Chapter 2
At the far end of the grand salon, seated rigidly behind the mahogany gift-wrapping table, was Mara Ellis. 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 entirely crooked in her disheveled hair. She kept her hands positioned carefully over the stacks of wrapping paper, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Beneath the heavy mahogany table, entirely hidden from the view of the mingling guests, a brutal, humiliating reality anchored her to the spot.
"Mara, you are falling behind," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own tailored coat as he passed her table. "The guests near the fireplace require their parting gifts to be wrapped immediately."
"I am trying, sir," Mara replied, her American accent trembling slightly as she gripped the edges of a cardboard box. "My hands are just a little cramped."
"You can rest when your shift is over," the butler interrupted coldly. "Miss Rowe gave explicit orders that the staff remain highly efficient. Now fix your hair and make yourself useful."
Mara squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back a wave of profound fatigue and physical agony. The cramping in her hands was a lie. The truth was wrapped in cold, unyielding steel.
Earlier that afternoon, desperate to leave the dangerous, suffocating environment of the mafia estate, Mara had quietly approached Camille. She had respectfully demanded her accumulated unpaid wages, stating her intention to resign and leave the city.
The request had triggered a sadistic, territorial rage in the socialite. Camille had not only refused to pay her; she had ordered her personal guards to drag Mara into the salon before the guests arrived. With her own manicured hands, Camille had fastened a heavy, industrial steel cuff around Mara’s left wrist. The cuff was welded to a short, thick steel chain, which Camille had then padlocked directly to a fixed brass rail beneath the gift-wrapping table.
To conceal the torture device, Camille had pulled the long white cuff of Mara’s sleeve over the metal. In a final act of psychological cruelty, the socialite had woven a festive red Christmas ribbon through the steel links, attaching a small, jingling brass bell to the metal. Every time Mara reached for the wrapping paper, the bell offered a tiny, cheerful jingle that masked the sickening scrape of steel against her bruised, bleeding skin.
May you like
"I will wrap them," Mara whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her pale cheek, trying to ignore the sharp bite of the metal cutting into her wrist.
She reached for a roll of crimson ribbon, forcing her left arm to move. The small bell gave a cheerful ring, entirely drowned out by the string quartet and the booming laughter of the syndicate men. She was a prisoner in a room filled with light and luxury, completely invisible to the powerful people standing just a few feet away.
