Chapter 2 - THE WINE AND THE WOLF
“You.”
Celeste Vanderpool’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom like a diamond scraping across glass.
Fay froze. Her worn shoes gripped the polished marble. The silver tray in her hands felt suddenly like an anvil.
Dozens of the city’s most powerful people turned. They saw Celeste, her platinum hair flawless, her face twisted in a mask of aristocratic fury. Dark red wine seeped into the bodice of her ten-thousand-dollar silk gown, spreading like a fresh wound.
“You did that on purpose,” Celeste hissed, her eyes locking onto Fay’s pale, tired face.
“Ma’am, I assure you—” Fay started, her voice steady despite the hammer of her heart. “Your elbow caught—”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Celeste stepped forward. The crowd parted, eager for the spectacle. “You clumsy, wretched little rat. Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? It’s worth more than your entire miserable life.”
Mrs. Odette rushed forward, her face pale. “Miss Vanderpool, please. She’s my best girl. It was an accident. We will pay for the cleaning—”
“Shut up,” Celeste snapped. She didn't even look at the older woman. Her cold eyes remained fixed on Fay. “I don’t want your apologies. I want her to learn her place.” Celeste pointed a manicured finger at the floor. “Get on your knees. Use that filthy apron and scrub my shoes. Now.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. No one moved. No one breathed.
Fay looked at the marble floor. She thought of Josie, asleep in the narrow beam of moonlight across town. She thought of the surgery. The money. She needed this job. But her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Only you can give someone permission to take your dignity.
Fay lifted her chin. Her pale gray eyes met Celeste’s furious blue ones.
“I will fetch a towel, ma’am,” Fay said softly, yet her voice carried. “But I will not kneel.”
A collective gasp rippled through the guests. Celeste’s face flushed scarlet. She raised her hand, her palm open, ready to strike the defiance right out of the maid’s face.
Fay didn't flinch. She braced herself.
But the strike never came.
A large, calloused hand caught Celeste’s wrist in mid-air.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Rafferty Cain stood there. He didn't look at his fiancée. His cold, winter-gray eyes were fixed entirely on Fay.
“Rafferty,” Celeste gasped, trying to pull her hand back, but his grip was like iron. “This trash ruined my gown! She refused—”
“I saw what happened, Celeste,” Rafferty’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet it commanded the entire ballroom. “You stepped backward. She stood still.”
Celeste’s mouth opened and closed. “You’re defending a maid over your future wife?”
Rafferty slowly released her wrist. “I am defending the peace of my own house. Mrs. Odette, take Miss Vanderpool to the west wing to change.”
Celeste looked humiliated, her eyes promising violent retribution, but no one argued with Rafferty Cain. She stormed off, leaving a suffocating tension in her wake.
Fay let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She turned to hurry back to the kitchens, eager to disappear. But as she pivoted, her hand brushed her apron pocket.
A folded piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
It was the drawing. The crooked sun. The mother and daughter holding hands.
Before Fay could reach for it, a polished black dress shoe stepped near it. Rafferty bent down. His large, scarred fingers picked up the fragile paper. He stared at the crude crayon lines. Something unreadable flickered behind his cold eyes.
Fay reached out, her voice trembling for the first time. “Please, sir. That’s mine.”
Rafferty looked from the drawing to Fay’s face. He studied the quiet resilience in her posture, the exhaustion bruising the skin under her eyes.
“Follow me,” he commanded, turning toward the dark hallway of the east wing.
May you like
Fay hesitated.
He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Now.”
