Britney raised her arm to slap the maid for talking back, but stopped mid-swing when Annabelle’s hand clamped around her wrist—firm but not cruel.
Britney yanked against the grip. “Who the hell are you to interrupt me? Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England,” Annabelle said coldly. “Employer or not, you don’t touch your staff.”
Britney tore free, eyes glinting. “Well, the tramp speaks. In my nephew’s house, you’re nothing but his… entertainment. Annabelle Hamilton, the kept woman.”
A sharp ripple went through the watching staff. Several glanced at each other, the air thick with awkward realization—so the “girlfriend” they’d assumed she was… wasn’t.
Annabelle felt their eyes, the heat of embarrassment licking at her cheeks. But she straightened her spine, f
