The argument between William and Aurora erupted at the breakfast table like a sudden summer thunderstorm.
"You forgot again!"
Aurora's voice was shrill, piercing the morning calm. She stood up abruptly, her hand knocking over a cup of expensive Darjeeling tea. The dark liquid splashed across the snow-white tablecloth like a pool of dirty blood. "This afternoon is the Vanderbilt polo match! You promised you would accompany me!"
At the far end of the long dining table, William continued to slice his medium-rare steak while reading the morning paper delivered by the butler. He didn't even look up. The clinking of his silverware against the china followed a rhythm that was unnervingly precise.
"I have a meeting," he said indifferently, his tone suggesting he was discussing the weather rather than a broken promise. "Regarding the Northern Pacific Railway merger."
"Railroads! Always the damn railroads!" Aurora lost control completely. Though born into high society, she had never known true frustration—William's indifference was the only blemish in her life. She rushed forward and swept a stack of telegrams and documents off the table near William's hand.
Crash.
Papers flew like snowflakes, scattering across the floor. Some drifted into the fireplace, their edges licked by hungry flames; others landed in the tea stains on the Persian rug.
"If you don't come with me, I will tell Papa to withdraw his credit support for the Ashford Company!" Aurora shrieked, then gathered her skirts and stormed out of the dining room.
Deathly silence filled the room.
William finally set down his knife and fork. He looked at the mess on the floor, his grey-green eyes devoid of anger, filled instead with a chilling boredom. He stood up, adjusted his cufflinks, and spoke to the butler, whose face had gone pale with fright.
"Prepare the car. To the office."
"But Sir, these documents..."
"Dispose of them." William stepped coldly over the pile of papers as if stepping over a heap of garbage. "I do not read things that are soiled."
The oppressive atmosphere in the dining room didn't dissipate after William left.
"What are you looking at? Why are you all standing there like statues?" Mrs. Hope's vicious eyes swept over the maids, finally landing on Evelyn in the corner.
Mrs. Hope disliked this new, pretty maid—especially since she had dared to enter the Master's study yesterday.
"Kyle!" Mrs. Hope pointed at the mess on the floor, a malicious smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "These are the Master's confidential documents. Although he said to dispose of them, if a single word leaks out, I will hand you over to the police. Now, clean them up. Sort them and destroy them. Remember, 'sort' them—just in case the Master comes back looking for something. If you can't produce it, it will be your head."
It was a trap. A dead end.
William had said "dispose of them," but Mrs. Hope was ordering her to "sort and keep, just in case." If she threw them away, William might look for trouble later; if she kept them, William had explicitly stated he wouldn't read dirty things. Furthermore, the pile was a mix of private letters, business telegrams, and scrap paper. How could an uneducated, lower-class maid possibly distinguish between what was important and what was trash?
The surrounding maids cast sympathetic glances, while Mrs. Hope crossed her arms, waiting for the show.
"Yes, Mrs. Hope."
Evelyn offered no defense. She obediently crouched down and began picking up the papers.
As her fingers touched the cold sheets, memories from her past life surged forward.
The Railroad Wars of 1900. The bloodiest year on Wall Street.
In her previous life, William had nearly lost control of his company because of this failed merger. And the reason for the failure was a crucial piece of insider intelligence that had been mixed in with a pile of inconsequential social invitations and burned as trash by an oblivious servant.
Evelyn's eyes scanned the chaotic pile.
Invitations, bills, Aurora's love letters... and an unassuming, half-palm-sized piece of yellow telegram paper.
There was no letterhead, just a string of seemingly meaningless numbers and a single line of text: "H. has sold in Chicago."
H. Edward Harriman. William's deadliest rival.
In her past life, William didn't find out Harriman was short-selling him until a month later, but by then, it was too late.
Evelyn's heart pounded, but her hands were terribly steady. She quietly slipped the tea-stained telegram out of the pile. She did not "sort and destroy" as Mrs. Hope asked, nor did she foolishly run to present it like a treasure.
She found a clean piece of absorbent velvet cloth and carefully blotted the tea stain. Then, she took a flatiron, placed a thin cloth over the paper, and pressed the wrinkled telegram until it was perfectly smooth.
Next, she did something no one expected.
She tucked the telegram inside a leather-bound Bible—a relic of William's mother, and the only object William touched every morning before leaving the house for a moment of peace. It sat on the console table in the foyer.
As for the other documents? She threw them all into the fireplace, right in front of Mrs. Hope.
"Are you crazy?" Mrs. Hope screeched. "I told you to sort them—"
"The Master said he does not read things stained with tea," Evelyn said, standing up, the firelight reflecting on her calm face. "I have only preserved the 'cleanliness' the Master requires."
"Just you wait for the whip!" Mrs. Hope sputtered, flushed with rage.
Dusk fell, and the Ashford Manor limousine pulled into the front courtyard.
William walked into the foyer, carrying the chill of the evening with him. He had been in a rage at the office all day; the merger was deadlocked, and the unknown movements of his rivals had made him anxious to the breaking point.
"Welcome home, Sir." The butler took his coat.
William rubbed his brow in exhaustion. Habitually, he placed his hand on the old Bible on the console table—his ritual for seeking a moment of silence.
His fingertips brushed against a stiff piece of paper.
There was never anything inside this Bible.
Frowning, William pulled the paper out.
The originally crumpled telegram was now as flat as new. The faint tea stain actually made the ink stand out more clearly. The line of text hit his retina like a lightning bolt: "H. has sold in Chicago."
William's pupils constricted instantly.
This single piece of intelligence was worth thirty million dollars.
"Who did this?" His voice was low, suppressing a tidal wave of shock.
The butler froze, glanced at the telegram, and broke into a cold sweat. "That... that was the trash from this morning. It must have been the new maid, Evelyn... Mrs. Hope was just saying she needed to be punished for throwing things away indiscriminately..."
"Punished?" William let out a cold chuckle. He turned around, his gaze piercing through the long corridor toward the servants' quarters in the back.
He remembered her. The maid with the emerald eyes who claimed her mother feared the light.
There had been at least fifty different documents in that pile this morning. How could a girl from the slums, in a matter of seconds, pick the only piece of "gold" out of a pile of "trash"? And how did she know to place it in the one spot he would absolutely touch, handing it to him in a nearly silent manner?
She had avoided Aurora's spies and completed the mission.
This wasn't just intelligence. This was instinct. A predatory sense for power and crisis that matched his own.
"Send her to my study," William said, folding the telegram and placing it into his breast pocket. A playful, dangerous arc formed on his lips. "Also, inform Mrs. Hope that her bonus for this month is cancelled."
In a dark corner, Evelyn, who was polishing the staircase banister, heard the butler's summons.
She lowered her head, hiding the glint of triumph in her eyes.