(Elena's POV)
The Blackwood dining room was a theater of wealth.
Crystal glasses glittered, gold-rimmed plates gleamed, and chandeliers spilled light so bright.
Elena felt the weight of darkness all the same as she stepped inside, carrying the tray Mrs. Aldridge had pressed into her hands.
Her pulse throbbed against her throat. This was her second night in their service, and already her mask was cracking under the strain. Every second in this house pulled at scars that had never healed.
She lowered her eyes, forcing the tray steady as she approached the long table.
Edward sat at the head again, spine rigid, authority radiating from him like a second skin. Beside him, Victoria sparkled in diamonds that caught the light like shards of glass, her mouth already pursed as though tasting something bitter.
Clara leaned forward in her seat, a careless smile playing on her lips, while Marcus slouched back in his chair, eyes gleaming with mischief.
And then there was Damian; silent, composed, the one presence at the table that unsettled her most.
He didn't smirk like Marcus, didn't sneer like Victoria. His stillness was worse. Because stillness meant attention.
"Elena," Mrs. Aldridge hissed at her side, "hurry."
Elena moved, pouring wine into Edward's glass first.
Victoria's voice cut across the table, smooth and sharp.
"Another new maid? Do they not last, Aldridge? Or do you simply enjoy parading incompetence before us?"
A polite laugh slipped from Clara. "Mother, don't be cruel. She's trying."
"Trying is what one does before failing, darling," Victoria said, her eyes sliding to Elena. "And failure is inevitable when they pluck these girls from the gutters."
Elena's chest burned, but her hands didn't shake. She poured the wine without spilling a drop.
Marcus leaned forward, elbow braced against the table. "She doesn't look like she's from the gutter. Pretty face, steady hands… seems a waste to hide her in the kitchens."
Edward's voice cracked like a whip. "Marcus."
"What?" Marcus drawled, lips curving. "I'm simply appreciating Aldridge's choice."
Elena moved to refill his glass, her face impassive, though his gaze slid over her in a way that made bile rise in her throat. She tipped the bottle carefully. Not a drop spilled.
Marcus smirked wider. "See? Talented."
Clara giggled, the sound like bells chiming off-key.
Victoria lifted her glass with disdain. "Pretty or not, pride won't suit her here.
The last thing this house needs is another servant who forgets her place."
Elena's jaw tightened. Pride. As though it were a crime.
She set the bottle down, bowing her head, but inside her blood surged hot. Her mother had begged in this very room, dignity stripped from her while they watched with smiles. And now they mocked Elena with the same venom.
The words pressed against her lips like a tide, desperate to break free. But she swallowed them, her silence her only shield.
She turned to leave, tray in hand…
"Wait." Marcus's voice was low, mocking. "Look at me when I speak to you."
Her steps faltered.
The room seemed to still, anticipation thick in the air. Victoria's lips curved faintly, Clara leaned forward, and Edward exhaled in irritation.
Elena turned, slowly, and raised her gaze.
Her eyes locked on Marcus's, unflinching.
It was a silent battle; his smirk daring her to cower, her stare daring him to try. The seconds stretched, tension winding tighter with each breath.
And for the first time, Marcus's grin faltered, just slightly, as though surprised that a maid would dare.
Elena lowered her gaze again, calm, controlled, and walked away.
But as she did, she felt it; another stare, heavy and different. Damian's.
She hadn't looked directly at him, but she knew. His gaze lingered, not mocking, not cruel. Curious. Watching.
The awareness made her chest tighten with something dangerous, something she refused to name.
She pushed through the kitchen doors, the laughter and voices muffled behind her, but her heart still raced.
The humiliation she had swallowed tonight burned like fire in her veins. And beneath it all, the memory of Marcus's falter, and Damian's steady gaze stayed with her like sparks waiting to ignite.
***
The kitchen doors swung shut behind Elena, muffling the clatter of silverware and the Blackwoods' brittle laughter.
