. I slipped inside, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I looked down at myself in the dim morning light filtering through the high windows. My black uniform was a disaster. There were wrinkles across the lap that no amount of smoothing could hide, and a faint, telltale smudge of dust from the cellar floor marred the hem. My hair felt like a bird's nest, and my skin still carried the faint, lingering scent of Ethan's cologne sandalwood and rain.
I needed to get to the staff quarters, change, and be back before the first kettle was put on. I moved toward the back hallway, but the sound of the heavy front doors groaning open stopped me dead. It was too early for guests.
"I don't care if it's six in the morning, Harrison. I want my tea now."
Victoria.
Her voice was like a serrated blade, cutting through the morning quiet. I ducked into the shadows of the pantry, the very place where Ethan had kissed me weeks ago, and held my breath. I heard the rhythmic click-clack of her heels approaching. She wasn't alone.
"The kitchen staff hasn't fully arrived, Miss Sterling," Harrison's voice was a calm, dry drone. "If you could wait ten minutes"
"I've been up for three hours, Harrison. I didn't sleep a wink because someone wasn't in his bed."
I felt the blood drain from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying the darkness of the pantry would swallow me whole.
"I went to Ethan's room at midnight," Victoria continued, her voice rising in pitch, "and again at three. The bed hadn't even been turned down. Where is he?"
"I was in the library, Victoria. Do keep your voice down; you'll wake the dead."
Ethan. His voice was smooth, bored, and perfectly executed. I heard him walk into the kitchen, the heavy tread of his boots echoing on the tile.
"The library?" Victoria's tone shifted from anger to sharp suspicion. "I checked the library. It was dark."
"I was in the annex, going over the offshore spreadsheets for the merger," Ethan lied, his tone so convincing I almost believed him myself. "The lighting is better for the fine print. If I'm going to secure your father's interests, I actually have to do the work. I must have fallen asleep over the ledgers."
There was a long, agonizing silence. I could almost picture Victoria staring at him, looking for a crack in the story.
"Well," she finally huffed, "you look a mess. Go change. We're supposed to meet the jeweler at ten."
I waited until I heard their footsteps fade toward the main staircase before I bolted. I ran for the staff stairs, but as I rounded the corner to the laundry room, I slammed into a figure that felt like a brick wall.
"Sasha."
It wasn't Harrison. It was Mrs. Grant.
She was dressed in a silk robe, a cup of black coffee in her hand. She didn't look tired; she looked like she had been awake for years, just waiting for this exact moment. Her eyes traveled slowly down my body, taking in the wrinkled fabric of my dress, the disheveled hair, and the bare, dusty feet.
"Good morning, ma'am," I stammered, dropping into a shallow, shaking curtsy. "I... I was just headed to…"
"Why are you in yesterday's uniform, Sasha?" her voice was a soft, deadly purr.
The question hung in the air like a noose. My mind raced, grabbing at the first thread of a lie I could find. "I... my other uniform, ma'am. It's missing. I went to the laundry room this morning to find the fresh one I laundered last night, but it wasn't there. I was just looking for it."
Mrs. Grant didn't blink. She stepped closer, the scent of her expensive coffee mixing with the cold air of the hallway. She reached out and touched the collar of my dress, smoothing a wrinkle with a lingering, predatory slowness.
"Missing?" she repeated, her voice dropping an octave. "How very strange. This house is run on a strict schedule of order, Sasha. Things do not simply go missing unless someone has been careless. Or unless someone is trying to hide where they've been."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll go find it immediately," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
She leaned in, her gaze boring into mine, searching for the name Chimamanda behind my pupils. "You look exhausted. One might think you've spent the night working just as hard as my grandson claims to have been."
She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and walked away, her silk robe fluttering behind her like the wings of a moth. She hadn't accused me, not directly, but the suspicion was draped over me like a heavy, wet shroud.
I stumbled back to my room, my hands shaking so violently I could barely work the lock. I stripped off the "yesterday uniform" and threw it into the corner of the closet like it was poisoned. I changed into my backup dress, pinning my hair back so tight it pulled at my scalp.
I looked at myself in the cracked mirror over the washbasin. The girl staring back wasn't the invisible ghost Harrison had commanded me to be. She was a girl with bruised lips and a secret that was starting to rot from the inside out.
Victoria was looking for Ethan. Mrs. Grant was looking at me. The two weeks of "safety" were officially over. I realized then that the "slip up" in the wine cellar wasn't just a moment of passion; it was the first crack in the dam, and the water was already starting to pour through. I had to get to the kitchen. I had to be perfect. I had to act like I hadn't spent the night in the arms of the man who was currently being fitted for a wedding ring.