Chapter 1 - The Floor Was Still Not Clean
The marble was freezing through the knees of my dress. I kept my hands flat on the black-and-white tiles and scrubbed in small circles even though the water in the silver bucket next to me had already gone gray. The crystal chandelier threw light straight down onto the checkerboard pattern and made every scuff show. I could hear my own breathing too loud and I tried to make it quieter.
He was supposed to be gone until next week. That's what we were told at morning lineup, that the house would be empty and we could get the lobby floors done right for once. I was on my hands and knees in the middle of that huge lobby, apron tied tight at my back, hair pulled low, trying to make the gloss perfect. Then the front doors opened and his shoes hit the floor. He wasn't supposed to be back at all, and at that exact moment the man who owned the house was walking toward me while I couldn't stand up without being told to.
My name is Lena and that morning I was the girl on the floor.
It was just after ten. I'd been kneeling there since nine thirty, bucket to my left, rag dripping onto the tile. The double staircase curved up behind me on both sides and the wrought-iron railings caught the light from the recessed spots in the ceiling. I heard him first, then the two guards behind him, their steps softer and set back. His shadow cut across the checkerboard and stopped right in front of my hands.
"It's still not clean."
His voice was low and even. Not loud. I didn't look up right away. I stared at the toe of his black shoe and at the thin line of water I'd missed near the grout. My cheeks were already hot and my eyes stung. I felt the tremor start in my shoulders and I couldn't stop it.
He waited a beat. I could feel him looking down at me, and the guards weren't moving, just standing back near the entry in their suits, out of focus.
"Look at me."
I did. I lifted my chin and my eyes met his. He was taller up close, dark hair slicked back, stubble along his jaw, his black shirt open at the top so I could see the edge of the tattoo on his chest. His forearm tattoos showed when he shifted his weight. His expression wasn't angry the way I'd expected. It was stern and kind of concerned, and that made it harder to hold still. My eyes watered and my lower lip shook. I tried to breathe through my nose and keep my hands from sliding on the wet marble. I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
He crouched. I felt the air move as he lowered down beside me, not in front. One knee bent, his black trousers pulling tight. Close enough that I could see the white cuffs of my own sleeves against the dark floor. He didn't touch me at first, he just looked. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached with both hands and eased the white collar of my maid dress away from the back of my neck.
I flinched before I could stop it. The fabric pulled just an inch and the cool air hit skin that was already tender. I knew what he saw there even without a mirror. The bruises finger-shaped on the side of my neck and lower, the yellow-purple edge that I'd covered with makeup that morning and then sweated through while scrubbing. His hands were steady and tattooed and they didn't pull hard. He just held the collar open and looked at my upper back.
"Who did this to you?"
It was quiet, restrained, like he was trying not to scare me worse. My throat closed. I wanted to lie and say I'd fallen against the bucket or the staircase railing, but the words wouldn't come out clean. My eyes darted to the staircase and then back to the floor.
"He'll be mad," I whispered. Then I caught my breath and got the real line out, the one I'd been holding since he knelt down. "Please, don't make him angry."
His hand left my collar and settled lightly on my upper arm, not gripping, just there. Protective and heavy. I was still on my knees, bucket right beside my knee where it had been the whole time, water sloshing a little when my leg shook. I could feel the marble hard under my shins and the bow of my apron pressed against my lower back. I didn't get up. I didn't know if I was allowed to.
Above us, from the top of the double staircase, a set of footsteps started.
May you like
They were unhurried, coming from the east wing where the staff rooms were, heels on marble, getting louder with each step. Someone was coming down toward the lobby, toward the chandelier light, toward us.
His hand stayed on my arm and he didn't stand. He turned his head just slightly toward the sound and I froze, eyes fixed on the checkerboard, breathing shallow, waiting to see whose shoes would appear first at the top of the stairs.
