Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main salon from the service hallways, Megan Rowe leaned weakly against a polished marble column. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features and clear, 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 clasped tightly over her apron pocket, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Inside that pocket was a thick envelope, tied securely with a bright red Christmas ribbon.
"Megan, you cannot stay hiding out here," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar as he passed her. "The reception is in full swing. The guests require more champagne."
"I am trying, sir," Megan replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But I need to leave. I asked for the evening off. My daughter's surgery is scheduled for tonight."
"Miss Cross denied your request," the butler interrupted coldly. "You are to remain on duty until the final guest departs. Now dry your eyes and do your job, or you will be terminated without pay."
Megan squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back a wave of profound fatigue and sheer panic. The envelope in her pocket contained every single dollar she had saved over the past three years. It was the exact amount required by the clandestine surgeon who had agreed to operate on her critically ill daughter. If she did not leave the mansion within the hour, she would lose the appointment, and her little girl would not survive the winter.
Before she could push through the drapes to plead her case again, a small, cheerful figure bounded past the marble columns.
Three-year-old Mila Sterling, Damon’s toddler daughter, was navigating the corridor with bright, innocent enthusiasm. The motherless girl possessed round rosy cheeks, soft dark curls, and a little dimple that appeared whenever she smiled. She was dressed impeccably in a forest-green velvet pinafore, a cream cardigan, white woolly tights, little red shoes, and a soft ribbon bow.
"Mommy!" Mila announced happily, running straight toward the terrified maid.
"Hello, my sweet girl," Megan whispered, forcing a fragile, loving smile onto her face as she dropped to her knees to hug the toddler.
"Mommy crying?" Mila asked, her small hands gently touching Megan's rumpled apron.
"No, baby, I'm perfectly fine," Megan lied softly, her chest aching with a profound love for the child. Mila had helped her tie the red ribbon around the envelope just an hour ago in the kitchens, treating it like a precious craft project.
May you like
"Pretty red ribbon," Mila babbled, pointing to the bulge in Megan's pocket. "For the sick baby."
"Yes, Mila. For the sick baby," Megan choked out, standing up on shaking legs. "I have to go speak to Auntie Vanessa now. Be a good girl for your father."
