Cressida Shaw slid a small shoebox topped with a red velvet bow toward her

The swinging doors leading to the massive estate kitchens opened, and Mara Bennett stepped into the bright, luminous dining room. At twenty-five, the housemaid possessed a breathtaking, gentle beauty with delicate features, but tonight, she looked like a walking ghost. The contrast between her and the opulent surroundings was jarring and heartbreaking.

Mara’s fitted black maid dress was deeply creased, completely lacking its usual crisp perfection. Her white apron was rumpled and stained with faint water marks. Her dark hair was disheveled, with several loose, unpinned strands falling framing her face, and her white ruffled maid headband sat slightly askew atop her head. Most devastating of all were her expressive eyes; they were severely puffy, bloodshot, and heavily shadowed from prolonged, agonizing crying. She moved with a vulnerable, exhausted manner, her flat shoes making no sound against the cream marble.

Just one week ago, Mara’s four-year-old daughter, Lily, had drowned in the estate's indoor pool. Cressida had quickly and coldly labeled it a tragic accident, ordering the staff to clean the scene before the police even arrived. Despite the unimaginable grief that had shattered her soul, Cressida had forced Mara back to work for the Christmas Eve banquet, threatening her employment and her life if she refused.

"Mara, what are you doing?" hissed Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, grabbing her arm near the serving station. "Look at your apron! It’s completely rumpled. Miss Shaw will have you thrown out into the snow."

"I... I tried to iron it, Mrs. Gable," Mara whispered, her voice cracking, a fresh tear escaping her puffy eyes. "My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I can't stop seeing her in the water."

"I know, child, I know," Mrs. Gable replied, her tone softening with profound pity. "But you have to hold it together. Just serve the main course and get back to the kitchens. Do not look at the fiancée. Just keep your head down."

"I don't think I can do this," Mara sobbed quietly, clutching the edges of her silver serving tray. "It’s Christmas Eve. Lily was supposed to open her presents tomorrow."

"You have to survive tonight, Mara," the older woman pleaded, giving her a gentle push. "For your own sake. Now go."

Mara took a shuddering breath, forcing her trembling legs to move forward. She navigated the narrow spaces between the velvet dining chairs, her eyes fixed firmly on the polished wood of the banquet table. She could feel the heat radiating from the towering Christmas tree, the gold ornaments flashing in the warm light, mocking the absolute darkness in her heart.

"More champagne over here, sweetheart," a capo slurred, snapping his fingers at Mara as she passed his chair.

"In just a moment, sir," Mara replied, her American accent thick with unshed tears, not breaking her stride.

She reached the head of the table. Cressida was laughing musically at something a politician had said, her emerald gown shimmering. Donovan sat silently, his broad shoulders squared, observing the room with cold detachment.

Mara stepped into the immediate, bright circle of the head table. With trembling, careful fingers, she lowered the heavy silver serving tray onto the carved walnut sideboard situated directly beside Donovan. The metal clinked softly against the wood.

Donovan turned his head, his dark eyes taking in the housemaid’s disheveled appearance. He noticed the askew headband, the creased dress, and the utter devastation carved into her delicate features.

"Mara," Donovan said, his deep voice unexpectedly gentle. "You should not be working tonight. You should be resting."

Before Mara could answer, Cressida turned her attention toward the sideboard. Her polished smile widened into something cruel and sharp as she looked at the broken maid.