I wait until she reaches the door. “Excuse me, I need help with something.”
She turns, eyebrows raised. “Of course, miss. What do you need?”
“It’s embarrassing.” I let my voice drop, adding just enough shame to make it believable. “I’m having…female problems. I need supplies, and I think I need to clean up in the bathroom.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Oh, of course. I could ask one of the female guards?—”
“Please, no.” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t want everyone knowing about this. Could you just…help me? Woman to woman?”
Understanding softens her features. “Of course. Let me just set my key card down and?—”
“Actually, could we go to the bathroom first? I’m really uncomfortable.”
She nods and turns away. I wait until her back is to me before grabbing the fork off my lunch tray and following her into the marble bathroom—polished, oversized, and thankfully empty.
As soon as we’re inside, I slam the door shut and twist the lock.
She jumps. “Miss?”
I raise the fork. “Take off your uniform.”
Her eyes go wide. “I—I’m sorry, what?”
“Now,” I say. “All of it.”
She backs up a step, hands half-lifted. “Miss, please. If someone finds out?—”
“If you don’t,” I say, my voice calm and cool, “I’ll start screaming that you attacked me. You really want to play the odds on who they’ll believe?”
Her face goes pale. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
She looks at the fork, then at my face. After a beat, her shoulders slump. Trembling fingers go to the buttons on her blouse. I keep the fork steady as she undresses.
When the uniform is off, I snatch it from her hands and start changing without turning away.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter as I zip up the skirt. It fits well enough—tight in the chest, snug in the hips, but it’ll pass. I tie my hair in a bun, and somehow, I look unrecognizable in the white and black outfit. “Where’s your key card?”
“My front pocket.”
I reach into the pocket and retrieve it. The shiny rectangular plastic is my ticket out of here.
“Thank you,” I tell her as I exit the bathroom. “Someone will get you out eventually.
I leave the bathroom and grab the lunch tray from my nightstand—the perfect excuse to be wandering the halls—and step into the corridor like I’ve done this a million times before.
The main house is busier than I expected. Staff moving between floors, their arms full of linens and flowers. Another event, probably. Rich people and their endless celebrations.
I keep my head down and walk with confidence, like just another servant carrying out orders. The service elevator is thirty feet away when a voice stops me cold.
“Excuse me.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, but I turn with what I hope looks like mild curiosity. An older woman approaches, her grayhair pulled into a severe bun and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“I don’t recognize you,” she says, studying my face like she’s memorizing it. “Are you new?”
I nod.
