Candice Vane presented her elaborate updo to the housemaid Mira Collins

Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the ballroom from the service hallways, Mira Collins leaned weakly against a polished marble column. The twenty-five-year-old maid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features, clear skin, and bright, 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 deeply creased, her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat noticeably askew. Worse than her uniform was her hair. The long, beautiful braid she had carefully maintained for years was gone. Her hair had been unevenly shortened, hacked away with brutal force, leaving disheveled, ragged strands falling around her face. Her expressive eyes were profoundly puffy and darkened with deep shadows from prolonged, silent crying.

"Mira, you cannot stay hiding out here," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar. "The portrait session is beginning. Miss Vane requires the staff to be present for the background arrangements."

"I am trying, sir," Mira replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But if Miss Vane speaks to me again..."

"Miss Vane is the future lady of this house," the butler interrupted coldly. "Whatever reprimand you received today, you must endure it. Now dry your eyes and do your job."

Mira squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the sheer, vindictive cruelty of that afternoon. Candice had demanded Mira’s long braid for her own Christmas portrait hairstyle, wanting to use the thick, dark hair as a decorative piece. When Mira had politely but firmly refused, Candice had flown into a territorial rage. With the help of her personal guards, she had held the maid down and forcibly severed the braid, threatening to have Mira killed if she spoke a word of it to Marcus.

"I will do my job," Mira whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her wet cheeks.

Before she could push through the drapes, a small hand tugged at her rumpled apron. Six-year-old Noah Hale, Marcus’s son, stood there in a charcoal suit and a burgundy bow tie. In his hands, he carried a slightly crooked, handmade paper-star crown. Over the past year, the motherless boy had found unwavering comfort in the gentle maid.

"Mommy?" Noah asked softly, his innocent eyes wide. "Why are you crying? Did you lose your hair?"

"I'm okay, sweetheart," Mira choked out, dropping to her knees to hug him tightly. "I just had a little accident."