Chapter 1
889 Words
Helena POV
I placed the silver lid over the eggs as gently as I could, like it might explode if I moved too fast.
No one noticed.
Lloyd was buried behind his paper like always, reading it like it was the only thing worth his time. Salma sat across from him, stirring her tea too loud on purpose. She wasn’t looking at anyone either, but I could feel her watching me with the corner of her eye. Like I was something stuck to her shoe.
And Hannah… she sat stiff and quiet, like she didn’t belong here. Like she knew it too.
No one spoke to me. No one thanked me. I was just part of the furniture in this house — a chair that moved around and breathed, but only when told to.
“Where’s my grapefruit?” Salma’s voice snapped through the room.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Lloyd cut me off without even glancing up.
“Every damn morning,” he muttered, folding his paper. “Eat what’s on your plate.”
Salma’s eyes cut sharp across the table. “Toast?” Her voice curled with disgust. “Is that supposed to be breakfast?”
I busied my hands with the silverware, forks, knives, napkin fold, anything to keep her from seeing me. From making me a target.
“This is a joke,” she snapped. “Did no one bother to train her?”
I didn’t flinch. Not anymore.
“She probably didn’t see the note,” Hannah said softly.
Her voice was almost too quiet to catch. But Lloyd caught it. He didn’t say anything, just took another long sip of coffee.
Salma made a show of pushing her plate away. “I should’ve known. Daddy saves the best staff for the guests and throws me the leftovers.”
She meant me. Of course she meant me.
I kept my head down, eyes on the floor. The rug beneath the table was thick and white, so soft you barely heard footsteps. That was the point in this house. No sound. No proof.
“Leave us,” Lloyd said.
I turned without a word and walked out. I’d barely crossed the hall when I heard Salma again, laughing under her breath.
“Honestly, she’s like wallpaper.”
I could still hear them laughing, even with the doors shut behind me, like the sound knew how to follow.
---
The pantry was dark and quiet. I leaned against the door for a second, just breathing.
I needed this. Five minutes. Just to remember who I was. Or at least who I wasn’t.
I picked up a jar of lentils and set it down again. Anything to keep my hands moving. If I stopped, I’d think. And thinking in this house was dangerous.
The shelves were lined with the same cans and boxes they’d had since last month. It was always fully stocked. Always full. Just like the people who lived upstairs — full of power, full of secrets.
“Helena?”
I turned. Marjorie was standing in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Salma’s room.”
That was all she said.
I nodded. I didn’t ask what for. I already knew.
---
Salma’s room smelled like expensive perfume and cold metal. It was pink and gold and soft, but there was nothing gentle about it. This was a room made to be looked at, not lived in.
Her clothes were scattered like she’d thrown them during a tantrum. I started folding them, careful with each crease. Her silk robe slid off the bed and onto the floor like it was trying to get away.
On the dresser, her makeup was spread out like weapons. And there, under her lace camisole, was a piece of paper sticking out.
I almost left it. I really should’ve left it.
But the edge of it had a seal I recognized — the Moreau family crest.
Victor Moreau.
My hand froze.
I didn’t even get to read it before I heard the door creak.
Salma.
She stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.
“You’re fast,” she said. “Curious, too?”
She crossed the room in three slow steps, plucked the letter from my fingers, and slid it into her robe pocket like it was a game.
“You should be more careful with your hands,” she whispered. “Some things aren’t yours to touch.”
I didn’t answer.
She gave me a smile that wasn’t a smile. “I think Father would be very interested in how thorough you’ve been.”
And then she turned, leaving me standing there with my heart thudding in my ears.
---
That night, I scrubbed the floors long after the rest of the staff went to bed.
The kitchen smelled like lemon and bleach, and my knees ached, but I didn’t stop.
I needed the pain. I needed the noise of the brush on the tile.. I needed to feel like I was in control of something, even if it was just dirt.
I didn’t know what was in that letter. I didn’t know why Salma had it, or what it meant.
But I knew one thing.
Victor Moreau didn’t send letters without a reason.
And if Salma was getting them...
Then something was coming.
- Writer
