Chapter 4: Whispers in the Hall
The grandfather clock in the corner of the parlor ticked off the seconds with relentless precision. I handed the silver coin back to Clara, watching as she carefully refastened the ball chain around her neck, tucking the metal disc safely beneath the fabric of her collar.
"We can't stay in here much longer," I said, standing up and reaching for my black trench coat. "Victoria's guests will start wandering toward the west wing for dessert soon. We need a plan."
Clara stood, wincing slightly as she smoothed down her maid uniform. "A plan for what, Mr. Vance? She owns this house. She owns the agency that placed me. If I walk out that door, I have nowhere to go. No money, no references."
"You aren't walking out alone," I said, pulling the coat over my shoulders and adjusting the dark grey tie at my throat. "And you aren't staying here to be her punching bag any longer. But if we pull you out tonight, Victoria will simply replace you with another girl tomorrow and burn whatever records link her to your employment. We need to find out what else she's hiding in this house."
Clara swallowed hard, her eyes wide. "The study. On the third floor. She keeps a locked ledger in the mahogany desk. The senior housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, told me once that's where the real contracts are kept—the ones the agency doesn't see."
"The third floor," I muttered, recalling the architectural layout of the Sterling mansion. It was the private residential wing, strictly off-limits during galas. "Can you get me up there without setting off the silent alarms?"
"The service stairs near the pantry," Clara said, her voice gaining a firmer edge of resolve. "They don't have motion sensors on the lower landings, just a magnetic latch on the fifth-floor door. If I use my master key, I can bypass the downstairs security desk."
"Show me," I said.
We slipped out of the parlor through a side exit that led directly into the maze of service corridors behind the grand ballroom. The contrast was immediate. Gone were the crystal chandeliers, the imported marble, and the hum of polite laughter. Here, the floors were bare concrete, lit by dim, flickering overhead bulbs that hummed a low, irritating frequency. The smell of bleach and damp laundry hung thick in the air.
Clara moved quietly, her soft-soled shoes making almost no sound against the concrete. I followed a pace behind, my dark eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of night staff or security guards.
As we rounded the corner near the industrial laundry room, a muffled sound caught my attention—a sharp sob followed by a low, stern voice. I raised a hand, signaling Clara to halt. We pressed ourselves flat against the rough plaster wall beside a stack of linen carts.
Through the slightly cracked door of the laundry sorting room, an older woman in a gray housekeeper's dress stood with her back to us. Another maid—younger than Clara, with blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid—sat on a folding chair, holding a damp cloth to a swollen cheek.
"You keep your mouth shut about the riding crop," the senior housekeeper was saying, her voice hard as gravel. "Mrs. Sterling pays for your room, she pays for your food, and she expects loyalty. You drop another platter in front of the board members again, and you won't just get a scratch—you'll be out on the highway with nothing in your pockets. Understand?"
May you like
The blonde girl nodded frantically, tears streaming down her face.
Clara gripped my sleeve, her fingers digging through the fabric of my suit jacket. I looked down at her face, seeing the reflection of her own trauma mirrored in the younger girl across the room. The system wasn't an aberration; it was the foundation upon which Victoria Sterling built her entire immaculate public life.
