Chapter 2
The ambient hum of the crowded Christmas reception flowed seamlessly around the room, masking the quiet, desperate exhaustion radiating from the young maid. The clinking of crystal glasses and the soft scraping of polished shoes continued across the vast salon, but near the low drinks table, a profound, innocent tragedy was rapidly unfolding.
Elise stopped beside the polished silver ice chest. The heavy, insulated container, designed with a thick hinged lid and a sturdy metal latch, sat next to a stack of folded linen napkins. Elise’s breath hitched in her chest. She had been frantically searching the estate for the past hour, looking for the tiny ten-week-old fluffy kitten that Adrian had gifted his daughter that morning.
Beneath the festive music and the roaring conversation, she heard it—a faint, muffled, agonizing mew.
It was coming from inside the ice chest.
Elise’s fair skin paled to a ghostly white. She reached out, her hands shaking so violently she could barely grasp the cold metal latch. The realization of what must have happened flooded her system with pure, unadulterated terror.
Before she could undo the latch, Bianca stepped close. The fiancée materialized out of the crowd, her emerald satin gown rustling softly against the marble floor. She smelled of expensive perfume and cold malice.
Bianca did not smile. She looked down at Elise’s trembling hands, her eyes hard and devoid of any human empathy. She had shut the animal inside an hour ago, furious that its small claws had snagged the delicate hem of her custom gown.
"Leave it, Elise," Bianca commanded, her voice a low, venomous whisper that carried only to the maid’s ears. "You are serving the champagne. Do your job and walk away."
Elise looked up, her highly expressive eyes wide with absolute horror. She was terrified of disobeying the future lady of the house in front of the entire syndicate, but she could not leave a living creature to freeze to death in a metal box.
"Please," Elise begged, her voice cracking, her delicate fingers wrapping desperately around the latch. She looked pleadingly at Bianca while unfastening the heavy metal lock. "Please. Let me open it."
"If you open that chest," Bianca hissed, stepping closer to block her from the view of the guests, "you will not have a job by morning. And you will never see that little girl again."
The threat was blatant and lethal. But before Bianca could enforce it, a small, cheerful presence broke through the unbearable tension.
Three-year-old Maisie Crowne waddled out from behind a burgundy velvet sofa. The toddler was a vision of innocence, with round rosy cheeks, soft curls, and tiny dimples. She was dressed beautifully in a red velvet pinafore, a cream knitted cardigan, white tights, and little Mary Jane shoes. A small felt star clip decorated her dark hair.
Maisie approached Elise, completely oblivious to the dangerous syndicate politics swirling around them. She reached out and tugged gently on the rumpled white apron.
May you like
"Mommy," Maisie said, affectionately using the title she had bestowed upon the gentle maid who raised her. "Kitty bath?"
The words dropped into the immediate vicinity like a live explosive charge. The ambient noise of the nearby conversations suddenly felt muted, distant.
