Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes, leaning weakly against a polished marble column near the craft table, stood Lena Hart. 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. It was utterly disheveled, wild strands falling around a face paralyzed by the sheer exhaustion of enduring Daphne’s relentless bullying throughout the day.
"Lena, you cannot just stand there," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar as he passed. "The guests at the craft table require more ribbons. Do your job before Miss Vane notices your appearance."
"I am trying, sir," Lena replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "I just need a moment to breathe."
"You can breathe when your shift is over," the butler interrupted coldly. "Now dry your eyes and make yourself useful."
Lena squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back fresh tears. She pushed herself off the marble column, her flat shoes gliding silently over the polished floor as she approached the large craft table beside the magnificent Christmas tree. She reached for a spool of ribbon, her hands shaking.
Six-year-old Owen, Elias’s son, was sitting happily at the craft table, dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit and a burgundy bow tie. Over the past year, the motherless boy had found unwavering comfort in the gentle maid.
Lena paused over a half-tied gift ribbon, trying to steady her ragged breathing.
Owen turned his body, his small hands carefully holding a clear glass Christmas ornament. He proudly lifted the clear ornament, which contained a dusting of very fine, pale powder. He looked directly at Lena, his innocent eyes shining with absolute delight under the fairy lights.
"Mommy, Auntie found your magic snow!" Owen announced loudly.
The childish, clear American accent sliced through the ambient noise of the drawing room with the devastating force of a detonating bomb. The word "Mommy" echoed off the cream marble columns, drawing the immediate, shocked attention of every guest nearby. But it was the contents of the clear glass ornament that made Lena’s blood run cold.
She stared at the fine, pale gray powder shifting inside the glass sphere. Her breath hitched violently in her throat. The color drained entirely from her fair, rosy face.
May you like
Lena slowly lifted her head. She looked past Owen’s small shoulder, her eyes locking onto the center of the craft table. There, surrounded by ribbons and discarded wrapping paper, stood her distinctive, delicate porcelain memorial urn, decorated with a small gold bird.
It was no longer sealed. It was completely stuffed with a bouquet of fresh Christmas roses.
