Chapter 3
1176 Words
Helena POV
The polish had barely dried.
I was still crouched by the far wall, trying to breathe slowly, trying to make sense of what had just happened with the man in the suit, Victor Moreau. That name was stuck in my head like a burr. I kept thinking about the look in his eyes. That sharp, deliberate silence he carried like a second coat.
But before I could even start to process any of it, I heard the click of heels at the top of the stairs.
Not just any heels. Her heels.
Salma Carrington moved like someone who wanted everyone to look. Her steps were always a little louder than necessary. Even when she walked alone, it sounded like a show. I could tell from the rhythm that she wasn’t rushing. No, she was taking her time. Each step rang across the marble like a countdown.
I braced myself.
She was dressed in pale blue. Silk.
The kind that didn’t belong anywhere near mop water. Her makeup was flawless, sharp around the eyes, red lips with no cracks. She had a small silver clutch in one hand and her phone in the other. Designer shades pushed back on her head like a crown.
And then I saw them.
The shoes.
Mud.
Not a lot. Just enough to ruin what I’d spent an hour polishing.
She looked down at me, pretending to notice me just then.
“Oh,” she said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. “Didn’t see you.”
Her voice was sugar on glass.
I stood slowly, still holding the cloth, bucket next to me.
“Just finished the floor,” I said. Quiet, but not shaking. Not this time.
She smiled. Small. Tight. The kind of smile you offer when you’re about to crush something under your heel and pretend you didn’t notice.
“Oh no,” she said, drawing the words out like a slow song. “I hope I don’t mess it up.”
Then she looked right at me.
And walked.
Right across the marble.
Each step left a mark. Perfect brown smudges in a staggered pattern. One after another. She didn’t stop. Didn’t glance down. Just kept walking like it was nothing.
I stood there, frozen.
Not surprised. Just… tired.
I should’ve expected it. I should’ve known. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, not because I cared. Just to say something.
She stopped at the front mirror, checked her reflection, then turned slightly so I could see her better.
“Cocktail thing,” she said. “Something for Daddy’s partners. Just a few men who sign the checks. You know. Important people.”
She brushed her fingers under her eye like she was fixing eyeliner that didn’t need fixing.
“Your floor’s slippery, by the way. Almost twisted my ankle.”
I kept quiet.
She turned to look at me full on.
“You’re quiet today,” she said. “That’s rare. What happened? Someone say something rude to you again?”
My jaw locked.
“No,” I said.
She tilted her head.
“Hmm.” She was pretending to think. “I heard someone was here earlier. A visitor. Tall. Serious type. Real shark.”
I didn’t answer.
She smiled wider.
“Daddy forgot to tell me he was coming. Can you believe that? Just let men like that stroll into our home like they own it.”
She knew.
Or at least, she was fishing.
I bent down, dipped the cloth back into the bucket. The water had gone cold. Gray and useless.
“I have work to finish,” I said.
She came closer. Her heels clicked slow, right to the edge of the wet patch. I could see the marks she left behind her. I could smell her perfume too, something sharp, like jasmine with smoke curled under it.
“Oh, don’t start again yet,” she said. “I’m not done walking.”
I looked up at her. Really looked.
There was a shine in her eyes. Not playfulness. Spite. The kind that doesn’t even bother hiding anymore.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. Quiet. Calm. I don’t know where that tone came from.
“Do what?” she said, all innocence. “Walk in my own house?”
She stepped forward. Another heelprint in the mess. She looked down at the damage, then back at me.
“You seem tense,” she added. “Maybe get some fresh air when you’re done. Oh—wait. You’re not allowed to leave the house on your own, are you?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust what would come out.
“You always act like you’re above it,” she said, voice going flatter now. “Like you’re just too sweet for the dirt. But you live in it. You were hired for it.
This “she waved around at the gleaming room” wasn’t built for you. It never will be.”
I stood slowly. My knees stiff.
“I don’t think about this house the way you do,” I said. “I just clean it.”
She laughed, low and fake.
“Oh honey. You worship this place. You think if you scrub hard enough, someone might decide you belong.”
I looked her dead in the face.
“No,” I said. “I think if I scrub hard enough, I won’t have to talk to you.”
Her mouth tightened. That one landed.
She turned away, fast.
Another long line of footprints. A trail of proof.
She reached the door, then paused with her hand on the knob.
“Victor Moreau’s not your friend, you know,” she said, casual. “He’s not here for you. He’s not interested in little girls with rags and a sob story. He plays in a different world. A dangerous one.”
I didn’t say anything.
She opened the door, looked over her shoulder.
“Better wipe it up before Daddy sees. Wouldn’t want him thinking you’re slacking.”
Then she left.
The door shut behind her with a soft, final sound.
I didn’t move right away.
The room was quiet again. Empty. But her words still floated in the air, thick as her perfume.
I looked down at the marble.
Ruined.
I kneeled. Dipped the cloth. Twisted it out.
Started over.
Not because she told me to.
Because I needed to.
Because when you have nothing else, you clean.
When you’re furious, and helpless, and shaking from the things you can’t say out loud,
You press the rag to the floor, and you scrub.
Because if you stop, the feelings might eat you alive.
And because scrubbing is quiet, and safe,
and for a little while, it’s just your hands and the floor.
And you can almost forget
that someone walked across your work like you don’t matter.
But not today.
Today I remembered every step.
Every single step.
And I wasn’t going to forget it.
Not ever.
- Writer
