Chapter 2 - The Hands That Built This FloorI stood in the pantry, running cold tap water over my reddened knuckles. The kitchen door swung open quietly, and Maya—a young night-shift student hired two weeks ago as a junior maid—rushed inside with a box of medical ice packs.
“Ma'am, please make one call,” Maya begged, her eyes wide with shock and fear as she saw my trembling hands. “Let me call Mr. Elijah right now. Let me tell him what she just did to you!”
I turned off the tap and dried my hands on a clean towel. “And tell him what, child? That his grandmother put on an apron to keep an eye on the woman he loves? He would protect her. Love makes a good man deaf.”
Maya shook her head bitterly. “She stepped on your hand with a heel! She’s a monster, ma'am! Why are you letting her treat you like trash?”
“I served this family for 35 years,” I said softly, looking around the cavernous kitchen. “I never wanted to throw anyone out of this house... until today.”
I walked over to the giant gas range, running my palm over the stainless steel counter.
“I spent 9 years kneeling on the kitchen floor mixing hair cream in a saucepan,” I murmured, my mind wandering back forty years to when my late husband and I started our small cosmetic business in this very kitchen before it became a billion-dollar empire. “This floor built this house. Her heels won't break me.”
“She fired Clara, the senior housekeeper, after 31 years of service,” Maya whispered, pulling up a chair for me. “She moved into your private master suite upstairs. And she’s manipulating Mr. Elijah every single night to cancel his grandmother's trust and marriage contract. That's why you came back early, isn't it?”
“That is why I’m here,” I replied. “And if she recognizes me before Friday—”
“She won't,” Maya interrupted firmly. “You’ve been living in Europe for seven years. There haven't been new photos of you in thirty years because you hate cameras. The only face she’s ever seen of the great Evelyn Vance is the oil painting hanging in the main gallery—the one painted when you were 28 years old.”
Maya smiled sadly, handing me a small tube of burn ointment. “And women like Vanessa never look at the faces of servants.”
The kitchen intercom suddenly chimed. “Silver must be polished before dinner. Is it ready?” Elijah’s deep voice boomed through the speaker.
“Of course, sir,” I answered into the microphone, adjusting my voice to a gravelly, tired tone. “Right away, sir.”
I turned back to Maya, who was gently wrapping a bandage around my wrist. “You missed lunch, child. I left you a plate in the warming drawer. And why are you doing all this for me? You study at a medical college on night shifts. You should be resting.”
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Maya looked down, her cheeks flushing. “Why are you so kind to me, child? There’s nothing I can do for you right now.”
“My grandmother cleaned houses in this city for 40 years,” Maya whispered softly. “Someone should be kind to her.”
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