The Madame’s Husband 1

Ava Anderson worked for the Masons in their huge mansion as a maid, and she'd been up since dawn, scrubbing and dusting every inch of the house until her arms ached.

Her maid’s uniform, a black dress with a starched white apron, clung to her curves in a way that made her self-conscious, the fabric straining slightly as she bent to dust a priceless vase.

At twenty-three, Ava was very pretty, with hazel eyes and chestnut hair she kept pinned neatly beneath her cap, though stray curls often escaped to frame her face.

Working as a maid at her age was the last thing she would expect in life but since she was unable to go to college after her parents’ death, she needed to work for a living to help her little siblings and the salary she got for working for the Masons was higher than her previous job where she worked as a waitress in a coffee shop.

Sighing, she adjusted her uniform for the nth time as she moved forward to continue with the cleaning.

The dress was meant to make her blend into the background, just another part of the mansion’s perfection, but it never felt right, not when Madame Clara Mason’s sharp eyes were always watching, ready to pounce on her.

Clara was the queen of this palace, a wealthy socialite with a tongue as cutting as a blade and all Ava had tried to do was avoid her by trying not to make any further mistakes even though she knew she could never do anything right in her eyes.

Her madame had scolded Ava too many times, called her useless, even slapped her occasionally whenever she made a tiny mistake.

This made Ava’s life hell. She hated her Madame with passion.

“AVAAAA!”

The voice rang from the stairs, and Ava froze, her heart skipping. She quickly straightened her back and hurried to the sound.

Madame Clara descended the marble steps like a queen, a condescending frown on her face as she saw Ava.

“Look at you,” she said with disdain. “You never do anything right, Ava. If I’m to walk around the house, I’m sure I would see dusts in every corner. Honestly, it’s a wonder I keep you on at all because you're so clumsy, slow, and that uniform, good heavens, must you flaunt yourself so shamelessly?”

Ava’s cheeks burned, but she bit back the retort that clawed at her throat.

She wasn’t flaunting anything; the uniform was standard, chosen by Clara herself. If it fit her too tightly, it was only because Clara insisted on the smallest size, as if to mock Ava’s figure or make her uncomfortable.

“Now, have you prepared the table?” Clara asked her with a raised eyebrow. “I told you to prepare it ten minutes ago, so have you?” She looked like she was ready to pounce in Ava at that moment.

Ava’s voice came out shaky. I-I did, Madame. I was just…”

Slap!

The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged hall and Ava’s head jerked to the side, her cheek burning hot. She swallowed, trying not to let her eyes glisten.

Clara sneered. “Don’t talk back to me. You think because you’re young and pretty you can do as you please?”

Ava lowered her gaze. “No, Madame.”

Another slap. Harder this time.

Her body trembled, her eyes starting to itch die to the tears threatening to fall out, but she didn’t move. She didn't dare to.

“Look at me,” Clara ordered.

Ava slowly looked at her, and behind her calm expression, her heartbeat thundered with anger, one she had buried so deeply that even she could barely breathe through it.

“You’re nothing without this house,” Clara said, leaning closer. “You should be grateful I keep you here at all.”

Ava’s fingers dug into her apron, hidden from view and every instinct screamed to fight back, to shout, to slap her back, but she couldn’t.

There was nothing she could do. She was just a mere maid and Madame Clara was her employer.

Clara turned away, her heels clicking against the floor. “Fix the table, and make sure my tea is ready in five minutes. Or you’ll regret it.”

When she was gone, Ava stood there for a moment, her cheek throbbing and her heart aching, then she let out a shaky breath to calm herself and made her way to the kitchen.

The cook, a stout woman named Margery, glanced up from her steaming pots and offered a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t let her get to you, love,” Margery said, stirring a pot of velouté sauce. “She’s just jealous, you know. All that money, all that power, and she can’t stand that you’ve got something she’ll never buy.”

Ava forced a small smile, but the words didn’t soothe the anger in her. Jealousy? It seemed impossible.

If she had what Clara had, who cared about any other thing? Her parents wouldn't have died from the accident, she would have been able to go to college, she wouldn't have to suffer to make ends meet for her and her siblings.

What could the madame possibly envy in Ava, a maid who scrubbed floors and endured her tantrums?

She wanted to hit Clara where it hurt, to take something from the woman who treated her like dirt but she had no idea how to do that.

She quickly went to arrange the table, and that was when she saw Rex Mason, Clara’s husband making his way down the stairs for breakfast.

He was nothing like his wife.

Where Clara was cold and polished, Rex was rugged, like a man who’d built his empire with his own hands. His dark hair was always a little messy, his jaw sharp and strong, his eyes a deep brown that seemed to see right through you.

Ava had caught him watching her more than once, and today was no different.

Done cleaning the tables, Ava served Clara her tea and after more intense moments, Clara finally left the house.

Ava was relieved everytime she did but she still had things to do. Clara had given her more work to do, like cleaning the chandeliers but she decided to relax a little before she could continue.

Then something crossed her mind.

An idea on how to get back at her Madame.