Victoria’s war began with my schedule.
Six a.m. linen inventory. Guest bathrooms. Silver polishing. Storage rooms. Laundry shifts that stretched beyond everyone else’s.
I didn’t complain.
I had survived Christmas Eve in a family bakery.
Victoria Sloan didn’t scare me.
Unemployment did.
One evening, I was polishing a serving tray when Dominic’s reflection appeared behind mine.
“You’re here late.”
I nearly dropped it.
“Shouldn’t you be doing billionaire criminal-mastermind things?”
“I’m not a billionaire.”
“Glad we clarified the important part.”
His mouth twitched.
That became our strange rhythm.
He began drinking coffee in rooms where I worked. He asked about meals he had never cared about. One night, he found me kneading bread after my shift.
“What are you doing?”
“Performing surgery.”
He waited.
“Bread.”
I told him about Holloway Family Bakery. My grandfather opening it in 1981. My father teaching me to bake. The loan. The bills. The final morning when we turned off the ovens and stood inside an empty kitchen because nobody knew how to say goodbye to forty-three years.
“How much?” Dominic asked.
“How much what?”
“Debt.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I can make it disappear.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to owe you.”
“I’m offering help.”
“And I’m saying no.”
People probably didn’t tell Dominic Castellano no very often.
He nodded.
“Fair enough.”
“That’s it?”
“What were you expecting?”
“Thunder. Possibly execution.”
“Disappointing?”
“Deeply.”
He laughed softly.
We ate warm bread at midnight.
He told me Isabella used to burn toast.
I told him my father once made six hundred dinner rolls without salt.
Then guilt crossed his face.
“You’re allowed to remember the funny parts,” I said.
“I know.”
“No. You understand it intellectually. That’s different.”
His jaw tightened.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Punishing yourself.”
“Careful, Marin.”
“She died nine years ago, Dominic. You didn’t.”
He walked away.
For three days, he barely spoke to me.
On the fourth morning, a bakery box appeared beside my locker.
Inside was an antique brass dough scraper.
For surgery.
—D.C.
I laughed.
Victoria saw the note.
That afternoon she summoned me.
“Your familiarity with Mr. Castellano is inappropriate.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“You arrived here with debt and a failed family business.”
“You investigated me?”
“Every employee is investigated. Desperation changes people.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know women like you.”
Her eyes moved over my curves.
“You misunderstand attention for affection.”
My face burned.
“You should be careful with assumptions.”
“I’m protecting this household.”
“From the maid?”
“From disruption.”
“Dominic laughing isn’t disruption.”
“It is when you don’t understand what follows.”
“What follows?”
“People get hurt.”
That night, I sat on the back steps with Biscotti.
Dominic appeared.
“What happened?”
“Victoria thinks I’m using you.”
“For what?”
“Money. Attention. Maybe a commemorative plaque.”
His expression darkened.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That people get hurt when you care about them.”
Dominic looked away.
“She knew Isabella.”
“Was she there that night?”
“Yes.”
Before I could ask more, his phone rang.
His expression changed instantly.
“Go inside.”
“What happened?”
“Inside, Marin.”
He caught my arm before I entered.
“Lock your bedroom door tonight.”
“Why?”
“Someone photographed you leaving the estate yesterday.”
“So?”
“The photograph was delivered to me.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why photograph a maid?”
His face answered first.
“Because they know you matter to me.”