The mansion feels colder today.Not in temperature—but in silence. Like the walls are listening. Judging. Waiting.I step into the hallway leading to the staff wing, gripping the tray tighter in my hands. My shift technically ended fifteen minutes ago, but Mrs. Donovan had a “last-minute request” that sent me scurrying to the third floor.Typical.As I round the corner, I hear them.Two maids. Whispering in hushed, rapid tones near the linen closet. I slow my steps, pressing my back to the wall.“She’s back, you know,” one says, breathless.“Clara?”“Mm-hmm. Wore a Gucci trench like she’s royalty now. But she’s acting sweet—like she didn’t almost get all of us fired last year.”“Wasn’t she sleeping with Damien?”“Sleeping?” The other snorts. “That girl lived in his sheets. She pretended to be poor, just to get hired here. And when Mr. Wolfe found out, she got tossed like trash.”A pause.“Now she’s back. And eyeing Zara like she’s the next target.”My stomach coils. I step away before
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