The morning breeze drifted through the half‑open window, soft and cool against my skin. It felt peaceful—too peaceful—almost unreal. Still half asleep, I turned on my side and listened. Soft footsteps echoed faintly from downstairs. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. The sound felt distant, unreal, like something happening in another world.
But when I finally opened my eyes, sunlight poured into my room. It was bright—far brighter than it should be at the time I normally woke. My heart skipped.
I turned sharply toward the small clock on the table.
Past 10 a.m.
"Oh no…" I whispered to myself as I shot up from the bed.
I never slept this long. Never. Not even on days when Mrs. Johnson insisted I rest.
Panic washed over me. I rushed into my morning apron, barely tying the strings behind me, and hurried out of the room. My heart was pounding as my feet tapped quickly down the stairs.
The moment I reached the dining room, I froze.
Miss Sylvia sat there like a queen on her throne—one long, painted fingernail curled around the handle of a coffee cup. She didn't blink. She didn't smile.
She just stared at me.
That same cold stare—sharp enough to cut, empty enough to freeze blood. The stare of a woman who saw me as nothing more than dust under her shoes.
I swallowed hard and walked forward, but the closer I got, the more her eyes narrowed, like she was watching a rat scurry across marble floors.
"Listen."
Her voice sliced through the air like a blade.
I stopped immediately.
She slowly stood up from the chair, lifting her chin as if she were about to deliver a kingdom's judgment. Her heels clicked sharply on the floor as she approached me—each step deliberate, confident, venomous.
"I don't know how you and Mrs. Johnson used to run this place before," she hissed, her lips curling. "But listen carefully now."
Her whole body tightened, like a warrior preparing to strangle her enemy.
"Things have changed. Everything has changed." Her voice rose, sharp and cruel. "And you—little maid—need to respect every new policy here."
My chest tightened at her choice of words.
Little maid.
Common servant.
Like I was nothing.
"How on earth," she continued, her voice turning shrill, "can a maid be waking up at this time? Past ten? Are you serious? What's wrong with you? Are you—"
She didn't finish.
Because a voice stopped her.
A calm, deep, golden voice that flowed across the room like honey.
"Baby, stop," Thompson said from behind her.
My heart fluttered the moment I heard him.
Standing at the bottom of the staircase, tall and effortlessly elegant, he looked at Sylvia with a mixture of warning and exhaustion.
"Enough," he said quietly. "She worked the entire day yesterday, and even I told her to rest. I'm thinking of giving her a day or two off."
I stared at him in disbelief.
Mr. Thompson… wanting to give me days off?
He turned to me.
"Chant, you—"
But Sylvia cut him off.
"Oh please!" she snapped, stamping her foot like a spoiled child denied candy. "Stop this!"
She raised her voice even more—fake outrage dripping from every word.
"Stop indulging her! What day off? Off for what? Isn't she paid? Isn't this her job? Please stop all this nonsense! You and your late mother—"
"Don't."
Thompson's tone turned deadly calm.
"Don't bring my mother into your tantrums."
Sylvia froze for a moment, then quickly changed strategy—the way she always did when she realized she was pushing too far.
Suddenly her eyes softened. Tears—fake tears—filled them.
"Baby, I'm sorry," she whispered dramatically, leaning into him. "But I don't like this. Whenever I try to correct your staff, you stop me. It hurts."
And just like that, she folded into herself as though she might break.
A perfect performance.
She always did this. Cry to get him. Cry to control him. Cry to twist the knife deeper into his heart.
And as always…
He fell for it.
Thompson sighed, slipped an arm around her waist, and lifted her slightly as he guided her up the stairs like a fragile porcelain doll.
But halfway up, he turned toward me.
"Chant, you can continue what you were doing," he said softly.
Then they disappeared, Sylvia clinging to him like the demon she was.
I remained standing in the middle of the dining room, staring at the spot where they vanished.
When?
When would Mr. Thompson see this woman for who she truly was?
When would he realize that she didn't love him—not even a little?
She loved his wealth, his name, the power that came with being attached to him.
Not him.
Never him.
I was lost in thought—angry, helpless, confused—when a gentle tap landed on my shoulder.
I turned.
David.
His expression was calm, soft even. Unlike his cousin, his eyes always felt like they could see straight into your mind—like he could read your fears without you saying a word.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "Don't think too much about it."
He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"Just go and rest. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine, Mr. David," I whispered. "I will go and start my chores now."
He didn't reply immediately. He just looked at me—long and steady—like he was trying to understand something about me that I had not yet discovered myself.
"Alright," he said finally, stepping back. "Go on then."
I gave a small nod and walked away, feeling his gaze follow every step I took.
And as I disappeared into the corridor, a thought pressed itself into my chest—
What exactly was Mr. David seeing…
when he looked at me that way?