chapter 3

The Locked Wing

Two days passed before I realized part of the mansion wasn’t meant to be cleaned.

The west wing.

I discovered it by accident.

My cleaning cart rolled quietly along the hallway when I noticed the difference immediately.

The lights were dimmer.

The air cooler.

And every door along the corridor was locked.

I frowned.

That was unusual, even for a house this big.

Most of the mansion had open rooms—guest bedrooms, sitting rooms, libraries, offices, and storage areas. Marta had given me a cleaning map during my first shift, and although it looked complicated, nothing had seemed deliberately forbidden.

Until now.

Curiosity tugged at me.

I pushed the cart a little further down the hall.

The corridor felt different. Quieter. Like the walls themselves were keeping secrets.

That’s when I saw the final door.

Unlike the others, this one wasn’t plain wood.

It was dark oak with carved detailing along the edges—intricate vines and twisting shapes that looked almost antique. The craftsmanship alone had to be worth a fortune.

And there was a small plaque beside it.

PRIVATE COLLECTION.

My heart skipped.

Collection.

Art collection.

The temptation hit instantly.

Behind that door could be paintings worth more than the entire building I grew up in.

Maybe pieces I had studied in textbooks.

Maybe something priceless.

Maybe something no one outside this house had ever seen.

I stepped closer without thinking.

The door handle gleamed under the hallway lights.

Unlocked?

I hesitated.

Marta’s voice echoed in my mind.

Private floors are off-limits.

Still…

What harm could one quick look do?

Just a glance.

No touching.

No wandering around.

My hand reached toward the handle.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from behind me.

I jumped.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I spun around.

Marta stood at the far end of the corridor, her arms crossed tightly.

Her expression wasn’t angry.

But it definitely wasn’t amused.

I suddenly felt like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t open that door,” she said firmly.

I stepped away immediately.

“Sorry.”

She walked toward me slowly, her shoes making soft sounds against the marble floor.

The closer she got, the more I realized how serious her expression was.

“That room belongs to Mr. Hawthorne.”

“I understand.”

She stopped a few feet away from me.

Her eyes studied my face carefully.

“You like art.”

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded.

“I studied art history for a year in college,” I admitted quietly.

Before I could afford it, I almost added.

Marta glanced briefly at the plaque beside the door.

“That collection is worth more than this entire house,” she said.

My jaw nearly dropped.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Which is exactly why staff does not enter.”

I nodded again.

“Understood.”

She watched me for another moment, as if deciding whether she believed me.

Then she said something unexpected.

“You’re not the first maid who was curious.”

I blinked.

“What happened to the others?”

Marta gave a dry smile.

“They don’t work here anymore.”

A chill slipped down my spine.

I wasn’t sure if she meant they were fired.

Or something worse.

She turned and began walking back toward the main hallway.

“Finish the east bedrooms today,” she said over her shoulder. “Those aren’t locked.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I grabbed my cart and followed her out of the west wing corridor.

But even as we turned the corner, I glanced back once more.

The oak door stood at the end of the hallway.

Silent.

Mysterious.

Waiting.

***

The rest of the day dragged.

Not because the work was hard.

But because my mind refused to leave that door alone.

Private Collection.

What kind of billionaire kept his art hidden behind locked doors?

And more importantly

Why?

I polished mirrors.

I vacuumed carpets.

I replaced fresh flowers in two guest suites.

But every few minutes, my brain drifted back to the same thought.

What was inside that room?

Old masters?

Private acquisitions?

Something controversial?

Or something personal?

By late afternoon, I found myself in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water.

The staff kitchen was one of the few casual spaces in the mansion. White cabinets, big windows, and a long wooden table where the employees could sit during breaks.

Two housekeepers were already there, chatting quietly while sipping coffee.

When they noticed me, their conversation stopped instantly.

That had been happening a lot lately.

I tried to ignore it.

I filled my glass at the sink.

But curiosity got the better of me.

“Can I ask something?” I said.

They exchanged a glance.

“Sure,” one of them said cautiously.

“The west wing.”

Both women went silent.

I continued.

“What’s the deal with that hallway?”

The older maid sighed.

“You found it.”

“So it’s not just me?”

“No.”

The younger maid leaned forward slightly.

“Everyone finds it eventually.”

“But no one goes in,” the older one added quickly.

I leaned against the counter.

“Because of the art collection?”

“Yes.”

“But also…” the younger maid hesitated.

“What?” I asked.

She glanced toward the door to make sure no one else was listening.

“Because Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t like people touching his things.”

“That seems reasonable,” I said.

The older maid shook her head.

“No, you don’t understand.”

Her voice dropped.

“He’s very protective of that room.”

“How protective?”

The younger maid spoke before the older one could answer.

“Let’s just say the last person who tried to go inside didn’t last long here.”

“Fired?”

“Immediately.”

I winced.

Okay.

That was good to know.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said.

“Just stay away from the west wing,” the older maid said. “Your life here will be easier.”

Easier.

Maybe.

But my curiosity was already awake now.

Curiosity was a dangerous thing.

***

That evening, I finished my final task just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

My mind was racing…

Why is the West Wing locked ?

Is the art that expensive ?Is it limited editions? Or is Adrian Hawthorne hiding something entirely different from what we've been led to believe ?

Curiosity was eating me up, but I must stay away because I really need this job.