Morning broke with a pale, cold light that did little to warm Maria's spirit. Sleep had not come to her after Clara's midnight visit. She rose from her narrow bed, her body aching with fatigue, but her heart even heavier with dread.
The mansion stirred slowly awake, its corridors filling with the quiet bustle of servants preparing for the day. Maria dressed quickly, tying her apron with trembling hands, and joined the others in the kitchen. Clara was already there, her face schooled into an expression of practiced innocence as she carried a basket of bread to the table. But her eyes, sharp and knowing, slid toward Maria like a blade drawn in silence.
Maria kept her gaze low, focusing on peeling potatoes, her hands moving in rhythm though her mind was elsewhere. Every word Clara had whispered returned to her like poison dripping in her veins. To him, you are nothing but an amusement.
But when she thought of Alexander's eyes, the intensity in his voice, she could not bring herself to believe it. He had not looked at her like a man toying with something fragile. He had looked at her as though he were the one unraveling.
Later that morning, Mrs. Greene called Maria into the laundry room. The air was thick with the scent of soap and steam. Mrs. Greene, stern as ever, stood with her arms folded, her face unreadable.
"Maria," she began, her tone clipped, "I've heard some unsettling chatter. Chatter that should not concern a girl in your position."
Maria froze. The potato knife had felt safer than this moment. "What chatter, ma'am?"
Mrs. Greene's gaze pinned her. "That you've caught the master's attention."
Maria's breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no words came.
"Do not insult me with silence," Mrs. Greene continued. "You're young, inexperienced. I've seen it before. A girl walks into a house like this with her head full of foolish ideas, and when she leaves—if she's lucky enough to leave—she's left with nothing but shame."
Tears stung Maria's eyes, but she forced them back. "I… I've done nothing wrong."
Mrs. Greene's stare softened, but only slightly. "Perhaps not. But perception, Maria, is as dangerous as truth. Guard yourself, and guard him, if you value what little peace you have here."
With that, Mrs. Greene turned back to her work, leaving Maria trembling in the cloud of steam, her hands clenched at her sides.
By evening, the mansion buzzed with an unusual energy. Alexander was to host a dinner for several influential guests, and the household worked tirelessly to prepare. Maria was sent to help polish the dining room, her heart heavy but her hands determined.
The long table gleamed with crystal and silver, the chandeliers blazing overhead. Maria moved quietly between chairs, adjusting placements, smoothing cloths. She felt the weight of every glance around her, as if Clara had spread her suspicions like wildfire.
When Alexander entered the room to inspect the arrangements, Maria's breath caught. He wore a dark suit that fit him like armor, his presence commanding even in silence.
"Everything looks well," he said to the staff, though his eyes lingered—too long—on Maria.
Their gazes locked for a fleeting second, but it was enough. Her pulse raced, her skin tingled, and she quickly dropped her head, focusing on the table as if her life depended on it.
Clara, standing at the edge of the room with a tray of polished goblets, noticed. Her lips curled in the faintest smirk.
The dinner was lavish, the guests dressed in silks and satins, their voices filling the great hall like the hum of bees. Maria and the other servants moved swiftly, pouring wine, serving dishes, refilling plates. She kept her eyes lowered, avoiding Alexander's gaze, but she could feel it, even across the crowded room.
When she passed near him, her hands steady though her heart shook, she heard him murmur under his breath, so low only she could hear.
"Courage, Maria."
She nearly dropped the decanter. Her hands tightened, and she nodded slightly, as if acknowledging an order, before retreating.
But Clara saw. Clara always saw.
That night, long after the guests had gone and the mansion had settled into uneasy quiet, Maria slipped outside into the gardens. She needed air, something pure to wash away the suffocating whispers. The moon hung pale and full above, silvering the hedges and fountains.
She sat on the edge of a stone bench, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to still the storm in her chest.
"Maria."
Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. Alexander stepped from the shadows, his face caught in moonlight, his eyes searching hers.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"Neither should you," he countered, his voice low, almost pleading. "But I had to see you."
She shook her head, tears welling. "They're talking. Clara, Mrs. Greene… everyone. They think—"
"They think because they see the truth," he interrupted, moving closer. "I won't pretend anymore. I cannot."
Her breath trembled out of her. "And what truth is that?"
He reached for her hand, and this time she did not pull away. His voice broke in the stillness, raw and certain.
"That I care for you, Maria. More than I have cared for anyone in years."
Her tears spilled then, hot on her cheeks. The world seemed to vanish—the whispers, the warnings, the fear. All that remained was the thundering of her heart and the warmth of his hand around hers.
But even in that fragile moment of honesty, Maria felt the shadow of Clara's smirk, of Mrs. Greene's warnings, of the household that watched from behind closed doors.
The storm was not over. It was only beginning.