Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main salon from the service corridors, Phoebe Hart stood nervously near the edge of the servant’s hall. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features, clear, fair skin, and highly 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 noticeably creased, her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat crookedly in her slightly disheveled hair. She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Standing beside her was her six-year-old son, Samuel. The boy wore a thick cream Christmas sweater that brought out the natural rosiness in his fair cheeks.
"Stay close to me, Samuel," Phoebe whispered, her American accent trembling slightly as she adjusted the collar of his cream sweater. "This house is very big, and there are a lot of important people here tonight."
"I will, Mommy," Samuel promised, his bright, observant eyes scanning the towering gilded mirrors visible through the open archway.
"Phoebe, what are you doing lingering in the corridor?" the head butler hissed harshly, adjusting his own coat as he passed her. "The staff Christmas gathering is in the lower banquet hall. You are newly employed here; do not make a habit of loitering."
"I am sorry, sir," Phoebe replied softly, lowering her gaze. "I was just trying to find the proper staircase. I didn't want to disturb the main reception."
"Take the west corridor. And ensure the boy stays out of sight," the butler instructed coldly before disappearing into the kitchens.
Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, a familiar ache tightening her chest. Looking at Samuel always brought a profound, duality of emotion—an overwhelming, fierce love, and a hollow, agonizing grief. Six years ago, she had given birth to twin boys. The doctors had told her that one had tragically passed away during delivery. She had never even seen his face. She had raised Samuel alone, carrying the ghost of his brother in her heart every single day.
"Come on, sweetheart," Phoebe murmured, taking Samuel’s small hand in hers.
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As they walked down the corridor, the magnificent sound of a string quartet drew Samuel’s attention. The six-year-old boy, captivated by the twinkling lights and the beautiful music, accidentally pulled away from his mother's grasp. He stepped through the heavy silk drapes, stepping directly into the blinding, cinematic golden light of the grand salon.
"Samuel, no!" Phoebe gasped in a panicked whisper, rushing in after him.
