Chapter 2: The Aftermath Below
The basement servants’ quarters smelled of damp limestone, bleach, and old tea. I sat on the edge of the narrow iron cot, turning my wrists over under the yellow glow of a single overhead bulb. The skin was crisscrossed with angry red welts, the blue-black bruising already blooming beneath the surface where the coarse fibers had bitten into my pulse points. On the wooden nightstand sat a ceramic bowl of warm water and a clean linen cloth left there not by Julianne’s orders, but by Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, who had handed them to me with eyes full of quiet, terrified warning before locking herself back in her pantry.
My fingers shook as I dipped the cloth into the basin. Every sting of the water was a reminder of the foyer, of the way Julianne’s silk robe had rustled as she retreated upstairs the moment Dominic caught me in his arms to keep me from hitting the marble floor face-first. He hadn't carried me down here—he had handed me off to Higgins with a look that had cleared the hallway in seconds—but the memory of his heavy wool coat brushing against my bare shoulder remained branded into my skin.
A soft knock rattled the heavy oak door of my room. Before I could answer, the bolt clicked, and Julianne slipped inside. She had changed out of her gold silk robe into a fitted emerald evening dress, her blonde hair pinned into an immaculate French twist. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue, stepping into my narrow cell like an empress visiting a plague ward.
“You think you’ve won something, don't you?” Julianne murmured, closing the door softly behind her. She didn't sit down; she stood by the foot of the bed, her diamond tennis bracelet clicking against her wrist as she folded her hands. “You think because Dominic cut you down, you’ve found yourself a protector.”
“I don't think anything, Miss Vance,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the basin of red-tinged water.
“Good,” she replied, her voice dropping an octave, losing its public cadence entirely. “Because Dominic Mercer owns everything in this postcode, including the breath in your lungs. If he finds out about your brother’s medical debts—if he looks into why a girl with a master’s degree in archival history is scrubbing his floors under an assumed name—he won't just tie you to a chandelier next time. He’ll throw you into the Thames himself. Men like him don't rescue stray dogs; they put them down when they bite.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, but I forced my chin up, meeting her cold, calculating stare. “Then why haven't you told him who I really am?”
May you like
Julianne’s lips curved into a sharp, humorless smile. “Because misery is much more entertaining when it happens slowly. Clean yourself up. The morning shift starts at five, and if a single speck of dust is found on the library moldings, I’ll make sure Higgins doesn't give you your weekly stipend.”
She turned on her heel and slipped out as quietly as she had entered, leaving the heavy scent of tuberose hanging in the stagnant air. I sat there in the silence of the basement, my heart hammering against my ribs, realizing that the rope in the foyer was only the beginning of what they intended to do to me.
