Chapter 3

My life changes overnight. I am no longer Mrs. Lester, even in name only. I am the lowest of the household staff, an unpaid servant.

Ethan moves me out of my room and into a small, cold chamber in the basement, next to the laundry. It has a cot, a thin blanket, and no heater. The stone walls are perpetually damp.

My first task is to wash all of Gabrielle' s new clothes. Ethan took her on a shopping spree, filling the master suite with expensive dresses, delicate lingerie, and soft cashmere sweaters.

I am to wash them all by hand.

The basement is freezing. I kneel on the concrete floor, plunging my hands into a tub of icy water. The harsh soap stings the cuts on my knuckles. My hands quickly turn red and raw, then a painful shade of blue.

The other staff, who once treated me with a distant, formal respect, now see me as fair game. They are eager to please Gabrielle, the "true lady of the house."

The cook "forgets" to save any food for me. The maids mock me as they pass, whispering loud enough for me to hear.

"Look at her. Thought she was so high and mighty."

"Serves her right for what she did to Miss Gabrielle."

They sabotage my work. Someone spills ink on a white silk blouse, and I spend hours trying to scrub it out, my fingers aching and numb. Someone else "accidentally" trips me as I carry a heavy basket of wet laundry, sending me sprawling onto the dirty floor.

I don' t complain. I just get up, gather the clothes, and start over.

My health, already fragile from years of stress and neglect, begins to spiral. A persistent cough starts in my chest, a dry, hacking sound that echoes in the cold basement. I grow thinner, the bones of my face becoming sharp and prominent. The dark circles under my eyes are permanent fixtures.

One evening, as I' m scrubbing the kitchen floor, I see them through the doorway. Ethan is brushing Gabrielle' s hair in front of the fireplace. He' s so gentle, his touch so tender. He whispers something in her ear, and she laughs, leaning her head back against his chest.

The sight is a physical blow. The pain in my chest tightens, and I' m seized by a violent coughing fit. I press a hand to my mouth, and when I pull it away, I see a smear of blood on my palm.

I stare at it, a strange sense of calm washing over me.

I' m dying.

The thought doesn' t scare me. It feels like a release. A way out.

I look back at the couple by the fire, so wrapped up in their perfect world. They have no idea. They don' t care.

I wipe the blood on my worn-out apron and continue scrubbing the floor.