The phone call
1027 Words
The next morning came quietly, but the mansion didn’t sleep. It never did.
From the moment the first light touched the marble floors, the house came alive—footsteps, voices, distant clatter from the kitchen. Yet, for Larissa, it all blurred together. She barely slept, her mind replaying the moment she saw the photograph in his study.
Who was the woman?
The baby?
And why had he looked at her like that—like someone had reached into a locked part of his heart?
She shook the thoughts away and focused on her work. There was no room for curiosity. Curiosity got maids fired.
By midmorning, she was polishing the stair railings when the head butler entered the hallway. “Larissa,” he called in his formal tone. “Mr. Blackwood has requested coffee in his study. Fresh brew. He doesn’t want anyone else preparing it.”
Larissa’s heart skipped. Requested me?
She nodded quickly. “Right away.”
⸻
Minutes later, she carried the tray carefully down the corridor—china cups clinking softly, the rich aroma of coffee filling the air. Her palms were slick with nervous sweat. She still remembered his warning: Don’t touch the photograph again.
She knocked lightly.
“Come in.”
His voice was calm, low—less cold than usual. She entered quietly. The study was as she left it: elegant, still, a world of shadows and secrets. He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, focused on papers scattered before him.
“Coffee, sir,” she said softly, setting the tray on the corner of the desk.
He didn’t look up immediately. “Thank you.”
For a moment, the only sounds were the ticking clock and the faint scratch of his pen. Larissa stood still, unsure if she should leave or wait. Finally, he spoke again.
“Larissa.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you sleep well?”
The question startled her. He never asked personal things. “I… yes, sir. I did.”
He nodded slightly, still not meeting her gaze. “Good. I need my staff to stay sharp.”
Larissa managed a small smile. “I’ll do my best.”
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe, or something softer—but before she could read it, his phone buzzed on the desk.
He glanced at it, and for the first time, Larissa saw his composure shift. His jaw tightened.
“Excuse me,” he said curtly, answering the call.
She turned to leave but froze when his tone changed—colder, quieter.
“I told you not to call me again.”
Her curiosity spiked. His voice was low, tense—different from the confident billionaire everyone saw. She hesitated by the bookshelf, pretending to straighten a few volumes while her ears strained to listen.
“I don’t care about the money,” he continued, each word sharp. “You made your choice when you left.”
A pause. Then, softer—painful. “She’s gone. You made sure of that.”
Larissa’s chest tightened. She? The woman in the photo?
“I said stop,” he snapped suddenly, his voice breaking through the silence like thunder. “Don’t ever mention her again.”
A long silence followed. Then he ended the call with a sharp tap, his hand trembling slightly as he set the phone down. For a man who always seemed carved from stone, the flicker of emotion in his eyes was striking.
He sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the photo frame that lay face-down on his desk.
Larissa’s heart pounded. She should have left. She knew she should—but something about seeing him like that—vulnerable, human—made her stay a moment longer.
“Larissa.”
His voice was low but steady now.
She froze. “Y-Yes, sir?”
His gaze lifted slowly, meeting hers. His expression wasn’t angry—it was… guarded. “How long have you been standing there?”
Her throat went dry. “I—I just brought the coffee, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in fury but in warning. “You didn’t hear anything… did you?”
She hesitated. “No, sir,” she lied softly.
He studied her for a long moment, then leaned back, his jaw tightening again. “Good. Keep it that way.”
Larissa nodded quickly, feeling the tension twist between them like a thread pulled too tight.
He turned away, but his voice softened slightly. “You’re dismissed.”
She left quickly, closing the door behind her with trembling hands.
⸻
In the hallway, she exhaled shakily, her pulse racing.
She had heard something. And now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He had a past—one filled with loss, anger, and something like grief. The photo wasn’t just decoration. It was a memory. A wound.
As she walked back toward the servants’ quarters, Amelia appeared from the corner, a suspicious smirk on her lips.
“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Private coffee service now? Should we start calling you Miss Blackwood?”
Larissa frowned. “It’s not like that.”
“Of course it’s not,” Amelia said sweetly, eyes glinting. “Just be careful. He’s not the kind of man you want to play with. People who get too close to him… disappear.”
Larissa froze. “Disappear?”
Amelia shrugged. “That’s what they say. The last maid who worked near him—one day she was here, the next, gone. No warning. No goodbye.”
A chill ran through Larissa’s veins.
When Amelia walked away, her words echoed in Larissa’s mind. Gone. No goodbye.
She tried to push the thought aside, but as night fell, she found herself replaying the phone call in her head—the anger in his voice, the pain when he said, She’s gone.
Whatever had happened to that woman and the baby in the photo… it wasn’t just history. It was still haunting him.
And Larissa had the sinking feeling she was getting too close to something she wasn’t supposed to know.
- Writer
