Chapter 8
Bianca found me in the laundry room at ten thirty.
Mia was in her room with the door open, watching a show on the little tablet Matteo had left for her. I was folding school clothes, trying to make the stack neat. The yellow gloves were still on the counter, dry now. I had left them there on purpose, not on my hands.
Bianca came in without knocking. She was dressed again in a light blouse and jeans, her long wavy hair brushed out, lipstick fresh. She held a coffee mug with both hands, not the pitcher, but my stomach tightened anyway.
"Elena," she said. She closed the door halfway behind her, not all the way. "Can we talk like adults?"
I kept folding. "Sure."
She watched me for a second, then set her mug on the dryer. "Matteo showed me you two watched the camera together. I think that's unfair. This is my home too, and my wedding is in three months."
I didn't look up. "He said he was going to review the hall. He didn't say it was about me and you. He said it was about what happened."
"What happened is you don't respect how I try to help," she said. Her voice stayed quiet, even. "I ask you to detail the baseboards, you argue with your eyes. I ask Mia to hold her cup with two hands, she throws a fit. If you make me look cruel on camera, of course Matteo will take your side. He feels guilty about you living here with a child."
I set the folded shirt down. "I never asked him to watch anything."
"No, but you told him a story in the kitchen." She stepped closer, not touching me. "You told him I held the pitcher over Mia to scare her. You told him I made you kneel for no reason."
I put my hands flat on the dryer to steady them. "Mia was scared before I said anything. You saw her flinch last night at dinner when you lifted the pitcher."
Bianca's smile went thin. "So you and your daughter have a story, and I have to defend myself against it."
The hallway was quiet except for the cartoon playing in Mia's room. I could hear Mia laughing a little at something on the tablet, and that sound made my chest hurt.
Bianca lowered her voice. "I called my cousin in Riverside this morning. She needs someone for her house in Temecula. But I told her you might not be a good fit if you keep turning small corrections into big accusations. A reference matters, Elena. Especially when you live where you work."
I stared at her. The threat wasn't loud. It was casual, like she was offering advice.
"You'd tell her I'm a problem?" I asked, my voice barely there.
"I'd tell the truth as I see it," she said. "That you're emotional. That Mia is difficult. Matteo can protect you for a week, but he won't keep a housekeeper who makes his fiancée cry in her own living room. He'll have to choose what's peaceful."
She picked her mug back up. "I like you, Elena. I want this to work. Just think about whose side you need to be on. Don't make him choose."
She left the door half open and walked out, her steps light on the marble. I stood with my hands on the dryer for a long time after she was gone, listening to Mia's show and the soft hum of the washer, smelling the clean laundry detergent that suddenly felt too strong.
When I went to check on Mia, she looked up and said, "Is she mad at you?"
May you like
I brushed her hair back from her middle part. "No, honey. Everything's fine." But my hands were cold, and I couldn't stop thinking about the apartment, the job, the fact that the estate was our address and our paycheck and the place Mia's school bus came to.
I folded the rest of the laundry like a job interview question was hanging over every shirt.
