"Who let you in here?!”
Eric’s voice didn’t just ring out; it thundered, vibrating through the floorboards and startling every soul in the kitchen. It was a furious, jagged sound that made the room freeze in an instant. The maids stopped mid-motion, their faces draining of color, and the air—which had been warm with the scent of cinnamon and oats—suddenly felt below freezing.
The porcelain plate in my hand, heavy with freshly sliced fruit, slipped from my startled grip. It hit the tile with a sharp crack, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces that skittered across the floor.
I didn't even have time to look down. Eric was already across the room, his glare pointed like a weapon. He looked like a predator.
“Didn’t I tell you not to let her do manual labor?” his voice dropped an octave,
