In the center of the marble foyer, Mrs. Carmichael, the woman who had raised him like her own son, knelt on the floor scrubbing the tiles with a rag. Her gray hair was tied back hastily, clothes damp, hands raw and trembling.
A few feet away, in the living room, stood his fiancée—Isabella Carrington—arms crossed, eyes sharp, barking orders like she owned the place.
“No, no, no!” Isabella snapped. “Again! You missed a spot. Honestly, how hard is it to follow instructions?”
Mrs. Carmichael flinched but did not lift her head.
Lucas’s chest tightened. “What… is happening here?” he asked softly.
Isabella turned, annoyed. “Oh, Lucas. Finally noticing. Your housekeeper’s been slacking. Look at this mess! She thinks just because she raised you, she can ignore her duties.”
Mrs. Carmichael whispered, “Señor Lucas… I—I didn’t want to… she told me—”
Lucas stepped forward, and Isabella stumbled back.
“Stand up,” he said gently to Mrs. Carmichael. But humiliation rooted her to the spot.
Isabella sighed dramatically. “Really, Lucas. Don’t be so emotional. She works for us. I was just giving her a little… discipline.”
Lucas’s voice dropped to a cold, measured tone Isabella had never heard before.