Chapter 3: The Morning Aftermath
The gray light of dawn filtered through the frosted glass of the breakroom window, casting long, pale stripes across the chipped laminate table where I sat nursing a mug of lukewarm black coffee. My hand was wrapped in a neat, professional bandage—Vincent’s handkerchief—a silent reminder of the conversation that had been cut short when the head of catering came pounding down the hall looking for missing staff. I hadn't slept a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Eleanor's tear-streaked face and heard Vincent calling me by my real name. The carefully constructed life I had built in this city over the last four years was unraveling like cheap yarn, and I didn't have the strength left to tie the knots back together.
A sharp rap on the breakroom door didn't wait for permission before swinging open. Julianna stood on the threshold, wrapped in a cashmere wrap that looked absurdly out of place in the basement level. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, and her expression was pure venom. She didn't bother closing the door behind her. "You're still here," Julianna said, her voice dripping with disgust as she stepped into the tiny room, wrinkling her nose at the smell of industrial cleaner. "I personally spoke with the agency supervisor last night. Girls who cause a scene in the ballroom—let alone assault guests by throwing trays—are supposed to be terminated before midnight." I set my coffee mug down, the ceramic clicking softly against the laminate. I didn't shrink back this time; the exhaustion had burned away my fear, leaving behind a cold, clear resolve. "I didn't throw the tray, Ms. Vance," I said evenly, looking straight into her painted eyes. "Your dress caught my cuff."
Julianna laughed, a sharp, ugly sound that lacked any real amusement. "Nobody cares about the truth of a kitchen maid, you pathetic little fraud. Vincent might be distracted by your cheap sob story for the moment, but men like that collect shiny toys and discard them when they tarnish. And you? You're already tarnished." She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a venomous hiss. "Pack your locker and walk out the front gates before I have security throw your belongings onto the pavement. You don't belong in this world. You never did." Before I could formulate a reply, a deep, resonant voice cut through the small room from the doorway. "She stays." Vincent stood in the shadows of the hall, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking like he hadn't slept either. He stepped past Julianna, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He didn't look at her; his eyes were fixed entirely on me.
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Julianna spun around, her face flushing a mottled red with embarrassment and fury. "Vincent! You can't possibly keep an incompetent, low-class servant after what she did to my evening—to our evening!" Vincent finally turned his head, his gaze cold enough to freeze boiling water. "My mother wishes to speak with her, Julianna. And as for your concerns regarding staff competence, my security team is currently reviewing the CCTV footage from the ballroom corners to determine exactly how your gown managed to hook a service tray from three feet away." Julianna’s breath hitched, the confident mask slipping for a single, terrifying micro-expression. "You... you're investigating me over a maid?" "I'm investigating an incident that occurred under my roof," Vincent replied quietly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Ms. Vance, I have matters to discuss with Miss Lucia."
Julianna glared at me with a look of absolute, unadulterated hatred that promised future retribution, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the breakroom, her heels clicking a furious rhythm down the concrete hall. Silence settled back over the room, heavier this time. Vincent waited until the sound of her car leaving the staff lot faded away before he turned back to me. He pulled out the opposite metal chair and sat down, resting his forearms on the table. "My mother is waiting in the private parlor upstairs," Vincent said, his voice dropping all pretense of corporate formality. "She didn't sleep at all last night, Lucia. She kept saying the fire was a lie. Tell me what happened five years ago, and I'll make sure nobody in this city ever touches you again."
