Chapter 2
1194 Words
Helena POV
The bucket water had turned cloudy before I even got to the front hall. It always happened that way. Too much ground to cover. Too much to wipe away.
I wrung out the cloth again, even though it wasn’t doing much good anymore, and pressed it flat to the marble. My knees were already screaming from the weight. The floor felt like ice, even through my uniform pants. I moved in slow circles. Wipe, shift forward, repeat. Wipe, shift, repeat.
Every motion felt like penance. Not for something I did. Just for being here. For existing in a house that didn’t have a place for me.
“You missed a spot,” a voice used to say in my head. Salma’s voice. Sharp. Sweet with poison. She wasn’t here today, but the echo stayed.
I pressed harder.
The polish smelled strong, sour and lemony. It burned my nose a little. I didn’t mind. It helped me stay in my body.
I liked this job. Not because it was easy. It wasn’t. But it made sense. The floor was dirty, and I had to make it clean. No pretending. No smiling for people who didn't even see me. Just work. Just the truth.
Some scuff marks didn’t come off easily. Black streaks from some rich man’s shoes, probably dragging in mud without a care. My cloth caught on a small c***k, and I almost tipped forward. I caught myself with my palms, breath caught in my throat.
I sat back on my heels and looked up for a second. The front foyer was wide, white, and cruel. Every surface is polished, cold, and expensive. And not one thing in it that belonged to me.
I looked down and saw my reflection on the floor. My face was there, sort of. Wavy and smeared, like I didn’t even belong in the marble. I blinked. My reflection blinked back. I looked tired. Hair tied up messy. Smudge of polish across my cheek.
I didn’t look like anyone in this house.
"Do you think I look like her?" I asked the blurry floor.
Nobody answered.
My mother’s face was gone from my memory. All I had left were the stories Marjorie used to whisper when she thought I was asleep. That she had a soft voice. That she used to sing. That her laugh was a little crooked.
But I didn’t remember the sound of it. Not really.
I blinked hard, shoved the cloth back into the bucket, then twisted it out again. The ache in my wrists was starting to set in. Good. Let it hurt. Let it all hurt.
A breeze hit the back of my neck. I froze. Then came the sound I didn’t expect to hear for another few hours.
The front door clicked open.
I didn’t move. Not at first. My knees stiffened. My spine locked up. I was alone. I was supposed to be alone.
Voices? No. Just footsteps.
One pair of shoes. Heavy, confident.
I turned my head slowly.
There was a man standing in the doorway.
He didn’t belong here. Not in the way I didn’t belong. He was tall, broad shoulders, crisp suit, expensive haircut. His face was clean-shaven, but not soft. His eyes moved through the foyer like he was used to walking into places that didn’t welcome him and didn’t care.
Then they stopped on me.
I forgot how to move for a second.
He didn’t look through me. He looked at me.
“Mr. Carrington,” he said, tone even, “is he in?”
“No,” I said, and my voice came out small, like it didn’t belong to me either. “He’s not.”
A pause.
He stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. No sound, just the click of the latch. His shoes didn’t even squeak on the floor I’d just polished.
“Is he expected soon?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. Not angry. Just… studying. I didn’t like it.
He wasn’t supposed to be studying me.
“You’re…?” he asked, not finishing the question.
I didn’t answer.
He took out his phone. Scrolled. His attention snapped away from me, like I’d been a wrong number. I stood up too fast, almost knocked over the bucket. My hands trembled a little. I tried to hide them by wiping them on my apron.
I should have left. I should’ve taken my bucket and slipped out through the service door.
But something about him rooted me to the spot.
Then I saw it.
On his shirt cuff, stitched into the fabric in dark thread, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking.
A crest.
I knew that symbol. I’d seen it once. On a sealed envelope that Salma shoved deep into her desk drawer and slammed shut when she caught me near it.
My stomach dropped. Cold spread from the back of my neck down my spine.
This man. He wasn’t just a visitor.
This was Victor Moreau.
And he was standing in the middle of the Carrington foyer like he owned the air.
He glanced up from his phone and caught me staring. His expression didn’t change. But something in his posture did. Like he knew I knew.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. Then said, “Helena.”
He repeated it under his breath, once. Not mocking. Just testing the shape of it.
“You work here?”
I nodded.
He looked past me, around the room again. His fingers tapped once on the edge of his phone.
“You’re not just a maid.”
That stopped me.
“I–what?”
“You looked at my cuff,” he said. “You recognized it.”
I didn’t respond. My hands tightened on the cloth still in my grip.
His voice dropped lower.
“You know who I am.”
This time, I didn’t nod. I didn’t blink.
“I’ve heard of you,” I said carefully.
He gave the smallest smile. But it wasn’t a warm one. It was the kind of smile you give when you’re waiting for the punchline.
“What have you heard?” he asked.
“That you’re not supposed to be here.”
He looked around again, almost amused. “And yet.”
Neither of us moved.
The marble beneath his feet still had a faint wet spot from where I hadn’t finished polishing. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t care.
“Tell Mr. Carrington I’ll be back,” he said. “Soon.”
Then he walked past me. No goodbye. No glance back. Just his scent lingering behind him. Clean. Like rain and steel.
I watched him walk away. I wanted to breathe again, but felt like I couldn't.
He hadn’t come here by accident.
He came for a reason.
And whatever it was,
it had to do with the envelope in Salma’s drawer.
For the first time since I came into this house, someone looked me in the eye… and didn’t look away.
- Writer
