Chapter 7: Why She Needed Me Gone
Isabella sent me to clean the ballroom that morning. She said it like an order and a dismissal at once, her hand flicking toward the east wing where the double doors had been propped open. I carried the bucket and took the long way past the dressing suite because my box was still tucked behind the pantry door and I didn't want her to see me check on it again.
The door to the suite was cracked. I heard her voice before I saw her.
She was on speaker, pacing in front of the gold mirror. Same burgundy dress from the night before now hanging on the valet, a silk robe in its place. On the bed lay a printed guest list, thick paper, foundation letterhead.
"We're confirming the Cole residence as the venue," she said. Her voice had gone smooth, fundraising smooth. "Yes, the full donor circle. The senator's office already RSVP'd. We need the house perfect. No distractions, no staff issues. Absolutely pristine for the cameras."
I stopped with my hand on the bucket handle. I shouldn't have listened. I did.
"Household is fully under control," she continued. "One small staffing change this week, but handled. Discreet."
My throat went dry. The ballroom doors were ten feet away. I should have kept walking.
I pushed the ballroom doors open and started work so I wouldn't have to hear more. The ballroom was cold, the chandelier dimmed, rows of folding tables stacked against the wall for the caterer. Dust floated in the light from the tall windows. I wrung the mop and worked in straight lines, the way I'd been taught, water graying quickly. Through the wall I could still hear the murmur of her call, the laugh she used when she wanted money.
When the call ended, I heard her heels cross the suite and the door click shut.
I finished the floor and went back for the box. I needed to make sure the photos inside hadn't curled from the damp pantry air. The box was where I'd left it, brown cardboard, Lily's blanket folded on top. When I lifted it, a white envelope slid out from underneath.
It hadn't been there the night before.
I set the bucket down. My hands were still wet. I wiped them on my apron and picked up the envelope. My name was typed on the front: ELENA RUIZ. Inside was a single sheet on agency letterhead, dated yesterday.
Notice of Placement Termination - Effective Immediately Due to Reported Misconduct (Theft). Replacement candidate scheduled for interview 10:00 AM tomorrow. Please surrender keys and vacate staff quarters by 9:00 AM.
The words theft and misconduct were underlined.
I read it twice. The letters blurred, then sharpened. I hadn't stolen anything. I hadn't even taken the leftover fruit cups Lily liked from the kitchen without asking. My hand started to tremble and water dripped from my fingers onto the paper, smudging the ink.
She'd called the agency before the hallway fight. Before Adrian had come down the stairs. She'd already decided I was gone, already lined up someone else to stand in my uniform for the gala photos.
I stood there holding the letter and the box, and the hallway suddenly felt too narrow. If I left quietly, Lily and I would be out by morning with no reference, no last check, and Isabella would get her perfect house. If I stayed silent, Adrian would never know why his donors were walking through a house that had been staged to erase us.
The suite door opened.
Isabella came out holding her phone and the guest list, and stopped when she saw me in the pantry doorway. Her eyes dropped to the envelope in my hand, then to the box against my chest.
"Oh," she said, calm. "You found it. I asked them not to mail it. I thought it would be kinder in person."
I couldn't get air at first. "You told them I stole."
"I reported a missing bracelet," she said. She adjusted the guest list against her hip. "It may turn up. It may not. Agencies have to act quickly before galas. You understand. Image is everything with these donors."
"My daughter—" I started, and my voice cracked.
"Is not part of this household staff," she finished for me. She stepped closer, lowered her voice, not unkind, just final. "Elena, be smart. Take the box. Leave before Adrian makes this messier for everyone. He pities you right now because you cried. Pity doesn't last past the party."
She brushed past me toward the ballroom, as if checking my work, and left me standing there with the wet mop bucket and the letter going soft in my damp hand.
I looked down at the box. Lily's small pink blanket was still folded inside, the corner embroidered with her name. I thought about walking out the side door to the sidewalk and not looking back, the way I'd planned the night before. No confrontation, no begging. Just gone.
Instead I folded the termination letter in half, slipped it into my apron pocket, picked up the box, and followed her.
May you like
"Isabella," I said. My voice was quiet, but it carried in the marble hall. "We need to talk about this letter."
She turned, surprised that I hadn't disappeared. For a second her perfect composure slipped, and I saw the flash of annoyance that I was still there, still holding that box, refusing to make her story clean.
