Serving time

ELARA

I balanced the silver tray in both hands as carefully as I could, afraid it would tremble and betray me. The stemmed glasses clinked softly with each step I took. The laughter echoing from the lounge was loud, shrill, and carried that sharp edge of cruelty I had learned to recognize.

I stopped at the double doors and inhaled once, twice. Then I pushed them open.

They didn’t notice me at first. Mateo’s low, rumbling voice carried over the soft hum of music, and then her laugh followed—high and sharp, like a bird’s cry. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my eyes down, careful not to draw attention.

“Ah, the little wife,” the woman said when I stepped into view.

I didn’t need to look at her to know what she looked like. They all looked the same: tall, glamorous, dripping with confidence I would never have. She lounged across the sofa, her legs stretched out across Mateo’s lap as if she owned the place, a wine-red dress clinging to her curves.

Mateo sat there like a king on his throne, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his expression unreadable. He barely looked up when I approached.

“Don’t just stand there, wife,” the woman said sweetly, though her eyes were knives. “I’m parched.”

I forced a small, practiced smile and held out the tray. “Of course.”

She reached for a glass of wine, then glanced at my hands and smirked. “You’re shaking. Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” I said softly, though my voice betrayed me.

“Hmm.” She turned her head toward Mateo, nestling closer to him. “She’s pretty in a… delicate way, isn’t she?”

Mateo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He simply took the glass from my tray and handed it to her himself, dismissing me with a flick of his hand as if I were one of the staff.

The tray felt heavier in that moment, as if the weight of my humiliation had settled there.

I stepped back, careful not to trip over the edge of the rug. My bare feet were silent against the polished floor, but their laughter followed me as I retreated.

“Does she ever talk?” the woman asked, her voice loud enough for me to hear.

“Only when I tell her to,” Mateo replied, and their laughter rolled together like smoke.

My stomach knotted, but I didn’t let myself react. I simply lowered my head, turned, and left the room as gracefully as I could manage.

---

The hallway outside the lounge was dim, lit only by the golden sconces along the walls. I passed one of the guards—dark suit, harder eyes—and kept walking until I reached the kitchen.

A young maid looked up when I entered. “Mrs. Navarro?” she whispered, her eyes darting behind me as if afraid Mateo would follow.

“I’m fine,” I said, setting the tray on the counter. “Thank you.”

She hesitated, then gave me a small, pitying smile and turned back to her work.

I hated that look.

I hated it because it made me feel like a ghost in my own body, like everyone could see through me, could see how little I mattered.

I climbed the stairs slowly, trailing my fingers along the cool wooden railing. The mansion was silent on the upper floors, the kind of silence that pressed on your ears. I passed closed doors—guest rooms, locked storage rooms, hallways that led nowhere.

I reached my bedroom and shut the door behind me, leaning against it as my chest rose and fell.

The room was beautiful. Cream-colored walls, soft gold accents, a canopy bed big enough for two. But it wasn’t mine. None of it was.

I crossed the room to the vanity and sat down, staring at my reflection.

The ring on my finger gleamed under the soft light. A thin band of platinum, heavy with diamonds. It caught the light and scattered it across the walls, mocking me.

I touched the ring and tried to remember the moment it had been placed on my finger. But I couldn’t. The ceremony blurred together in my mind: the whispered vows, the strangers watching, Mateo’s cold hand in mine.

A small part of me had hoped—stupidly—that he might be different once the guests were gone. That the man I had married might look at me, see me. But he hadn’t.

He never did.

I stood and crossed the room to the window, pulling the curtains back just enough to see the grounds below.

The mansion stretched wide and imposing, surrounded by high walls and iron gates. Guards patrolled the perimeter like shadows, their guns slung across their chests.

There was no way out.

Not yet.

I closed the curtains and moved to the bed, sitting on the edge with my hands clasped tightly in my lap.

The muffled laughter from downstairs reached me even here. I wondered if Mateo would come to me tonight.

Part of me hoped he wouldn’t.

---

Hours passed before I heard footsteps in the hallway. My breath caught, and I stared at the door as the handle turned.

But it wasn’t Mateo. It was one of the staff—a maid carrying fresh linens.

“Mrs. Navarro,” she said softly, lowering her gaze as if afraid to meet my eyes.

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to turn down the bed for you?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’ll do it myself.”

She hesitated, then nodded and left, shutting the door behind her.

The silence returned, heavier now.

I rose and crossed the room, checking the lock on the door. It clicked into place, but it didn’t comfort me. Not when Mateo could open it any time he wanted.

I stepped back and looked around the room—the vanity, the bed, the wardrobe, the window.

Then I opened the wardrobe and stepped inside, closing the door just enough to let a sliver of light in.

I had no reason to be there, not really. But something about the small, enclosed space calmed me.

I pressed my back against the wall and listened to the silence.

This wasn’t my home.

This wasn’t my life.

But if I was going to survive, I needed to know every inch of this house. Every locked door. Every hallway. Every shadow.

I closed my eyes and pictured the layout I had memorized so far: the lounge, the kitchen, the staircase, the hallways that branched off like veins.

One day, I told myself.

One day, I will know this house better than he does.

One day, I won’t be the one serving drinks while they laugh.

The laughter downstairs faded eventually, replaced by the heavy silence of a house gone still.

I slipped out of the wardrobe and padded to the bed.

I didn’t bother turning off the light.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned, my fingers brushing the ring on my hand.

It felt heavier tonight.

Like a chain.

But chains could be broken.

And when mine finally shattered, I promised myself Mateo Navarro would be the one bleeding from the cuts.