Richard’s jaw clenched. He looked at me. At the broken cup. Then at his wife — like he was finally noticing a pattern he’d been calling bad luck for years.
My cheek burned. But what hurt more was the confidence in Victoria’s eyes.
She thought she owned the ending.
Later, the kitchen buzzed with whispers.
I polished cutlery at the long stainless-steel counter while fear and pity slid between hushed voices. Mrs. Collins, the head housekeeper, leaned close, lavender soap clinging to her skin.
“You’re brave,” she murmured. “I’ve seen women twice your size walk out after one of her tantrums. Why are you still here?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was a warning.
I aligned the forks carefully.
“Because I didn’t come here just to clean,” I said softly.
She studied me, unsure whether I was reckless or desperate.
I didn’t explain. Explanations become leverage.
Upstairs, Victoria’s voice rose and fell like a whip. Complaints sharpened into accusations. Richard responded less and less — the way a man does when he’s tired of being wrong in his own home.
I’d heard the stories before I arrived. Maids who lasted days. Hours. Minutes. Some left angry. Some crying. Some too broken to explain why.