-Zade Collins:
It was still early when I made my way down to the kitchen the next morning. My head was killing me. I could feel every throb of the bruise where that box Blake threw had nailed me yesterday. It wasn't unbearable, but the dull pain behind my eyes made it impossible to ignore. Rubbing the side of my temple, I pushed the door open, stepping into the cool, quiet kitchen where the scent of fresh bread and brewed coffee lingered faintly in the air.
Two of our housemaids were already bustling around. Martha, the older one, in her late fifties, she's our cook, was busy wiping down the counter. She had always been like a second mother to me, strict but soft when she thought no one was looking. Across from her, the younger maid, I think her name was Kira—early twenties, quiet, kept mostly to herself—was stacking clean plates from the dishwasher, earbuds dangling from her ears, music faintly audible.
