Chapter 2

After three days, the doctors said no concussion. Chloe was discharged.

I took her back to the Davis mansion. The air itself felt hostile.

Her mother saw her, frowned, grabbed Ethan's hand, and walked away without a word.

Other staff members whispered when Chloe passed, their faces showing open dislike.

Chloe raised the toy rabbit in her hand, ready to throw it.

I caught her wrist. Fast.

I knelt. "You love your bunny, right?" I said softly. "If you throw him, he'll get hurt."

She clutched the rabbit to her chest, stroking its fur.

I sighed inwardly. I felt for her. I also worried. If she caused trouble, I could be next on the chopping block. I heard nannies got fired often because of her tantrums.

I led her to her room. Or what used to be a storage closet.

Because she'd set her real room on fire, this was her punishment. Small. No windows. A strange, musty smell.

Honestly, my dorm room back in college was a palace compared to this.

Strangely, she didn't complain. She just placed her rabbit on the narrow bed, carefully tucking it under a thin blanket.

I started unpacking her small suitcase.

Her voice came from behind me, a little shaky. "This is Mom's punishment for the fire."

"She'll let me move back when she's not mad anymore."

"She doesn't hate me."

I looked up. She was trying so hard to look like she didn't care, staring at the wall. But her knuckles were white, gripping the blanket.

I pretended not to notice her bravado. "Yeah, of course. As long as you know you did wrong."

"Setting fires is dangerous. If something happened to you, your mom would be devastated."

She didn't answer. Just kept staring at the wall.

The room was damp. Cold. Chloe coughed a few times that night.

The next morning, her cough was worse. Her forehead felt warm.

"Chloe, are you okay?"

She shook her head, burrowing under the blanket.

I suggested we tell her mother she needed a better room, a warmer one.

"No!" she snapped, eyes wide with something I couldn't quite name. Fear? "Mom will be angrier. I have to be good."

Being good meant shivering in a damp, windowless closet.

Later, I heard Maria talking to another maid in the hallway. "That child is a menace. Always sick, always trouble."

I stepped out. "She's a child, Maria. And her room is freezing."

Maria scoffed. "She burned her own room. What does she expect? A suite at the Ritz?"

"It's not your place to coddle her, Sarah. Mrs. Davis has rules." Her tone was a clear warning.

I wanted to argue, but I needed this job. I just nodded.

That night, Chloe woke up crying. Not the angry wails from the hospital, but a softer, more broken sound.

"It's cold," she whispered, her teeth chattering. "And dark."

I sat on the edge of her bed, pulled the thin blanket higher.

"My old room had stars on the ceiling," she mumbled, half-asleep. "Mommy painted them."

A memory, a flash of what might have been.

"Why did you burn your room, Chloe?" I asked softly, not expecting an answer.

She was quiet for a long time. Then, a tiny voice. "Ethan kept coming in. Taking my things. Mommy said I had to share. But he breaks everything."

"I told him to stay out. He wouldn't listen."

"So I made it so he couldn't come in."

Not malice. Desperation.

I held her hand. It was small, and cold. "There are other ways, Chloe. Ways that don't hurt you too."

She didn't understand. Or maybe she did, but didn't believe it.

I couldn't change the whole family. But maybe, just maybe, I could make this little closet a bit warmer. I "borrowed" a thicker blanket from the linen closet the next day. And a small, battery-operated nightlight.

Small rebellions. For a small, forgotten girl.