Chapter 3: An Uninvited Inspection
The morning sun cut sharp diagonal lines across the parquet floor of the sunroom when Mrs. Gable rapped twice on the doorframe before stepping in. Her face was set in lines of practiced neutrality, but her eyes held a jittery light. “Miss Vance is in the blue parlor, sir. She demanded breakfast, and she says she won't leave until she speaks with the master of the house—or his new domestic arrangement.”
I looked up from the ledger of dry-cleaning receipts I was organizing on the mahogany table. Luciano didn't look up from his laptop. He typed three more sentences, pressed the enter key with a soft click, and then closed the lid.
“Let her in here,” Luciano said.
Mrs. Gable hesitated, casting a quick, sideways glance at me. “In the private study, sir? Miss Vance usually insists on—”
“In here,” Luciano repeated, his tone dropping half an octave.
Mrs. Gable nodded once and vanished. A minute later, the click of heels announced Chloe’s arrival before she even appeared in the doorway. She had changed into a cream-colored silk pantsuit that must have cost more than my annual salary, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, elegant twist that made her look like a judge walking into a courtroom. Her gaze swept over the room, lingering on the desk, the leather chairs, and finally resting on me, still sitting at the side table with my ledger.
“Playing dress-up in the boss's office now, are we?” Chloe asked, her voice dripping with a practiced, razor-sharp sweetness. She didn't look at Luciano; her eyes stayed locked on me, full of undisguised contempt. “Luciano, this is becoming a farce. A local girl from the river district with flour on her apron? The board will laugh you out of the foundation dinner on Friday.”
I closed the ledger deliberately, smoothing my palm over the leather cover. I had spent two years working three jobs before I ever set foot in this house; I had listened to managers twice as loud as Chloe try to break my spirit over broken plates and late shifts.
“The board cares about shipping margins and municipal permits, Miss Vance,” I said, my voice steady, carrying none of the trembling servant hesitation she expected. “They rarely ask about the linen service.”
May you like
Chloe’s breath hitched. She turned her sharp glare toward Luciano, expecting him to reprimand the domestic staff for speaking out of turn. Instead, Luciano leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands on the armrests, a faint, dangerous shadow of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.
“She’s right, Chloe,” Luciano said softly. “And if you ever address my wife with that tone in this house again, you won't need to worry about the foundation dinner. You won't be on the guest list.”
