Chapter 2: The Ledger and the Meal
The smartphone remained suspended in the air between us like a drawn blade. I stared at the dark screen, my mind racing through every rule I had broken since the day Mrs. Gable hired me three months ago. In Vance Manor, the staff didn't speak to Mr. Vance unless spoken to. We certainly didn't look him in the eye, and we never, under any circumstances, questioned the accounting department.
"Mr. Vance, I—my contract is standard," I managed to say, my voice cracking on the syllables. I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap, away from the plate of rice as if it were contraband. "Mrs. Gable handles the direct deposits. I don't want any trouble."
"Trouble found you the moment you collapsed against my pantry shelves," Julian said, his tone flat, leaving no room for argument. He took two slow steps into the pantry, the leather of his shoes clicking sharply against the stone. He crouched down—an absurd, incongruous sight in a room meant for raw vegetables and bulk flour—until he was at my eye level. "Show me the statement, Clara."
Hearing my first name spoken in his deep, resonant voice sent a strange shiver down my spine. I reached slowly into the deep pocket of my gray uniform pinafore and pulled out my crumpled phone. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it twice before managing to unlock the banking app and hand it over.
Julian took the phone. His fingers brushed mine for a fraction of a second; his skin was warm, mine felt like ice. He stared at the glowing screen for a long, agonizing minute. The harsh overhead bulb caught the sharp slope of his nose and the dark lashes shadowing his eyes. As he scrolled, the rigid line of his mouth morphed into something dangerous.
"Two hundred and forty dollars for a two-week block," he said softly, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. "For eighty-four hours of labor."
"Minus uniform fees and lodging deductions," I whispered, staring fixedly at the floor between us. "Mrs. Gable says the quarters in the attic cost seventy dollars a week to maintain, and the aprons are billed at cost."
Julian didn't answer immediately. He locked the screen with a sharp click and handed the phone back down to me. "Pack your things. You're moving to the east wing guest suite tonight."
My head snapped up, genuine panic overriding my fear. "Sir? No—I can't. If Mrs. Gable sees—"
"Mrs. Gable won't see a damn thing until I'm ready," Julian interrupted, standing up with fluid, controlled grace. He looked down at me, his eyes burning with a quiet fury that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the house he owned. "Stay here. Finish eating. Then come to the second-floor library. Bring every pay stub and receipt you've received since you walked through these gates."
Before I could form a protest, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the heavy pantry door half-open. The shaft of golden hallway light cut across the dark wooden shelves, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside the massive mahogany double doors of the second-floor library. My uniform was brushed off, my head covering straightened, and my pockets were heavy with folded slips of thermal paper—the paper trails of my exploitation. I raised my knuckles and knocked twice.
"Enter."
May you like
I pushed the door open. The library smelled of old leather, cedarwood, and expensive bourbon. Julian sat behind a massive mahogany desk, a heavy ledger open before him, illuminated by a green-shaded brass banker's lamp. He looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my chest.
"Shut the door, Clara," he said quietly. "Let's talk about how my estate is being run behind my back."
