1 - Emma
The wine stain won’t come out of the marble.
I've been scrubbing for twenty minutes, knowing that if it's still there when Mrs.Hewson returns, I'll lose more than just this job. My knees burn against the cool floor, each stroke of the cloth a prayer.Please don't notice me, please let me disappear.
The lemon polish stings my raw fingers, but I keep scrubbing. Around me, the kitchen still reeks of last night's celebration, champagne and caviar mingling with the acid bite of my cleaning supplies.
Mrs.Hewson's voice cracks through my invisibility like lightning through glass.
"Frances is missing!" she screams into her phone, somewhere above me. Her Louboutins click closer with each word. "The wedding is tomorrow, tomorrow, and that ungrateful little bitch has vanished!"
My hands tremble as I work the stain, trying to become smaller, less visible. The other servants fled the moment her rage erupted, but I'm trapped by this stubborn reminder of the party where the Hewsons celebrated their daughter's upcoming marriage.
A marriage to Alessandro Rosetti. Even thinking his name makes my stomach clench. The servants whisper about him when they think no one's listening. How he goes through women like expensive champagne—savored, consumed, discarded. How his smile can make you forget he's dangerous until you see him switch from seduction to violence without changing expression.They say he proposed to his last mistress with a diamond necklace in one hand and a gun in the other, just to see which she'd choose. How the last man who insulted his date was found in pieces along the Chicago River, but not before Alessandro finished his dessert and asked the woman if she preferred the opera or the ballet for their next evening out.
"Alessandro Rosetti expects a bride," Mrs.Hewson hisses, her heels clicking closer. The sound echoes off marble like bullets. "Do you understand what that family does to people who break agreements? He's not just mafia dangerous. He's something worse. Tomorrow he arrives expecting Frances, and if there's no wedding…"
She doesn't finish the threat. The silence says enough.
I study every tremor in her voice, every crack in her composure. Mrs.Hewson, who rules this mansion with iron control, is terrified. And that gives me something I haven't had in two years: information. Whatever Alessandro Rosetti is, he's powerful enough to scare even her.
"What's this?"
Before I can react, she snatches the envelope from my apron pocket. Tommy's letter. I've been carrying it for three days, reading it over and over, each word burning deeper into my heart. My brother's cramped handwriting describes the prison guards, their escalating threats, his desperate need for protection money I don't have.
She reads it slowly, her expression shifting from irritation to something sharper, calculating. Then she looks at me. Really looks at me for the first time in the two years I've scrubbed her floors.
"Stand up," she commands.
I obey, my legs shaking from more than just hours on my knees. Her eyes narrow as she circles me like a buyer examiningmerchandise. Her manicured nails dig into my chin, forcing my face toward the light.
"My God." Her breath catches. "The resemblance to Frances is… it's exact. Same height, same build, even the way you tilt your head."
I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes, desperation reshaping into opportunity. She's more terrified than I am, and that scares me most of all.
"Please, that's private." I reach for Tommy's letter, but she holds it away, her smile sharp as the diamonds at her throat.
"Your brother Tommy," she says softly, dangerously. "Such a precarious situation in that particular prison. The guards there can be so… unpredictable." She pauses, watching my face drain of color. "One word from me, and they could become his protectors instead of his tormentors. Or…"
The alternative hangs between us like a blade. I think of Tommy pointing out constellations from our fire escape when we were kids, making up stories about heroes and monsters in the stars. Now I'm about to become both.
"What do you want?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Come with me."
The wedding dress is pure silk, white as fresh snow against my work-roughened hands. The fabric whispers against my skin as Mrs.Hewson forces me into it, her hands efficient and cold as she adjusts the fit. Each touch transforms me. The weight of the beading straightens my spine, the corset cinches my waist into something elegant instead of merely thin.
In the mirror, I don't see Sophie the servant. I see someone dangerous. Someone who could belong in Alessandro Rosetti's world, even if it's all an illusion.
"Perfect," Mrs.Hewson breathes. "You could be Frances. You will be Frances."
"What? No."
"No?" Her voice is sharp.
"Everyone will know," I stammer, ducking my head.
Mrs.Hewson's nails thrum against her tailored pants. "Frances hasn't been home for years." She tilts my head left and right, pulls my hair back from my face. "Yes, you'll do nicely."
