Maria quickly learned that life inside the Adelson mansion was a world with its own heartbeat. Every step had rhythm: bells for meals, bells for duties, bells that called the house into motion like clockwork. And above all, Mrs. Greene ruled with eyes sharper than the brass buttons on her dress.
The days blurred into endless chores. Maria scrubbed silver until her fingers ached, polished the carved banisters until they gleamed, and carried baskets of laundry so heavy her shoulders burned. Yet for all her effort, she could never shake the sense that she was being watched—not only by Mrs. Greene, but by the house itself.
And perhaps, by the master.
One afternoon, as she hurried along the corridor with a stack of folded linens, Maria heard voices beyond the half-open drawing room door. She slowed, her ears catching Clara's familiar laugh.
"Don't be foolish," Clara was saying. "He barely looks at us. We're ghosts to him."
Another maid giggled. "Not all of us, Clara. I've seen his eyes linger. Especially on—"
Maria's foot slipped against the polished floor. The linens wobbled in her arms, and she stumbled. The laughter inside the room stopped at once.
"Maria?" Clara's voice called, sharper now.
Maria straightened quickly, her face burning, and hurried past the door. She could feel their eyes on her, their whispers clinging to her like a net she couldn't escape.
That evening, she worked alone in the gallery, dusting the endless row of portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow her. The storm had returned, lightning flashing against the tall windows. Each thunderclap rattled the glass and sent her heart jumping.
She had nearly finished when a voice startled her.
"You work too late."
Maria spun around, her breath catching. Alexander stood in the doorway, the firelight from the hall casting him in shadow. He had removed his coat, his white shirt open at the throat, his dark eyes fixed on her.
"I—I was asked to finish the dusting, sir," Maria stammered, clutching her cloth as though it were a shield.
"You obey too readily," he said, stepping into the room. "Even when it wears you down."
Maria's pulse raced. She lowered her gaze, not daring to meet his eyes. "It's my duty."
He moved closer, his footsteps soft against the carpet. "And if duty asked too much?"
Maria swallowed, her fingers tightening around the cloth. "Then I would still do it."
Alexander stopped only a breath away. The storm outside flashed white across his features, carving his jaw in stark lines. For a moment, Maria forgot to breathe.
"You're different," he said quietly.
Her head jerked up, startled. "Sir?"
"Most servants keep their eyes on the floor. But you…" His gaze lingered, searching, as though he could read her thoughts. "You look as though the walls themselves might swallow you whole."
Maria's lips parted, but no words came. She felt seen in a way that frightened her more than Mrs. Greene's harshest scolding.
Before she could answer, thunder cracked so loud it shook the gallery. Maria flinched, nearly dropping the cloth. Alexander's hand moved instinctively, steadying her arm. The touch was brief—fleeting—but it seared through her like fire.
Their eyes met.
The silence stretched, filled only by the storm and the pounding of her heart.
Then, as though realizing himself, Alexander drew back. His expression shuttered, his hand falling away. "Go to bed, Maria," he said, his voice curt. "The gallery can wait until morning."
She nodded quickly, ducking her head, and hurried past him. But as she stepped into the hall, she felt his gaze linger, heavy and unshakable.
Back in her narrow attic room, Maria pressed her hands to her face, her skin still warm where he had touched her.
She had come to the mansion for survival. Yet now, something else was stirring inside her—something that both thrilled and terrified her.
And though she tried to pray the feeling away, she knew it would not vanish.
Alexander Adelson had noticed her.
And nothing in her life would ever be the same again.