Chapter 1: The Pantry Floor
The stone floor of the Vance Manor pantry was always cold, even in the middle of June. It seeped through the thin gray fabric of my uniform skirt, chilling my bones long before my stomach stopped aching. I sat with my knees pulled up against my chest, holding a chipped white ceramic plate with both hands. On it was a meager portion of leftover white rice and a shred of cold braised meat—scraps I had scraped from a serving platter meant for the West Wing luncheon three hours ago.
My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted a grain of rice to my mouth. The silence of the pantry, lined from floor to ceiling with heavy dark wooden shelves and endless rows of glass-canned preserves, felt like a safe room. For twenty minutes a day, between scrubbing the baseboards of the grand ballroom and polishing the silver candelabras, this dark corner was the only place in the world that belonged to me.
Then the heavy oak door creaked.
I didn't hear footsteps—the Persian rugs in the outer corridor swallowed every sound—but the sudden shift in the air pressure warned me. I looked up, my heart leaping violently into my throat.
Julian Vance stood in the doorway.
He filled the frame completely, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply pressed black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up twice over his forearms. His dark hair fell slightly across his forehead, and his jaw was set in a rigid, unforgiving line. His eyes, sharp and slate-gray, pinned me to the spot where I sat. He didn't look angry in the theatrical way the estate manager, Mrs. Gable, did when a dusting rag was left out of place. His expression was far more terrifying: cold, absolute stillness.
"What are you doing in here?" His voice was low, carrying effortlessly over the quiet hum of the industrial refrigerator behind the pantry wall.
Panic flared behind my ribs, hot and sharp. I scrambled to set the plate down on the stone tiles, my palms slick with cold sweat. I pressed my back harder against the lower shelf, my head covering slipping slightly off-center. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that I tried desperately to force into silence.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words catching painfully in my dry throat. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to bother anyone."
Julian didn't move. He stood with one hand resting casually on the brass door handle, but every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring. He looked down at the chipped plate of rice, then back up to my face, where tears of sheer exhaustion and terror were finally spilling over my lashes, hot against my dust-streaked cheeks.
"When did you last eat?" His voice dropped an octave, the harshness evaporating into something heavy and intense.
I stared up at him, paralyzed. The question was so unexpected, so entirely outside the script of my daily existence at Vance Manor, that my brain refused to process it. I looked down at my lap, my fingers digging into the gray wool of my skirt, my lips trembling beyond my control.
"Yesterday morning," I murmured, the confession humiliatingly small in the vast, echoing room.
I expected the usual lecture. I expected him to remind me of the staff handbook, to threaten a pay deduction, or to call Mrs. Gable to haul me out by my collar. Instead, the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
May you like
I heard the dry rustle of fabric. Julian’s jaw tightened so sharply I could see the muscle jump beneath his skin. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his heavy smartphone. His thumb flicked the screen awake, casting a pale blue glow across his angular face.
"Show me what you're actually being paid," he said.
