Outside, the estate turned back into farmland—no stars in the sky, silent olive trees, cracked dry earth, and a quiet broken only by my boots and my tired breathing. I was dragging two massive black trash bags stuffed with “leftovers” worth more than three months of my pay: half-eaten lobster, open tins of caviar, champagne bottles with a sad foam clinging to the glass.
The garbage of the rich weighs differently.
Not because of the plastic—
but because of the anger.
I hated this shift.
I hated serving Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore, with her shark smile and fake mourning black. Three days earlier, she’d stood in front of cameras, dabbed at a dry eye, and said, “A tragic accident.” Then she toasted. Then she danced.
And now, while the portrait of the heir had already been removed from the hallway—on her orders—the party continued as if death were just paperwork.
I reached the trash container, placed far from the mansion so the smell wouldn’t offend delicate noses. I lifted the first bag with a grunt and threw it in. The thud echoed through the night.
I bent down for the second bag…
and froze.
A sound.