Chapter 2
Moving with seamless, quiet grace through the bright, airy room was Vera Holland. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, resembling a movie star with her softly heart-shaped face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance. Her thick hair was pinned meticulously into a neat braided bun.
Vera approached the space directly to the right of Lucius’s chair. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to frighten the little girl seated just inches away. Earlier that afternoon, Octavia had forced her to search through a pile of discarded, broken crystal glasses for a supposedly missing ring. Vera’s right hand was now tightly wrapped in clean white linen, hiding the painful cuts she had endured in silence.
With meticulous care, Vera reached out with her uninjured left hand and set Lucius’s crystal water pitcher down on the polished walnut table. Her slender, graceful proportions were rigid with an effort to keep the heavy silver vessel perfectly steady.
As she lowered the pitcher, the linen wrapped around her right hand became clearly visible under the bright, luminous lighting.
Lucius remained perfectly still. His cold, perceptive eyes tracked the movement, dropping instantly to the linen-wrapped hand. He noticed her guarded, panicked movement as she hastily drew her injured hand closer to her waist, her fingers trembling slightly against her white apron.
Across the table, Octavia Wells stopped cutting her steak. The polite, radiant smile vanished from her face for a fraction of a second. She had not anticipated the maid being so careless in the blinding light of the engagement dinner.
But the panic only lasted a microsecond. Octavia’s sharp survival instincts kicked in. She quickly plastered a brittle, plastic smile back onto her face. She smoothed the front of her sculpted satin evening gown, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
Looking directly into Lucius’s cold, observant eyes, Octavia spoke. Her American accent was perfectly modulated, smooth, and casually certain.
May you like
“Clumsy girls shouldn’t handle crystal.”
Octavia gave a small, dismissive laugh, leaning slightly forward to command the intimacy of the moment. Her voice sounded light and entirely unconcerned, designed to paint the situation as a trivial domestic inconvenience caused by a clumsy servant. Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Lucius's angular face for any sign of acceptance, any indication that he had bought the carefully constructed lie.
