Chapter 6 CHAPTER 6: The Quiet Girl They Send
I don’t remember deciding to leave Elara’s wing—only the sensation of distance stretching between me and that room, like I was pulling myself out of deep water one painful step at a time. The servants’ corridor swallowed me whole, narrow and dim, the stone cold enough to bite through skin. Every step sent a sharp pulse up my leg, my injured foot screaming its protest, blood warm and slick against my stocking. I kept my head down, shoulders folded inward, moving fast but silently. Pain was allowed in this house. Noise was not. And I refused to give Elara either the satisfaction of hearing me or the memory of me limping.
My quarters waited at the far end of the hall, barely more than a box with a door, but the moment I slipped inside and closed it, something in my chest loosened. Then I limped to the bed and sat down hard, biting back a cry as pain flared bright and hot. I dragged the first aid kit out from under the bed, the cheap plastic rattling too loudly in the quiet. As I opened it, my mind betrayed me—sliding, uninvited, back to gray eyes and a smile. Auren Draven. The way he’d looked at me like I was a spectacle. Like I was nothing. Like I was something. My palm tingled faintly, phantom heat from where I’d struck him, and my stomach twisted. I didn’t regret it. That terrified me more than anything else.
I peeled the stocking off slowly, fabric sticking where the blood had dried. The cut was ugly—angry red, uneven, deeper than I’d wanted to believe. I stared at it longer than necessary, as if the wound might explain how my life had split so cleanly in half today. I poured antiseptic over it and hissed when the sting hit, sharp enough to steal my breath. I welcomed it. Physical pain was easier—it stayed where it belonged.
As I cleaned the blood away, Auren’s voice echoed in my head, smooth and mocking, the way he’d called me sweetheart, like he already owned the word. Did he remember my face now? Did he feel that slap burning on his skin the way it burned in my thoughts? Or was I already nothing to him again—just a barefoot girl in a boutique, filed away and forgotten?
I wrapped the bandage carefully, firm and precise, like if I did it right, I might keep everything else from unraveling. When I was done, I leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling unevenly.
I checked the time on my phone and felt my stomach drop. 11:00 a.m. I’d stayed in here longer than I meant to. Elara would notice. She always did. I pushed myself up from the bed carefully, testing my weight on the bandaged foot. It hurt, but I could walk. That was all that mattered. I couldn’t afford to limp around like something was wrong—not in this house, not today.
I went to the wardrobe and pulled out my uniform, the same one I wore every day. I stepped into the pencil skirt slowly, adjusting it until it sat right, then slipped on the white dress shirt and buttoned it up, one button at a time. The fabric was clean and stiff, familiar against my skin. I smoothed the front, straightened the collar, and checked that everything looked neat. The uniform did what it was supposed to do—it made me blend in, made me look like I belonged exactly where I was told to stand.
At the small mirror, I gathered my hair and twisted it into a tight, neat bun, pinning it in place with practiced hands. No loose strands. No mess. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. She looked calm. Put it together. Like nothing had happened. But Auren’s face still crept into my thoughts—the way he’d looked at me, the sound of his voice, the shock in his eyes after I slapped him. I pushed the thought away and tightened the bun, forcing myself to focus.
When I was done, I took a steady breath and picked up my things. Whatever I was feeling didn’t matter. Elara would need something soon, and I had a job to do. I opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, ready to disappear again.
I was halfway down the corridor toward Elara’s wing when a sharp voice cut through the quiet.
“Sera—eh, ragazza, you there!” I stopped and turned just as Chef Lorenzo leaned out of the kitchen doorway, one thick arm braced against the frame. He looked like a man at war—white chef’s coat smeared with sauce, dark curls escaping his cap, a vein jumping at his temple.
Behind him, the kitchen was alive with noise: pans clanging, burners hissing, voices overlapping in a dozen frantic directions. “Vieni, vieni,” he called again, waving me over. “I need you now. Subito.”
The moment I stepped inside, the heat wrapped around me. The air smelled of garlic, butter, roasting meat, and stress. “Madonna santa,” Lorenzo muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Tonight, this dinner, it will kill me before the guests do.”
He turned to shout something rapid and sharp in Italian over his shoulder. “Marco! Non così—più piano! You burn the sauce, I burn you.” A young cook with flour-dusted hands shot back,
“I stir, chef, I stir! It no listen to me!”
Another cook—Rosa, short and sturdy with her hair tied tight—snorted as she chopped herbs. “Sauce always listens,” she said. “You just talk stupid.”
Lorenzo sighed and pointed at a tray being assembled on the counter.
“Listen, Sera,” he said, lowering his voice but not his urgency. “All staff busy, tutti. No one free. Sir Veyra—il senior—he asks for breakfast in his room. He say he want quiet… No dining room, no talking, no stupid noise.” He tapped the tray twice. “And medicine. Very important, sì?”
I hesitated, my stomach tightening. “Elara is waiting for me,” I said carefully. “She’ll be angry if I’m late or if I go somewhere else without telling her.”
Rosa looked up sharply. “She always angry,” she said bluntly. “Morning, night—it make no difference.”
Marco nodded, whispering like it was a secret. “If wind blow wrong, she scream.”
Lorenzo shot them both a warning look, then turned back to me. “Eh, I know, I know,” he said, softening. “La signorina Veyra, she is… how you say… explosive.” He mimed something blowing up with his hands. “But Sir Veyra, he is different. He ask personally. He say, ‘Send the quiet girl. The one who does not clatter like a cow.’” He gave a tired smile. “That is you, bella.”
I swallowed, glancing at the hallway as if Elara might appear out of thin air. “Are you sure?” I asked. “She really won’t like this.”
Lorenzo straightened, suddenly firm. “He insist,” he said. “He say, ‘I want breakfast in my room, and I want it now.’ When the senior insist, we listen. Capito?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Also… he not feeling bene today. Old heart. Old bones. He wants peace.”
Rosa added quietly, “He always kind… Say please, not like others.”
That settled it. I nodded. “All right. I’ll take it.”
“Grazie, grazie,” Lorenzo said immediately, relief washing over his face. He adjusted the tray himself, moving the cup a fraction of an inch. “Piano, piano,” he warned. “He hates noise. And tell him the oatmeal—I make it myself. Not too sweet. Just right.” He pointed to the pill bottles. “Blue pill first. Always first. Then white after tea.”
Marco leaned in, grinning. “And tell him Marco say buongiorno,” he said.
Rosa rolled her eyes. “Don’t confuse her. She is already nervous.”
I lifted the tray carefully, feeling the familiar weight settle into my arms. As I turned toward the door, Lorenzo called after me, “And Sera—slow steps, eh? Like a ghost.”
I gave a small nod and stepped back into the hallway, the kitchen noise fading behind me nd with every step toward Sir Veyra’s wing, the knot in my stomach tightened. Elara would notice my absence—she always did. But the tray and for once, I hoped that doing what was asked of me—what was right—would be enough to keep the storm from breaking.