The Heiress in the Shadows

Chapter 4

Helena POV

The house was finally asleep.

Or it was pretending to be. These old walls were always listening. Always watching. I moved through the dark service hallways like I was made of smoke. My bare feet knew which floorboards to avoid. The third one past the linen closet always groaned. I stepped over it.

It was late. Past midnight. My work was done. The last dish was dry, the last countertop clean.

I was tired. A deep tiredness, the kind that lives in your bones. My body was a map of the day’s work. My knees still had a dull burn from the foyer floor. My shoulders were tight. My hands felt raw from the polish and the hot water. And my stomach was an empty, twisting knot. I hadn't eaten since a piece of toast that morning. There was never time.

My mind was still loud. It kept replaying the day.

The man in the suit. Victor Moreau. The way his dark eyes didn’t look through me. The way he looked at me. It was a strange feeling. Uncomfortable. I didn't know what to do with it.

Then, Salma. Her fake, sweet voice. Her muddy shoes on my clean floor. The look in her eyes. Pure, happy spite.

The anger I’d felt earlier, that hot, tight feeling in my chest, was gone now. It had burned itself out. Now there was just a cold, gray ash left behind. A feeling of being small. Of being nothing.

I stopped at the end of the main corridor, just before the swinging door to the kitchen. My heart started a faster rhythm. A nervous, hopeful beat that I hated.

This was the hardest part of the day.

Every night for the past three years, Hannah Carrington had left something for me. A little secret. In the same place. An alcove behind a loose panel at the back of the pantry. Sometimes it was just bread. Sometimes a piece of fruit. It was always more than food. It was proof. Proof that one person in this house saw me.

But today was bad. Lloyd had been angry about money. I heard it in his voice. I saw it in the way he held his shoulders. And Salma had been worse than usual.

What if Hannah was too scared tonight?

What if she decided the risk was too great?

The thought was a cold spike in my gut. If the alcove was empty tonight, I didn't know what I would do. The idea of it made the emptiness in my stomach feel a hundred times worse. It wouldn’t just be hunger. It would be a different kind of empty. The kind that eats you from the inside out.

I pushed open the kitchen door. The room was dark. The only light was the small green clock on the oven. 12:37 AM. The air smelled like old coffee and bleach. I moved to the pantry. My steps were quiet. I pulled the heavy door open. It didn't make a sound. I had oiled the hinges myself last year.

My hands trembled a little. I balled them into fists. Stop it.

The pantry was a narrow room. Shelves were stacked high with cans and jars. Food for them. Not for me. I squeezed past to the back wall. My fingers, rough and chapped, found the edge of the loose wooden panel. I pulled it open.

Darkness inside.

I held my breath. I reached my hand in.

I felt nothing.

Just the rough, empty wood of the shelf.

The air left my lungs in a rush. A cold, hollow feeling spread through my chest. My legs felt weak. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the shelves.

So that was it.

It was over.

The one small, secret kindness was gone. She had given up on me. She had finally decided I wasn't worth the risk.

I was alone.

The thought wasn't new. I was always alone. But this felt different. This felt final. A door had just been locked, and I was on the wrong side of it.

The tears came then. Hot and sudden. I didn't make a sound. I just stood there in the dark, my body shaking.

I let my hand rest on the empty shelf for a second longer. I started to pull my arm back.

My fingertips brushed against something.

It was tucked all the way in the back corner. Hidden deeper than usual.

I held my breath again. My fingers explored the shape. A plate. It was cold now. And on top of it, something solid. Rectangular. Wrapped in a napkin.

I pulled it out. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold it.

It was a small plate. On it was a thick sandwich, the bread a little stale but piled high with leftover chicken. And next to it, a book. It was old. The cover was soft and worn. The title was printed in faded gold letters. Jane Eyre.

Relief hit me so hard it was like a punch to the gut. It knocked the air right out of me. A gasping sob escaped my lips. I clamped a hand over my mouth. The sound was too loud in the silent house.

It wasn't just food. It wasn't just a book.

It was a message.

I see you. I have not forgotten you.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I pushed the panel back into place. I held the plate and the book to my chest like they were precious jewels. I moved back through the dark house. My steps felt lighter.

The anger was gone. The cold ash was gone. The exhaustion was still there, deep in my bones.

But it was different now.

I made it back to my attic room. The small space under the roof that was mine. I didn't turn on the lamp. I sat on the edge of my thin mattress in the dark.

I ate the sandwich. Every bite was a small victory against the emptiness inside me.

Then I opened the book. I couldn't read the words in the dark, but I ran my fingers over the pages anyway. They smelled like old paper and dust and a very faint hint of Hannah’s perfume.

I was still a prisoner here. That was the truth.

But tonight, someone had slipped me the key to a different world. Tonight, a small light had been left on for me in the dark.

I held the book to my chest. It feels warm now. I thought of Hannah. In her big, silent bedroom on the second floor. Trapped in her own way. Just like me.

She risked Lloyd's anger for this. For me.

I wondered what she was thinking, rig

ht now, in the silence of her perfect, empty room.