Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main salon from the service corridors, Elena Wren 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 in front of her, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Elena, 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," Elena replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But if Miss Mercer sees me again..."
"Miss Mercer is the future lady of this house," the butler interrupted coldly. "Whatever reprimand you received, you must endure it. Now dry your eyes and do your job."
Elena squeezed her eyes shut, a violent shiver wracking her small frame. The reprimand had not been a simple scolding. The previous evening, during a quiet moment before the guests arrived, Nathaniel had unexpectedly asked Elena to dance to a song playing on the phonograph. It was a fleeting, tender moment that Celine had witnessed from the shadows. Driven by a sadistic, territorial rage, Celine had cornered Elena earlier that afternoon. The socialite's personal guards had held the maid down while Celine slapped her, tearing at her uniform and threatening to have Elena killed if she ever looked at Nathaniel again.
"I will pour the champagne," Elena whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her pale cheeks.
She stepped further into the bright, airy light of the grand salon. The golden reflections offered absolutely no place to hide her disheveled appearance. She kept her head down, navigating the carved walnut furniture and burgundy velvet sofas with agonizing care.
"Mommy!" a bright, cheerful voice called out from the base of the towering Christmas tree.
Three-year-old Poppy Ashford came running toward her. The toddler possessed round, rosy cheeks, soft dark curls, and tiny dimples that appeared whenever she smiled. She was dressed impeccably in a forest-green velvet dress with an ivory lace collar, white knitted tights, little red Mary Jane shoes, and a soft white hair bow.
"Oh, Poppy, sweetheart," Elena breathed, dropping to her knees and pulling the little girl into a desperate, tight hug.
May you like
"Mommy sad?" Poppy asked, her small hands patting Elena's rumpled apron.
"No, baby, I'm okay," Elena lied softly, smoothing the toddler's velvet dress. Over the past year, the motherless girl had found unwavering comfort in the gentle maid, adopting Elena as the maternal figure she desperately craved. It was a bond that fueled Celine's hatred even further.
