The door opens before I can answer.
Anya.
Still pale. Still looks like she’s been internally screaming for the past thirty minutes.
“I—I came to see if you needed anything else,” she says in a voice that’s already apologizing for its existence.
Alya straightens.
“Your mistake sent her to the wrong room,” she states, not mean, justaccurate.Like she’s filling out a report.
Anya flinches. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She’s already dressed now, but it could’ve caused delay. And confusion. And Papa doesn’t like either.”
I see it then—Anya’s hands trembling just slightly as she clasps them in front of her apron. Like she’s waiting for a verdict she already fears.
I step in fast, voice firm. “Hey. That’s enough.”
Alya looks up—and for the first time, she actually looks surprised. Her eyes widen just a fraction, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to interrupt her. Not like that. Not calmly. Not like a grown-up.
No sharp scolding. No bribes. No one rushing to appease her or avoid the fallout. Just someone saying, plainly,that’s enough.
And judging by the way she blinks—like her internal script just got shredded—I don’t think she hears that often.
I step in front of the mirror, tucking my blouse, but I glance at her reflection behind me.
She’s still watching me. Still processing. Like she doesn’t know what to do with someone who talks to her like she’s just a kid—not a ticking bomb in patent shoes.
I sigh quietly and turn, walking toward her. Slow. Steady. Like I’ve done this before. Because I have.
Alya straightens a little in the chair but doesn’t move.
I stop a few feet in front of her. I don’t crouch—I don’t want to talkdownto her. I want her to hear me. Fully.
“Anya made a mistake. That doesn’t mean she’s bad at her job. It means she’s human.”
Alya holds herself still, spine stiff, like she’s trying to memorize it.
“And you know what strong people do?” I continue. “They don’t punish someone the second they slip up. They give them a chance to do better. Because that’s what we all need sometimes. Grace.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Alya looks at Anya. “Do better.”
Anya nods so fast she might get whiplash. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”
She disappears like she’s afraid if she lingers, she’ll be handed a sword and told to duel for her position.
I finally finish dressing and pull my hair into a twist, catching my breath.
Alya still hasn’t moved.
She’s watching me. Not with hate. But with… calculation. Curiosity. Like she’s trying to recalibrate what I am now that I’ve spoken up.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her gently. “About people messing up. Including me.”
“I know.”
