Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main salon from the service corridors, Clara Wells leaned weakly against a polished marble column. 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 crisp white collar and cuffs, a white apron, and a white ruffled maid headband. But her pristine uniform was a ruin. Her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat entirely crooked in her disheveled hair. Loose strands of dark hair framed her pale face, falling across her eyes as she kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Clara, you cannot stay hiding out here," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own tailored coat as he passed her. "The reception is in full swing. The guests near the evergreen garlands require more champagne."
"I am trying, sir," Clara replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "I just need a moment to catch my breath."
"You can breathe when your shift is over," the butler interrupted coldly. "Miss Vale gave explicit orders that the staff remain highly efficient and flawless. Now fix your hair and make yourself useful, or you will be terminated without pay."
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back a wave of profound fatigue and sheer panic. The threat of termination was the least of her worries. Earlier that afternoon, Serena Vale had cornered Clara in the library. The socialite had physically intimidated her, grabbing her hair and violently shaking her, leaving Clara’s uniform rumpled and her spirit shattered. Serena had made a promise that Clara’s mother, who relied on the syndicate’s charity clinic for life-saving treatments, would suffer a tragic, fatal accident if Clara spoke a single word of what she had seen.
"I will pour the champagne," Clara whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her rosy cheeks.
"Mommy crying?" a soft, innocent voice asked from waist height.
Three-year-old Finn Cross, Adrian’s son, stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain. The motherless boy possessed soft dark curls, round rosy cheeks, and little dimples that appeared whenever he smiled. He was dressed impeccably in a cream shirt, a red velvet waistcoat, a tiny reindeer bow tie, and miniature brown boots. In his small arms, he tightly clutched a plush penguin.
"No, sweetie, I'm perfectly fine," Clara lied softly, dropping to her knees on the marble floor to gently straighten the collar of his cream shirt.
Over the past year, the little boy had found unwavering comfort in the gentle maid, adopting Clara as the maternal figure he so desperately craved.
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"You look sad," Finn observed, his tiny fingers reaching out to touch Clara's rumpled apron. "Mr. Penguin can give you a hug."
"Thank you, Finn," Clara choked out, fresh tears welling in her clear eyes as she pulled the toddler and his plush toy into a desperate embrace.
