Page 7 of The Silent Princess

“Sir,” he says as I slide into the back seat.

“To the office.”

He answers with a clipped nod, his hands settling on the wheel, opera music already playing through the speakers. Exactly what I need to think clearly. The night is still young, the moon casting silver light across the city. Thirty minutes later, I'm stepping out of the elevator, reading emails on my phone and absentmindedly making my way toward my office without even looking up. It's only when I push open the door that I realize someone else is inside. My blood runs cold.

A petite, dark-haired young woman is standing in front of my bookshelf, holding the photograph of Nate, Maddie, and me from last Christmas. She's running a fingertip over my face, her small frame almost swallowed by her white cleaning blouse. A spray bottle and cloth rest on my desk. The new maid. I could interrupt her. I could. But I want to see what she’s going to do. Will she go for the safe? Will she start looking through the documents in my drawers? Instead, all she does is stand there, staring at the photograph, a small sigh escaping her lips.

“See anything you like?” I ask, loud enough to startle her. A cracked squeak leaves her as the frame slips from her hands and crashes onto the floor, the glass shattering into dozens of pieces. Her gaze collides with mine, and I stop short.

Pale skin, round face, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes, full lips, and long, layered black hair. She has a small nose with the slightest softness at the tip. Whoever she is, she looks like a girl straight out of a children's book, the kind who sweeps chimneys and scrubs floors while waiting for her prince to find her. There's a grace and gentleness about her, something so profoundly delicate that it steals the air from my lungs. Whatever I was about to say stays lodged in my throat as I stride toward her. She's already kneeling, trying to gather the shards of glass with her bare hands. No, don’t. She's going to hurt herself. A thick crimson line blooms across her palm. Without hesitation, I seize her wrist as gently as I can and pull her to her feet, wanting to inspect the wound.

“Sit,” I order, pointing toward my chair, not caring one bit about a broken frame that can be replaced first thing tomorrow. She shakes her head twice, as though the very thought of sitting in my chair would physically harm her. “You're bleeding,” I say harshly, still holding her wrist. She silently mouths the same word over and over again.

Sorry.

“I'm going to get the first-aid kit. Stay here.” I release her wrist, the absence of her touch leaving me oddly unsettled, as though holding her had been the most natural thing in the world. Hurrying out of my office, I go straight toward the kitchenette on the opposite side of the floor, where I know there's a box stocked with disinfectant and bandages. I grab it within seconds, ignoring the fact that I'm rushing for a woman I've never met over what is, objectively, a small cut.

I can’t see her from here. The elevator bell rings. I clutch the kit and hurry back toward my office, passing the elevator just as its doors slide shut. When I step inside, she's gone. The shards of glass have disappeared. So has the blood. No trace of the spray bottle and cloth either. She cleaned everything in less than a minute and disappeared while I was fetching the bandages. I step into the lounge and notice a bag resting on one of the couches. She forgot it. I come closer, my heart unusually loud. This bag has seen better days. There's a hole in one side, and the strap is badly frayed.

Why did she run away? Did she think I'd fire her for breaking a picture frame?

All I'd wanted was to...take care of her. Her purse clenched in my hand; I set it on my desk. My mother never left our home without her bag; I guess she’ll come back for it too. The thought of seeing her again sends a jolt of electricity through me.

Her eyes… Ones of someone who lost her innocence far too soon. Of someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I know that look. The very same stares back at me every morning in the mirror. A strange urge tells me to run after her. Instead, I shut my eyes and force myself to focus. I came here to check Brenton's file on the Vodianovs, not chase after a maid. I skim through the report, finding nothing that matches the combination Cole's cousin gave me earlier. I'll deal with it tomorrow. When she comes back...I want to be here. Even if I don't understand why. As I leave the Ashford building and slide into the back of my car, something suddenly strikes me.

I haven't even heard her voice.

Chapter Two

Ella

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Look at what you did.

First, you gawked at a photograph and got caught looking. Second, you broke a valuable object. Third, you wasted a stranger's time. Not even a stranger, the owner of the office, who looked like an important man with far better things to do than help you clean up the mess you'd made. Thank God I bumped into Anja in the elevator, my hand tucked inside my sleeve to hide the cut.

“You okay, Ella?” She takes my elbow, her motherly eyes forcing me to let her check on me. “Did anyone bump into ya upstairs, uh?” I nod, appreciating the chance to be truthful with one of the very few people I can be honest with.

“What happened? Wait, your bag? Luv, what's going on?” Thankfully, my phone is still in my back pocket, and so are my keys, so I open my Notes app and type.

I bumped into someone while I was looking at a photograph.

It fell and broke.

What if I get fired?

“Did they tell you anything ?” I shake my head. “Then what's the matter?” I mouth the word fired, and her gaze drops to my lips.

“Fire you? Nah. They can't even find someone to replace me when the babysitter lets me down. Good luck finding someone to replace you,” she scoffs, and it brings me a small measure of comfort. The plastic bag still in my hand, I tighten my fist around it to stop the bleeding while watching the glowing numbers descend from thirty-two to fourteen.

“What's that?” she asks, glancing down at my hand as she notices a thin line of blood trickling over my fingers. I shake my head. Nothing. It's nothing.

“You're hurt. Let me see.” She doesn’t leave me room to argue, so I drop the plastic bag onto the floor, the shards of glass clinking together inside the small metal box we are standing in.

It's from the glass frame I broke.

She nods. “It's not too deep, but you've gotta get this cleaned right away.” I remind myself she was a nurse during the day. Of course she knows what to do. “It's your lucky day. I keep a few bits and bobs in my bag. Gotta be prepared in case kids smash their faces on somethin'.” I offer her a weak smile, mouthing thank you, because, truly, I may not have anyone in my corner at home, but I still have a good friend here at work. The elevator chimes, and the doors open onto the sleek lobby, Ronnie standing behind the reception desk beside the gorgeous fake-looking orchids. I expect us to walk right past him. Instead, Anja, in her not-so-subtle way, whistles with two fingers between her lips.

“Ronnie! Over here, mate!” I turn crimson. Anja is one of those people who isn’t afraid to take up space. My guess is that social anxiety is afraid of her. Which, now that I think about it, isn’t such a bad thing. It lets her do whatever she wants without cowering the way I do.