Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main salon from the service corridors, Tessa Collins stood rigidly near the edge of the room. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features, clear skin, and highly expressive eyes. Tonight, however, she possessed an exhausted, deeply vulnerable manner that sharply contradicted the festive elegance of the estate.
She wore a fitted black maid dress with a cinched waist, a white apron, white collar and cuffs, and a white ruffled maid headband. But her pristine uniform was a ruin. Her black dress was noticeably creased, her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat crookedly in her slightly disheveled hair. She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Tessa, you cannot just stand there," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar as he passed her. "The reception is in full swing. The guests require more champagne."
"I am trying, sir," Tessa replied, her voice trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But I need to stay close to Mrs. Bancroft. She isn't well."
"Miss Maribel gave explicit orders that you are to manage the beverage stations," the butler interrupted coldly. "Do your job before you ruin the evening."
Tessa squeezed her eyes shut. During Dorian’s absence, Maribel had systematically isolated and tortured her. The socialite had discovered Tessa comforting Dorian’s mother, Elinor, and had recognized the genuine affection the older woman held for the maid. Driven by a sadistic need for absolute control, Maribel had confiscated Elinor’s vital heart medication. When Tessa had desperately protested, Maribel’s personal guards had physically restrained her, leaving her uniform rumpled and her spirit shattered under the threat of death.
"I will pour the champagne," Tessa whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her pale cheeks.
She stepped further into the bright, airy light of the grand salon. The golden reflections offered absolutely no place to hide her disheveled appearance. She kept her head down, navigating the carved walnut furniture and champagne velvet sofas with agonizing care.
On one of those velvet sofas sat Elinor Bancroft. The sixty-seven-year-old matriarch wore a heavy velvet evening dress and a knitted shawl wrapped tightly around her frail shoulders. Her skin was unusually pale, and her breathing was shallow. She looked exhausted, the lack of her daily medication taking a rapid and terrifying toll on her fragile heart.
Tessa moved quietly to stand just behind Elinor’s sofa. She poured a glass of water, offering it to the older woman with a shaking hand.
"Drink this, Mrs. Bancroft, please," Tessa urged in a desperate whisper.
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"Thank you, dear," Elinor murmured weakly, offering a faint, strained smile. "You are always so good to us."
Tessa’s chest tightened with a profound, agonizing guilt. She knew where the pills were, but the terrifying weight of Maribel's threats kept her paralyzed in a room full of dangerous men.
