Chapter 3 - THE WHISPERS OF THE CORRIDORS
-3
By 8:00 a.m., the Romano estate was operating at its usual, terrifying level of synchronized discipline. The other members of the domestic staff moved through the halls like ghosts—eyes downcast, shoulders rigid, speaking only in hushed whispers if communication was absolutely necessary.
Tessa stood in the massive industrial kitchen, scrubbing a stack of heavy copper pots with a steel-wool pad until her raw knuckles burned. Her mind was entirely blank, trapped in a loop of replay regarding the hours spent in the private study. Had he really let her go? Was it some psychological game, a cat-and-mouse torture technique where he let her believe she was safe before snapping the trap shut?
“Hey. Earth to the cleaning rat.”
Tessa flinched, dropping the steel wool into the soapy water.
Mrs. Gable, the head cook—a stout, severe woman with hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful—stood over her with a critical frown.
“Stop daydreaming, Moore,” Gable snapped, crossing her arms over her white apron. “Mr. Romano is already awake, and the word from the West Wing is that he’s requested breakfast served privately in his study instead of the dining hall. And guess who he asked to bring it up?”
Tessa’s blood ran cold. She stared at the cook, her mouth parting slightly. “Me?”
“Who else is standing here looking like she’s about to faint?” Gable scoffed, shoving a heavy silver tray laden with black coffee, a soft-boiled egg, toasted brioche, and sliced fruit into Tessa’s hands. “Keep your eyes on the tray, don't speak unless he asks you a direct question, and for the love of God, don't drop anything. If you ruin those dishes, I’ll personally dock three months of your brother’s interest payments. Move.”
Tessa clutched the heavy silver handles of the tray, her fingers trembling so badly the silverware rattled against the porcelain. She turned away from the sink, wiping her damp hands hastily on her apron, and began the long, agonizing walk down the endless corridors toward the West Wing.
Every step felt like walking toward an executioner’s block. The other maids she passed shrank away from her path, shooting her suspicious, fearful glances. Word traveled fast in the Romano estate; everyone knew Victor had been wounded the night before, and the fact that a lowly debt-servant was being summoned into his private sanctuary for the morning meal felt ominous, like a lamb being led to a slaughterhouse.
She reached the heavy mahogany doors of the study.
She took a deep, shaky breath, closed her eyes for a brief second, and raised her knuckles to knock twice.
“Enter,” his voice called out from inside, rich and resonant.
Tessa pushed the doors open with her hip, stepping into the dim, warm sanctuary. The heavy curtains were still drawn against the harsh morning sun, and the dying embers in the stone fireplace had been replaced by a fresh, crackling fire.
Victor sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He had changed into a clean black dress shirt, though the left sleeve was unbuttoned and draped loosely over his bandaged shoulder to avoid straining the fresh stitches. He was reading a thin leather-bound dossier, his dark eyes scanning the pages with ruthless intensity.
He didn't look up immediately.
“Set it on the corner of the desk,” Victor instructed without breaking his focus from the document.
Tessa moved forward silently, her footsteps completely muffled by the newly cleaned Persian rug. She carefully placed the silver tray on the designated corner of the desk, taking immense care not to let the silverware rattle.
She bowed her head, stepping back immediately. “Your breakfast, Mr. Romano. Is there anything else you require?”
Victor finally closed the dossier. He raised his dark eyes, fixing them on her with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. He looked at the deep purple shadows under her eyes, the exhaustion etched into the corners of her mouth, and the nervous tremor in her hands.
“You haven't slept since yesterday morning,” Victor stated. It wasn't a question.
“I... I had closing duties, sir,” Tessa replied quickly, staring at the polished wood of the desk. “And then the cleaning in the hallway...”
“Your shift ended at midnight. You were still scrubbing floors at three in the morning,” Victor countered, leaning back in his leather chair. He picked up his coffee cup, taking a slow sip while never breaking eye contact. “In my house, we pay our debts, Tessa. That includes labor. I don't run a slave camp, contrary to what some of my more colorful enforcers might project.”
Tessa’s head snapped up in sheer disbelief. Not a slave camp? Her brother Liam was chained to a gambling debt that mathematically expanded faster than she could ever scrub, and she was working eighteen-hour days for pennies an hour. But she swallowed the retort before it could pass her lips, knowing the cost of insolence.
“Eat,” Victor commanded, nodding toward the plate of brioche and fruit on the silver tray.
Tessa blinked. “Sir?”
“Eat the toast, Tessa. You look like a stiff breeze could snap you in half. I can’t have my private study collapsing because my housekeeper forgot how calories work.”
May you like
“I couldn't possibly—it’s your breakfast—protocol dictates—”
“Protocol in this house is whatever I decide it is at any given second,” Victor interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, unyielding register that brooked no argument. “Sit down in that chair across from me, and eat the food. That is an order.”
