The signs

A month had slipped by, though the echoes of that night refused to fade. Maya had buried herself in work, scrubbing floors until her fingers bled, polishing silver until her reflection blurred. Anything to keep her mind too occupied to remember.

But sometimes, when the house fell quiet, she could still feel the heat of Lucien’s touch like a phantom pressed into her skin. She avoided him as much as she could, though avoidance was a dangerous game in a mansion where he saw everything.

Lately, however, there was something else pressing on her—an ache she couldn’t ignore. Her stomach twisted in the mornings, waves of nausea making it hard to stand. She brushed it off at first, blaming exhaustion, the stress of constant vigilance under Georgia’s venomous eyes.

Today, though, the dizziness hit harder. While arranging fresh linens in the hallway, her vision swam, and she steadied herself against the wall.

“Careful there,” one of the maids muttered, giving her a curious glance. “You look pale.”

Maya forced a smile, brushing it aside. “Didn’t sleep well.”

But the moment the girl walked away, Maya pressed a hand to her stomach, swallowing hard. She had never been this worn down before. Something was wrong, though she couldn’t yet name it.

The sickness didn’t relent. Each day brought fresh spells of fatigue, her appetite dwindling while nausea grew sharper. She tried to hide it—Maya had learned long ago that weakness was dangerous. In her father’s house, it had earned her blows. Here, it could earn her suspicion.

But hiding it in a mansion ruled by Lucien Santoro was nearly impossible. His gaze was too sharp, his instincts too honed. Even when he said nothing, she felt his eyes on her, as if he saw more than she wanted to reveal.

That morning, she lingered too long in the pantry, leaning against the shelves as her stomach heaved. She covered her mouth, forcing quiet. The scent of roasted garlic from the kitchen sent another wave rolling through her, bile rising in her throat.

“Maya?” Mrs. Carbone’s voice snapped. The older woman’s hawk-like gaze narrowed on her pale face.

“I’m fine,” Maya croaked, forcing herself upright. “Just the smell—”

Mrs. Carbone frowned but let it go, shoving a tray of pastries into her arms. “Fine or not, deliver this. We don’t keep the master waiting.”

Maya steadied herself, clinging to the tray like a lifeline, and made her way toward the dining hall. But her heart raced for another reason entirely. She prayed Lucien wouldn’t notice.

Lucien noticed.

He always did.

Seated at the long table, his morning paper spread in front of him, he glanced up as Maya entered. One look at her pale face, the stiffness in her walk, and his brows drew together.

“You’re late,” he said evenly.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered, setting the tray down. Her hands trembled just enough for the cups to rattle against porcelain.

His eyes flicked to the noise, then back to her face. “You’re trembling.”

Maya froze, pulse thundering. “No, sir. Just… tired.”

Lucien didn’t press, but the silence stretched heavy. He leaned back in his chair, watching her far too intently. She kept her eyes fixed on the tray, refusing to meet his gaze.

Finally, he dismissed her with a quiet, “Go.”

Maya nearly stumbled in her haste to leave, the weight of his stare following her all the way to the door.

Lucien’s jaw tightened as he turned the page of his newspaper, though he hadn’t read a single word. Something was wrong with her, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, the thought unsettled him more than it should have.

By evening, Maya collapsed onto her narrow bed, too weak to finish mending the laundry she’d brought upstairs. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her middle, swallowing back another wave of nausea.

She whispered into the dark, as though the silence might answer her. “What’s happening to me?”

The truth was beginning to whisper at the edges of her mind, but she was too afraid to let it take shape. Too afraid of what it would mean.

And in his study, Lucien stood at the window, glass of whiskey untouched in his hand, his thoughts circling back to the maid who had been pale and shaking before him that morning.

He didn’t like unanswered questions. And Maya Santoro was quickly becoming his most dangerous one.