She set the empty tray down on the counter, her hands rigid at her sides. Her heart still hammered, each beat echoing with Marcus's smirk, Victoria's disdain, Clara's giggles.
But what burned hottest was her own defiance. That one unbroken stare across the table. She should have looked away, played meek, invisible. Instead she had dared.
And Damian had seen.
Elena pressed her palms against the counter, forcing her breath steady. It doesn't matter. Let him look. Let them all look. They won't know what I'm here for until it's too late.
Mrs. Aldridge barked orders at the other servants, her shrill voice a constant backdrop.
Elena ignored her, gathering the cleared plates. She moved efficiently, silent, as if the motions could scrub away the memory of Marcus's voice telling her to look at him.
But the memory didn't fade. Neither did the heat of another gaze, heavier, quieter, and far more dangerous.
By the time she carried the plates down the corridor, the house had grown quieter.
The dining room laughter was fading into the hum of after-dinner drinks. Shadows stretched longer, candles guttered in their holders.
Elena turned the corner, and stopped.
Damian Blackwood stood at the far end of the hallway, half in shadow, and half in the spill of golden light from a wall sconce.
His suit jacket hung loose now, his tie undone, but his presence filled the space like a wall.
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
He was watching her.
"Long night?" His voice was low, even, carrying too easily in the quiet hall.
Elena tightened her grip on the plates. "Excuse me, sir." She moved to pass him.
But as she stepped closer, he shifted, blocking her path.
Her pulse stuttered. She stopped short, keeping her eyes lowered. "I need to return these to the kitchen."
"Later." His tone was calm, but there was steel under it. "You can spare a moment."
Elena's throat dried. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to keep walking, to keep her cover intact.
But her body betrayed her, frozen under the weight of his stare.
Damian leaned slightly, his voice quiet enough that no one else could hear. "You think I didn't notice?"
Her stomach dropped. "Notice what, sir?"
His lips curved faintly. "The way you looked at Marcus. Most girls keep their heads down. You didn't. You looked like you wanted to set him on fire."
Elena's chest tightened. She forced her tone steady. "I don't know what you mean."
Damian tilted his head, studying her. "You're not like the others. Too proud. Too controlled. Too… dangerous."
Her pulse quickened. Careful. Careful.
She forced a small, nervous laugh, lowering her gaze further. "I assure you, sir, I'm just here to work."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he asked softly.
Her fingers pressed into the plates so hard she thought they might crack.
His nearness unsettled her; the heat of him, the intensity in his eyes, the way his words seemed to cut past her disguise and scrape at the truth.
She stepped sideways, forcing calm into her voice. "If you'll excuse me, sir."
But before she could move, he shifted again, closing the distance between them. He was close now, too close. The scent of his cologne brushed her senses, clean and sharp.
His voice dropped. "I don't know who you are, but you're not just a maid. And sooner or later, I'll find out why you're here."
Elena's breath caught, her pulse roaring in her ears.
She forced herself to step back, lifting her chin just enough to meet his eyes. "Believe what you want, sir. It doesn't change anything."
His gaze held hers, steady, unblinking. The silence between them stretched, charged, heavy.
Finally, she broke it. "I should go."
Without waiting for his reply, she moved past him, the plates rattling in her hands though she held them tight.
She didn't look back.
But she felt it, the weight of his gaze following her down the hall, lingering long after she turned the corner.
In the solitude of the kitchen, Elena set the plates down with trembling fingers. She pressed both hands against the counter, fighting the storm inside her.
Not fear. Not exactly. Something worse.
Something that weakened her resolve, that made her skin burn where his closeness had brushed it, that made her heart race in a way it had no right to.
Her jaw tightened.
No. I didn't come here for this. I didn't come here for him.
She lifted her head, staring at her reflection in the dark window. Her eyes burned back at her, hard, unyielding.
"I came here for revenge," she whispered.
And she would not let Damian Blackwood take that from her.