Chapter 5 Victoria's return

The sun had barely risen when Maya noticed the shift in the atmosphere.

The Ashbourne estate was unusually quiet for a Monday morning. The usual clatter of staff moving about, the faint sound of music from the kitchen radio, even the rustling of the garden staff-gone. The silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt expectant, like the entire house was holding its breath.

She was dusting the marble banister when she heard the first echo of heels. Sharp, measured, echoing down the main hallway. Maya froze.

The click of the heels came closer, deliberate and unhurried. Maya peeked over the rail, and her breath caught in her throat.

She was here.

Victoria.

Even without being told, Maya recognized her. There was no mistaking the woman gliding through the grand foyer like she owned every tile of the floor. She wore a tailored cream coat over a black sheath dress, her long auburn hair cascading down her back like a cascade of polished fire. Her red lips curled in satisfaction as she took in the home she had once ruled.

Maya remained still, hidden in shadow, one hand gripping the railing. Her instincts screamed for her to vanish, to melt into the wallpaper. She had heard the rumors-seen the worry in the butler's eyes when her name was mentioned. And now the woman herself had returned, just as everything in Maya's world was starting to shift.

Victoria turned toward the drawing room, her expression calm, but Maya noticed the tension in her jaw-calculated power. Maya exhaled slowly and slipped away before she could be seen.

Later that afternoon, while dusting the crystal vases in the gallery, Maya found herself face to face with Victoria. It was no accident.

"You must be the new girl," Victoria said, her voice silk wrapped around steel.

Maya stood straighter, not making eye contact. "Yes, ma'am."

"I see Alexander has lowered his standards." Her tone was cruel, but her smile didn't waver.

Maya's hands trembled slightly, but she didn't react. She had learned to stay quiet in the face of power.

"I like to know who's handling my things," Victoria said, stepping closer, inspecting Maya the way one might examine furniture. "You're... pretty. In a plain sort of way. I suppose that works for you. Men like simplicity sometimes, don't they?"

Maya said nothing, though the words stung. She fought to keep her breathing steady.

Victoria leaned in slightly, her voice now a whisper. "Let me give you a bit of advice, dear. Don't confuse opportunity for belonging. You're temporary. Replaceable. This house may have given you a role-but it will never give you a place."

And just like that, she turned on her heel and walked off, her perfume lingering in the hallway.

Maya stood motionless for a long time after she left.

That evening, Alexander was nowhere to be found. Maya had brought tea to the study only to discover he had left for a late dinner meeting. There was no note, no message, just an eerie silence where his warmth had been.

By nightfall, she was walking through the side gardens, needing air. The estate loomed behind her like a fortress. She clutched her cardigan tighter around herself.

She hadn't realized how fragile her peace had been-how easily Victoria's presence could shatter it. The kindness Alexander had shown her, their growing connection... it felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

She paused near the hedge of white roses and looked toward the house.

A shadow moved near the guesthouse window.

She blinked, unsure if it was a trick of the fading light-but then she saw it again. A figure. A woman's silhouette.

Curious-and mildly uneasy-Maya walked closer to the guesthouse. Most of the guest rooms hadn't been used in months. Only Victoria had been given the key this morning. Had someone else arrived?

She rounded the corner and froze.

There, standing near the guesthouse door, was a younger woman-mid-twenties, tall and sharp-featured, her hair pulled back into a severe braid. She was watching the house with intense focus.

Maya stepped back instinctively, and the woman turned to her.

"You're Maya," she said, as if she'd already known.

Maya's stomach dropped. "Who-?"

"I'm Rachel. Victoria's cousin."

The name sent a chill through her.

Rachel smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only calculation.

"I've heard a lot about you," Rachel said, walking closer. "You've made quite the impression."

Maya glanced around, looking for an excuse to leave.

"I'm not here to scare you," Rachel said. "But you should know-Victoria doesn't like to lose."

"I haven't done anything," Maya said quietly.

Rachel tilted her head. "Haven't you?"

There was something unnerving in her gaze. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something more deliberate-like she was studying Maya for weakness.

"I think you should be careful," Rachel continued. "This house has a history of getting rid of people who don't belong."

With that, she walked past Maya, disappearing into the darkness toward the guesthouse.

Maya returned to her quarters in a daze. Her mind swirled with uncertainty. Victoria's return, Rachel's eerie presence-it all felt too calculated, like chess pieces being moved into position.

She sat on her bed, trying to calm herself, but the quiet made her feel more alone than ever. She stared at the small framed photo on her nightstand-her mother, smiling, her eyes kind. Maya had promised herself she'd build something better, something stable. But now...

Now it felt like the ground was slipping from beneath her feet.

She thought of Alexander. Of his hand brushing hers in the library. Of the way he had looked at her like she mattered. But what did it mean in the face of history? In the face of women like Victoria and Rachel, who knew the rules of this world-who played the game with blood in their smiles?

Just before midnight, a folded note slid under her door.

Maya stared at it for several seconds before picking it up.

The handwriting was elegant and deliberate.

"Meet me in the east wing balcony. Come alone. – A"

Her heart skipped.

Alexander.

But something felt wrong. He had never sent a note before-not like this. And the east wing had been under renovation for weeks. It was empty. Abandoned.

She clutched the paper, torn between longing and dread.

Was it him?

Or was it someone else?