Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors leading to the kitchens swung open, and a line of staff began to weave through the velvet dining chairs, carrying silver platters laden with roasted meats and winter vegetables. The clatter of polished silverware against porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the overlapping conversations. But at the rear of the procession, struggling to keep pace, was a sight that starkly contradicted the bright, elegant warmth of the ballroom.
Iris Lane, a twenty-five-year-old housemaid, moved with an exhausted, heartbreakingly vulnerable manner. She was a beautiful woman with delicate features, but tonight, she looked entirely broken. She wore a fitted black maid dress with a cinched waist, a short A-line skirt, a white apron, and a white ruffled maid headband. However, the pristine uniform was a ruin. Her black dress was deeply creased, her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat noticeably askew in her disheveled hair.
Worse than her uniform was her face. Her fair, rosy skin was blotchy, and her expressive eyes were profoundly puffy and shadowed in deep purple, the undeniable result of prolonged, silent crying.
"Keep your head down, Iris," the head butler hissed under his breath as he passed her, his voice tight with suppressed panic. "Just finish the service. Do not look at the boss."
"I am trying, sir," Iris whispered, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words.
She wasn't just walking; she was dragging a heavy weight. Iris’s right hand rested on the handle of a silver serving trolley. Around her slender right wrist, locking tight against her delicate skin, was a heavy, industrial metal cuff. The cuff was welded to a thick steel chain, which was bolted directly to the frame of the serving trolley. She was tethered to the cart like an animal.
Every step she took forced the metal to bite into her bruised wrist. The chain clinked softly, a sickening, metallic sound completely masked by the festive music and the loud laughter of the fifty guests.
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Earlier that afternoon, six-year-old Owen, Elliot's son, had sought out Iris in the library. The boy missed his mother and found gentle, unwavering comfort in the beautiful maid. He had hugged her tightly. Leona had walked in on the embrace. Disgusted by the child seeking affection from a servant, and driven by a possessive, cruel jealousy, Leona had spent the entire day systematically humiliating Iris. The torture had culminated in Leona ordering her personal guards to chain the maid to the trolley, commanding her to serve the Christmas Eve dinner in restraints to learn her place.
Iris navigated the cream marble columns, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood to keep from sobbing aloud. She kept her right arm stiff, trying to minimize the rattling of the chain. She approached the head table, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she had to pour the water for the mafia boss, and she knew that hiding the heavy metal chain from his terrifyingly observant eyes would be entirely impossible.
