UNSPOKEN RULES
1133 Words
The Westwood estate followed a rhythm, like a symphony where every movement played exactly on cue. Lights came on at 6:00 AM sharp. Sheets were changed every other morning. Meals were prepared three times a day, with afternoon tea precisely at four. Voices were low. Steps were silent. The help never lingered.
Bella learned this quickly.
She also learned that the staff hierarchy ran deeper than job titles. Mrs. Hawthorne ruled with a velvet-gloved fist. Below her, the kitchen staff gossiped and grumbled, and among them, no one held more sway than Lydia.
Tall, sharp, and elegant in her pressed maid’s uniform, Lydia had worked for the Westwoods for four years and carried herself like she belonged in the family. She walked with confidence, smirked when speaking to new hires, and always seemed to know everything before anyone else.
She also didn’t like Bella.
It became clear the moment Bella dropped her tray.
The next day, in the kitchen, Lydia’s voice carried through the clatter of pans and the aroma of baking bread. “Some of us manage not to destroy heirloom porcelain during our shifts.”
Bella, hands deep in suds at the sink, kept her eyes on the plates.
Another maid giggled.
“She’s new,” murmured the cook, Mrs. Adler, not unkindly.
“She’s clumsy,” Lydia corrected. “Or maybe she’s just trying to get his attention.”
That made Bella’s head lift. Her cheeks flushed. “That’s not what happened.”
“Oh?” Lydia leaned on the counter beside her, one eyebrow arched. “Because I heard Mr. Westwood himself came to your rescue. How very… convenient.”
Bella turned back to her dishes. “It was just a broken plate.”
Lydia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Right. Just a broken plate.”
⸻
Later that afternoon, Bella was dusting the library when she caught a glimpse of Damian again.
He stood outside the tall glass doors that opened into the garden, phone in one hand, his posture tense. From her angle, she could only see part of his profile, but his expression looked troubled—jaw clenched, brows drawn.
A few seconds later, he lowered the phone and exhaled sharply.
Bella ducked behind the bookshelf, out of view.
It felt wrong to watch him, even from a distance. Yet something about the look on his face stayed with her. Like he was carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken burdens.
Whatever his life looked like from the outside—mansions, success, power—it clearly wasn’t easy.
Bella returned to dusting. Carefully. Quietly. And just as she reached for a book that sat askew, something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
It was a photograph.
Old and faded, edges worn. A woman—mid-thirties, elegant, her features strikingly similar to Damian’s—stood in a sunlit garden, laughing. A young boy clung to her hand, smiling up at her.
Bella’s breath caught.
It was him. A younger Damian.
And the woman must have been his mother.
She gently placed the photo back in the book and slid it back onto the shelf, heart thudding at the intimate glimpse into a life so far from her own.
She didn’t hear him enter.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Bella spun, startled.
Damian stood at the doorway to the library, one brow lifted, eyes unreadable.
She stepped back instinctively. “I—I was just dusting, sir. The photo fell out, I didn’t mean—”
He walked slowly toward her, each step calm but deliberate. “It’s fine. That book hasn’t been touched in years.”
She swallowed. “She looked happy.”
He paused. Something shifted in his face. “She was. When she was alive.”
Bella’s lips parted. “I’m sorry.”
Damian gave a short nod, but didn’t move. His gaze rested on her longer than usual.
“You don’t strike me as the kind who snoops,” he said finally.
“I’m not.” Her voice came out softer than intended.
Another beat of silence.
Then he turned. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Miss Hart.”
Her brows lifted slightly at the use of her name.
“I’m not afraid,” she replied, surprising herself.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Good.”
And then he left.
⸻
That night, Bella stood at the window in her tiny room, watching the rain drizzle down the glass. The estate grounds were quiet. Somewhere in the distance, crickets chirped, and soft thunder rolled low against the hills.
She thought about the photo. About the woman’s smile. About the way Damian had looked at it—not with pain exactly, but with absence. Like the memory had hardened over time but never truly faded.
She also thought about what he’d said.
You don’t have to be afraid of me.
What did that mean?
That she should be?
Or that others were?
She pulled the curtain closed and sat on her bed, folding her arms tightly around herself.
This job was supposed to be simple. Safe. A temporary stop on the road to something better.
So why did she feel like she’d just stepped into a labyrinth?
⸻
Two days later, she was called to help serve tea in the drawing room. A private meeting was underway—a potential investor, from what she gathered. Mrs. Hawthorne handled the arrangements while Bella carried in the tray and moved quietly between chairs, pouring cups of Earl Grey and placing the silver sugar bowl in reach.
She felt Damian before she saw him.
That same quiet weight, like a gravity field pulling her in.
He sat on the far end of the room, legs crossed, posture composed, but his gaze flicked to her as she bent to pour. It wasn’t a stare. Just a look. Intent. Present.
She kept her eyes down.
When she stepped back toward the door, a low voice called out.
“Miss Hart.”
She froze.
“Yes, sir?”
His tone was calm. “You forgot the lemon.”
Bella’s cheeks burned. She looked down—sure enough, the lemon slices were still on the tray she’d left at the side table.
“I’m sorry, sir. Right away.”
She moved quickly, brought it to him, placed it down gently. His hand brushed hers—briefly, accidentally.
But it left an echo.
“Thank you,” he said, voice lower now. “That’ll be all.”
She nodded and left the room, pulse racing.
Outside, in the hallway, she pressed a hand to her chest.
It was just lemon.
Just a touch.
Just a look.
But for some reason, it all felt like a beginning.
- Writer
