It was a cold afternoon—the kind that made the entire house feel bigger, emptier, and strangely quiet. I sat in the living room, curled at the far end of the long cushion, a heavy blanket over my legs, reading a novel I borrowed from the bookshelf in the study.
The story pulled me in so deeply that I forgot myself, forgot the world, forgot everything… until the air shifted.
I didn't notice her at first.
But there was a presence—sharp, cold, and hovering.
Then her voice sliced the silence like a blade.
"Can you stand up."
My heart jumped.
I looked up.
Sylvia.
Standing above me.
Staring at me like she had just found dirt on a white carpet.
Her arms were folded, one hip raised in irritation, her eyes fixed on me like I was something she regretted seeing.
I stood quickly, clutching my book to my chest, my hands trembling just a little.
She let out a short, sharp laugh… clapping her hands together like she had just discovered the joke of the year.
"So this…?" She gestured at me slowly, mockingly.
"This?"
She circled me, her eyes traveling from my hair to my toes, her lips curled in disgust.
Then she whispered to herself, loud enough for me to hear:
"Am I not such a fool?"
I swallowed hard.
My heart thumped painfully.
I didn't understand—but I didn't dare speak.
She stepped closer until her perfume overwhelmed the air around me, strong and suffocating.
Her voice dropped, dripping with venom.
"Now listen to me… and listen well."
She leaned closer.
"I don't care what is going on between you and—whatever his name is. I don't care who you think is looking your way."
My eyes widened a little.
I didn't know what she meant.
"But let me warn you," she continued. "Know your limit in this house. If you cross it, I will personally drag you out and leave you on the streets where you belong… you shameless slave."
That word hit me hard.
Like a slap.
My eyes dropped immediately to the floor.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't cry.
I didn't want to show weakness—not to her.
Not to the woman who seemed to enjoy seeing me shrink.
She wasn't done.
"Just look at you!" she snapped. "With that shameless little slave body—thinking you can…"
She paused, swallowed the rest of her thoughts, and let her gaze burn through me again.
Confusion twisted my stomach.
What had I done?
Was it because I sat with Mr Thompson near the pool last night?
But she wasn't there.
She didn't see us.
She didn't know.
So what exactly did I do?
I couldn't ask.
I dared not.
She kept ranting, every word sharp and cruel.
"Rubbish," she hissed. "The kind of minds you slaves have in this house…"
My fingers tightened around my book, knuckles trembling.
"Listen," she continued. "The woman who employed you is gone. Dead. Forgotten. Stick that in your skull and behave yourself."
My chest tightened.
Mentioning Mrs Johnson…
That hurt more than anything she'd said.
Sylvia paced slowly, her heels clicking angrily against the tiled floor.
"I don't even know why I'm always terrified in your presence. Did I say terrified?" She laughed bitterly. "Terrified of what? A slave?"
"Stop it."
The voice came from behind us.
Strong. Firm. Angry.
We both turned.
David.
Standing in the doorway, staring at Sylvia with a look so cold it made the room feel like winter.
"Stop it now," he repeated, stepping forward.
"What is wrong with you? And what has she done to deserve this?"
Sylvia froze.
Her mouth tightened.
She looked away immediately, as if even meeting David's eyes irritated her.
Instead of answering, she hissed, flipped her hair sharply, and stormed out of the living room.
The door slammed upstairs shortly after.
David let out a heavy breath and turned to me.
"Are you okay?" he asked, scanning me with worried eyes. "Did she hit you? Did she push you? Chantel… did she touch you?"
I shook my head quickly.
"No. I'm fine, Mr David. I… I need to go to my room."
I didn't wait for him to speak again.
My legs felt weak as I moved past him.
My throat felt tight with a thousand unspoken emotions, and the moment I stepped into the hallway, I swallowed hard to keep tears from falling.
David watched me go, his jaw clenched, anger visible in the tightness of his fists.
He stayed downstairs for a moment, unable to calm the storm inside him. Then he turned and walked up the stairs.
He paused outside Thompson's door.
The room was quiet.
Thompson hadn't returned from work—but David could feel Sylvia's presence inside.
Her perfume.
Her irritation.
Her energy.
He was about to walk away when a voice came from inside.
"Come in."
David opened the door.
Sylvia was sitting on the edge of Thompson's bed, scrolling through her phone. When she saw David, she stood sharply and walked toward the door.
Her eyes grazed over him quickly—but she refused to look directly at him, as though he wasn't worth her attention.
"What's it?" she asked flatly.
"What are you doing here?"
David just stared at her for a long moment.
Not saying anything.
Not explaining himself.
He simply turned and walked away—entering his own room and shutting the door behind him.
Sylvia's face hardened.
She hissed loudly, frustration burning through her eyes, and slammed her own door hard enough to shake the hallway.
The house went silent again…
But not the peaceful kind.
The kind of silence that grows before something big happens.
Before the truth spills.
Before secrets start to unravel.