Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy evergreen garlands framing the roaring fireplace, Audrey Bennett leaned weakly against a polished marble column, desperately trying to remain hidden in the shadows of the towering Christmas tree. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features and clear, 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, 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 in front of her, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Tucked safely in the palm of her trembling hand were two halves of a torn, glossy photograph.
"Audrey, 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," Audrey replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But I need a moment. Please, just one moment."
"You can rest when your shift is over," the butler interrupted coldly. "Miss Shaw gave explicit orders that the staff remain highly visible and flawless. Now fix your hair and do your job, or there will be consequences."
Audrey squeezed her eyes shut, a violent shiver wracking her small frame. The consequences had already been dealt. Earlier that evening, while organizing the private study, Audrey had caught Brielle standing over a silver wastebasket, calmly setting fire to the family’s treasured printed photographs of Miles’s deceased wife. It was a calculated, psychotic erasure of the past. Audrey had thrown propriety to the wind, lunging forward to rescue the final photograph before Brielle could drop it into the flames.
In the ensuing struggle, Brielle had slapped the maid, tearing her uniform and yanking her hair, before violently ripping the photograph in half.
"I will pour the champagne in a minute," Audrey whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her pale, rosy cheeks.
"Mommy crying?" a soft, innocent voice asked from waist height.
Three-year-old Noah Ashford stepped out from behind the evergreen garlands. 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 knitted sweater embroidered with tiny reindeer, red corduroy trousers, and miniature brown boots.
"No, sweetie, I'm okay," Audrey lied softly, dropping to her knees and gently straightening the collar of his sweater.
Noah had witnessed the entire horrifying struggle in the study. He didn't understand the complex malice of adults, but he understood that the woman in the emerald dress had hurt the maid he loved.
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"Picture broken," Noah observed, his tiny fingers reaching out to touch Audrey's closed fist. "We fix it?"
"Yes, Noah," Audrey choked out, tears welling in her clear eyes. "We will fix it. I promise."
