Beneath the chandelier

The Van Aelrich estate did not whisper. It watched.

Clara knew that well by now - the way its high archways seemed to listen, how its mirrors reflected more than they showed, how silence here wasn't quiet, but pressure. It pressed on her shoulders with the weight of a thousand rules. Step lightly. Speak rarely. Never smile, and so on.

At dawn, the marble floors didn't feel as cold as they should, since her feet were enveloped in black buckled shoes, one of the many house rules. She slipped through the servant's hallway, apron wrinkled from the night before, fingers still raw from polishing silver. It had to be done only by hand, once a week, and last night was her turn. She'd polished every fork and knife by hand until near dawn; her fingers were still raw.

"You're late," snapped Martha, the head maid, as Clara reached the kitchen. "Breakfast trays for the east wing. And don't dawdle - Mr. Van Aelrich is expecting perfection today."

Bullshit. Lucien Van Aelrich expected perfection every day. From everyone. And he always found something to judge, or punish.

Clara bit back a reply, took the tray with both hands, and turned toward the east wing, the family's private quarters. The house was hushed, but not quiet. There was always the ticking of clocks, the hum of security systems, the occasional distant echo of Genevieve's voice, complaining about something no one could control.

The Van Aelrich sons had rooms on the second floor. Clara avoided their eyes when she brought towels or cleared breakfast. Cassian , the oldest, never looked at her. Never looked at anyone who wasn't on his social level. Theo, the youngest, once asked her name and forgot it before she answered.

Only Rowan noticed.

That morning, as she passed his door, she caught the faint sound of piano keys - not a full melody, just scattered notes. She paused. It was forbidden to stop. But the sound was soft and sad and pulled at her in a way nothing in this house ever had.

Then the door creaked open.

He stood there, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the light from the window softening his sharp features. Not a word - just a look. Curious. Tired. Kind.

Clara lowered her gaze, the tray trembling in her hands. "Sorry sir. I wasn't-"

"You always pause when I play," Rowan said quietly. His voice didn't command like his father's - it invited. "It's okay. I won't tell."

But it wasn't. Nothing here ever was.

"Breakfast," she mumbled, stepping away.

He didn't stop her, but his eyes followed her down the hall.

She didn't notice. She never noticed when he did that, because her eyes are always on the ground, too scared to look a Van Aelrich in the eyes.

Clara moved on with her task, bringing the tray to the youngest's room. Working for Theo wasn't difficult for any maid. He was still a teenager, more of an innocent puppy than a snarling pit bull, unlike the rest of his family. Snobbish, yes, but harmless in comparison. She knocked on his door three times - just as the rules said.

When the door opened, she was met by a young boy, 17 , almost 18, but despite his age, he was still looking down at her, the height difference becoming intimidating. His usual wide brown eyes , were small, still sleepy. His blond hair was slightly tousled, not slicked back the way his father insisted he wear it. Even his pyjamas looked... sophisticated. Everything in this house was, after all.

Theo could be snobbish - casually, unconsciously - but there was no venom behind it. He didn't speak down to the staff so much as forget they were there. He didn't bark orders, and he didn't watch them like hawks the way his mother or eldest brother did. He was, at worst, distracted; at best, harmless. Usually had his headphones on, pretending to listen to music to avoid his family. Usual teen behaviour.

He had yet to grow into the family name, and part of Clara hoped he never would.

He took the tray from her, muttered a small 'thanks', and closed the door as fast as he opened it.

She moved on to the kitchen again. Her inner voice was telling her to stop at Rowan's door, just to hear how he plays again - even if it was a little scrawny - but she knew better than to disobey the rules twice in a day, hell, in less than 5 minutes. She passed his door faster than she passed any other in the hallway.

As Clara reached the stairs, a moment of silence fell on the hallway, like nobody dared to make a sound. She checked her watch. 8.00 am. Mr. Van Aelrich - also known as Lucien - as always, on time, sat down to eat his breakfast. Clara didn't see it, but she knew. Everything in this house was always on time, always perfect.. always.. the same. She quietly reached downstairs, and at exactly 8:20, the faint sound of a piano was heard again.