I walked to the table and picked up the bowl of steaming bird's nest soup.

I stirred it once with the spoon, letting the heat curl upward in thin wisps. Then I scooped up a spoonful and brought it to Clarissa's lips.

Clarissa glanced at Lewis, then opened her mouth.

The instant the spoon touched her lips, she flinched. Her head jerked back, and her hand swatted the bowl away.

"It's burning!" she cried.

The porcelain bowl hit the floor.

Scalding soup splashed out, most of it landing on the back of my hand and my wrist.

The skin flushed red immediately.

Clarissa clutched her chest, eyes brimming. "I'm so sorry, Abigail—I didn't mean to, it was just so hot..."

Lewis pulled Clarissa toward him, checking her face and neck.

"Are you burned?" His voice was tight with concern.

Once he confirmed she was fine, he turned to look at me.

Two glistening blisters had already risen on the back of my hand.

His gaze lingered on them for exactly one second. Then it moved away.

"You can't even handle something this simple," Lewis said. "Clean it up."

I lowered my hand. The blisters grazed the hem of my sleeve, and a sharp sting shot through my skin.

"Of course," I said.

I bent down and gathered the shards of porcelain from the floor.

My fingers bled where the edges bit in. I didn't make a sound.

At eight that evening, a private banquet was held at the Delgado Mansion.

It was a welcome-home celebration for Clarissa.

Lewis handed me a black staff uniform and assigned me to serve drinks and direct guests.

I was the former companion. Now I was the waitstaff.

Everyone in the Capital's elite circle treated it as entertainment—a chance to watch the fallen Fox heiress make a fool of herself.

I changed into the uniform and moved through the crowd with a tray balanced on my palm.

Someone deliberately clipped my shoulder. Wine sloshed over the rim.

"Well, well—isn't that Abigail Fox?" A woman in a red dress covered her mouth, laughing. "What happened, didn't Lewis give you a severance package?"

I recognized her. She'd once tried to cozy up to Lewis, and I'd been made to down three shots of hard liquor on her behalf.

"Beth Finch." I pulled a cloth from my apron and wiped down the tray. "The champagne runs ten thousand a bottle. You just knocked over half a glass. That's five thousand in damages. Card or wire transfer?"

The color drained from her face. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If you'd rather not pay," I tipped my chin toward Lewis across the room, "that's my employer over there. You're welcome to file a complaint. He can dock it from my wages—though he usually requires the responsible party to reimburse ten times the amount."

Beth glared at me, then walked away.

In the center of the hall, Lewis had Clarissa on his arm as they made their rounds, toasting guests.

Clarissa wore a couture gown. Around her neck hung a sapphire necklace.

I'd seen that necklace before.

It had belonged to my mother. It was also the most valuable thing I'd ever pawned to Lewis.

I stood in the shadows, watching the sapphire catch the light.

Lewis seemed to sense my gaze. He turned his head.

He raised his glass in my direction—a distant, mocking salute.

A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

Clarissa followed his line of sight, then leaned close and whispered something in his ear.

Lewis nodded.

Clarissa gathered her skirt and walked toward me.

She stopped in front of me, her fingers trailing along the necklace.

"Abigail, Lewis told me this necklace was your mother's." Clarissa smiled. "It's beautiful—I absolutely love it. He said he's giving it to me. You don't mind, do you?"

I stared at the sapphire.

"It's his property." My voice dropped low. "It has nothing to do with me."

"As long as you don't mind." Clarissa plucked a glass of red wine from a passing tray. "As a thank-you, let me toast you."

She held the glass out to me.

I reached for it.

Clarissa's fingers released.

The wine glass never made it into my hand. It slipped past my fingers and landed squarely on her skirt.

Red wine splashed across white fabric, blooming like a stain of blood.

"Ah!" Clarissa shrieked, stumbling back two steps, and then she was on the ground, legs crumpled beneath her.

The room went dead silent.

Lewis shoved through the crowd and reached her side, pulling her to her feet.

"What happened?" His voice was low and dangerous as he took in her disheveled state.

Tears spilled down Clarissa's cheeks. "It's not Abigail's fault... I didn't hold on tight enough... Maybe she just couldn't bear to part with that necklace..."

Lewis's head snapped up toward me.

I looked right back at him.

I didn't explain myself. Explanations weren't part of the job description.

"Apologize," Lewis said.

I didn't move.

"Abigail. I said apologize." He stood, closing the distance between us by one deliberate step. "You're a server here tonight. You stained a guest's dress. Shouldn't you apologize?"

Everyone around us was watching. Enjoying the show.

