GLASS WALLS
1217 Words
The morning after the rainstorm was deceptively calm. Sunlight broke through silver clouds, casting a golden sheen across the estate grounds. Birds chirped cheerfully from treetops, oblivious to the weight that still lingered in Bella’s chest. She awoke early—earlier than usual—and dressed quietly in her uniform, trying not to disturb the delicate silence of her attic quarters.
Her thoughts were still stuck in that forgotten parlor room, where firelight danced in Damian’s eyes and his thumb had brushed a tear from her cheek. Nothing had technically happened. And yet everything had.
She stood before her mirror now, fussing with her braid, wondering if she’d imagined it all. The warmth of his coat. His voice in the dark. The way her name sounded from his lips.
“You’re not beneath anything, Bella.”
The words echoed, unshakable.
She had scrubbed that sentence from the edges of her mind all night, but no matter how tightly she folded her thoughts, his voice bled through the seams.
Bella left the attic before anyone else stirred and made her way toward the east wing. The air still smelled of rain, sweet and sharp, and the corridors carried the hush of early light. She passed by the parlor door—locked again, of course—and headed down the back stairs.
The moment she stepped into the kitchens, warmth rushed to meet her. The scent of rising dough, roasted tomatoes, and fresh herbs filled the air.
“Look who’s up with the sun,” Margaret chirped from the prep table. The older cook wiped flour on her apron and gave Bella a knowing glance. “Sleep alright?”
Bella nodded and slipped into her usual rhythm: fetching bowls, rinsing herbs, slicing fruit.
Margaret wasn’t fooled. “You’ve got clouds in your eyes, girl. Dreaming of someone, are we?”
Bella startled slightly, nearly dropping the peach she held. “No! I mean—no, just… strange dreams.”
Margaret chuckled and sliced dough with quick efficiency. “Mmm. The best dreams are the ones you can’t explain.”
Bella said nothing, cheeks warm. She finished prepping and escaped to the linen hallway, trying to focus on anything else—anything safe. But safety was a lie now. Something had shifted.
⸻
Later that morning, while refreshing the third-floor guest suite, Bella heard footsteps behind her. She turned, expecting another maid, but found Damian standing in the doorway, arms folded.
“Sir,” she said quickly, setting down the linen sheet. Her heart jumped. “I didn’t hear you approach.”
“I walk quietly.”
He stepped inside, and her pulse raced. He wore a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked—unreasonably—like the storm hadn’t touched him at all.
“I came to ask you something,” he said simply.
Bella stood straighter. “Yes, sir?”
His eyes flicked to the half-made bed, then back to her. “I’d like you to accompany me to the city this afternoon.”
She blinked. “To the city?”
“I have an appointment at the gallery. They’re hosting an exhibit I’m sponsoring. I’d like your opinion.”
Bella struggled to process the words. “My… opinion?”
“Yes.” His brow lifted slightly, as if daring her to question it further.
“I—why me, sir?”
He looked at her evenly. “Because I trust your eye.”
Bella opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“I’ll have James prepare the car,” Damian continued. “Be ready by two. And don’t wear the uniform.”
He turned to go, then paused. “Unless you want to.”
Bella stared after him, stunned.
⸻
The drive into the city was quieter than she expected. Damian sat beside her in the backseat of the sleek black car, scrolling through messages on his phone. Bella wore a simple navy dress—one Margaret had helped her choose from a bin of old staff garments stored in the west attic. It fit well, modest but flattering, with a small silver pendant at the neckline.
She tried not to fidget as the estate disappeared behind them, replaced by rolling hills, then neighborhoods, then traffic lights and glass buildings.
When Damian finally spoke, it wasn’t what she expected.
“Did you always want to be in service?”
Bella hesitated. “No.”
“What did you want?”
She looked down at her hands. “To teach. Children, I think.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She gave a small shrug. “Life.”
He studied her, then nodded, as if that one word explained enough. Perhaps it did.
⸻
The gallery was striking. Tall windows, clean white walls, sharp angles softened by bronze accents. The moment they stepped inside, Bella felt like an imposter. Guests with tailored coats and polished shoes milled about, sipping champagne and murmuring over framed canvases.
Damian placed a guiding hand on her back—subtle but firm. “You belong here,” he whispered.
She almost believed him.
They walked together through the gallery, stopping at a collection of black-and-white photographs. One caught Bella’s eye: a young girl standing barefoot in a flooded street, eyes defiant despite the ruin behind her.
She didn’t realize she’d stopped walking until Damian paused beside her.
“You like it?”
“It’s… raw,” she said softly. “Beautiful. And tragic.”
He looked at the photo, then at her. “That’s what drew me to it.”
They continued on. People nodded at Damian, some offering tight smiles, others clearly curious about the woman beside him. Bella kept her eyes forward, refusing to let them shrink her.
A woman with sharp features and red lips approached them near the sculpture room.
“Damian,” she purred. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest.”
Bella stiffened. Damian’s hand grazed hers.
“This is Bella,” he said. “She works at Wycliffe Hall.”
The woman’s smile twitched, just slightly. “Oh. A… staff liaison?”
Bella held her gaze. “No. I’m just me.”
The woman blinked, thrown for a second. Then she turned back to Damian. “I’ll see you at the donors’ dinner.”
Damian nodded. The woman left.
Bella exhaled.
“You handled that well,” he murmured.
“I didn’t come to play pretend.”
“No. You came to see. And they saw you.”
⸻
Back at the estate, the late afternoon light stretched long across the marble floors. Bella stepped out of the car feeling dazed, as if she’d returned from a different world.
Damian walked beside her toward the front hall.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured.
She glanced up.
“You belong there. Anywhere you want.”
She searched his face, unsure whether to lean into his words or run from them. “You keep saying that. But it’s not just about where I belong. It’s with whom.”
Damian’s jaw tensed. “And who decides that?”
Bella stopped walking.
“I do.”
He stopped too. Their eyes met—fire and steel.
“Then decide,” he said quietly. “Because I already have.”
- Writer