I ran the math.

If I refused, he'd likely withhold my entire remaining payment—maybe even use it as an excuse to keep the necklace.

If I apologized, I'd lose my dignity but walk away with the money.

Dignity didn't pay bills.

I bent at the waist. A full ninety-degree bow.

"I'm sorry, Miss Simmons." My voice was steady. "My hand slipped and I stained your dress. I'll cover the dry-cleaning costs in full."

Lewis stared at me. Then a cold laugh broke from his throat.

"Cover the costs? You think you can afford it?"

He grabbed a bottle of red wine from the table.

Pulled the cork.

Red liquid poured down from above my head.

Ice-cold. Sticky. Reeking of alcohol. It streamed over my eyes, seeped into my mouth.

"That's what covering costs looks like."

He set the empty bottle on the table.

I kept my eyes shut, enduring the wine as it dripped down my face, my neck, soaking into my clothes.

"Understood, Mr. Delgado." I wiped a hand across my wine-streaked face. "Are we even now?"

Clarissa, shaken by her "ordeal," spiked a high fever that evening.

Lewis summoned his entire private medical team to the villa.

I had a fever too.

Wine left to dry on skin, combined with days of running on fumes—my body had finally given out.

But I was in the maid's quarters. Nobody knew.

10 p.m.

My phone buzzed.

The hospital.

"Ms. Fox, your father has suffered a sudden cardiac arrest. He's being resuscitated now. We need a surgery payment of fifty thousand dollars, and it has to clear within thirty minutes."

I sat up in bed. The room tilted.

I checked my balance.

Thirty thousand.

Everything else had gone to debts. My wages from this job still hadn't been deposited.

I staggered out of the room and up the stairs to the second floor.

The master bedroom door was ajar.

Lewis sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of water to Clarissa's lips.

I pushed the door open.

He turned with a scowl. "Who told you to come in here? Get out."

I gripped the doorframe to keep myself upright.

"Lewis." My voice came out raw. "Pay me my wages. Now."

"Are you out of your mind?" He set the glass down, lowering his voice. "Keep it down. Clarissa just fell asleep."

"My father is in the hospital being resuscitated." I locked my eyes on his. "I need the money. It's what I'm owed."

Lewis stood, walked to the door, shoved me into the hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him.

In the corridor, he looked down at me from his full height.

"Your father's being resuscitated?" A scornful smile. "Abigail, you'd really stoop to this kind of lie just to squeeze money out of me? Didn't you say last month he was getting better?"

"It's true." I grabbed his sleeve. "Please. Just give me what you owe me. Even twenty thousand now would be enough."

Lewis shook my hand off.

I slammed into the wall and slid to the floor.

"No." Lewis straightened his cuffs. "You want the money? Kneel here. Kneel until dawn, and I'll believe you."

He turned to go back to his room.

"Lewis!" I called after him. "That's a person's life."

Lewis stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Clarissa just had a nightmare. She needs someone with her." His voice was flat. "Stop making noise, or you won't get a cent."

The door closed.

The hallway fell into a dead silence.

I pulled out my phone and sent messages to every contact in my list, begging to borrow money.

No one replied.

The friends I'd once had blocked me long ago.

Minutes crawled by. Seconds dragged.

Until midnight.

My phone buzzed again.

A text message. From the hospital.

Patient Zachary Fox—resuscitation unsuccessful. Time of death confirmed: 11:58 PM. Family members are requested to come to the hospital to complete the necessary procedures.

I stared at the words on the screen.

I recognized every single one of them. I just didn't want to understand what they meant strung together.

From inside the bedroom came Clarissa's soft, honeyed voice: "Lewis, I'm scared..."

Then Lewis's gentle murmur: "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

I braced a hand against the wall and slowly pulled myself to my feet.

The fever seemed to have broken.

My body was strangely cold. Strangely light.

I turned and walked downstairs.

Back in the maid's room, I opened my suitcase. Inside were a few old clothes. Nothing else.

I took out the Emotional Service Invoice—the ledger I'd kept for three years—and set it on the table.

I picked up a pen and wrote a single line on the last page.

Funeral expenses: Priceless.

Status: Paid in full by Abigail Fox.

Balance: All debts settled.

I tore out the page and taped it to the door.

Then I dragged my suitcase out through the front gates of the Delgado Mansion.

It was pouring outside.

I didn't bother with an umbrella.

The rain washed the lingering smell of red wine from my skin.

I pulled the SIM card from my phone and dropped it into a storm drain by the curb.

This time, I didn't need a calculator.

Our accounts were closed.