108

108
The wrought-iron gates of the Kingsley estate loomed large as the cab slowed to a stop. Carolina stared through the window, her heartbeat echoing like a drum in her ears. She had seen this mansion before in photos, in video, and in Katherine’s memories, but nothing had prepared her for the real thing. The grand columns. The vast manicured lawn. The silence of power.

She paid the driver, stepped out, and wheeled her modest suitcase up the stone walkway. As she approached the front entrance reserved for house staff, she took a breath and rehearsed the name she’d decided on: Angela Santos, a soft-spoken helper from a wealthy French-American household.

Before she could knock, the door opened.

Sophie stood there—neat, trim, late fifties, with silver streaks brushing the sides of her dark hair and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. She wore a navy uniform and a crisp white apron, her arms crossed and lips pressed into a tight line.

“You must be the applicant,” she said, eyeing Carolina’s clothes, suitcase, and face all in one sweep.

“Yes, ma’am. Angela Santos. I called this morning,” Carolina replied, pitching her voice slightly higher, soft. Not nervous—submissive.

“You said you worked with the LeClercs in New Jersey.”

“Yes, for two years.”

Sophie turned halfway into the corridor. “Come in.”

Carolina followed, the heels of her sensible shoes tapping against the marble floor. The air inside was chilled, scented faintly with roses and disinfectant. The mansion had a certain sterile perfection, like it had been scrubbed of personality.

They passed a long hallway lined with family photos—Kingsley and Beth, posing at events, galas, and holidays. Her stomach twisted, remembering Katherine’s eyes brimming with heartbreak.

“I’m short on staff,” Sophie said abruptly as they entered the service kitchen. “You won’t be treated badly, but you’ll be expected to work. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sophie studied her. “Can you clean?”

“Cleaning is my specialty.”

Sophie gave a tiny nod. “You’ll start with the guest wing and the lower floors. If you’re decent, I’ll move you up. That means changing sheets, sweeping, dusting, restocking water, and prepping the bath before dinner. If you see Mrs. Beth, don’t speak unless spoken to. Mr. Kingsley barely acknowledges staff, so stay out of his way.”

Carolina tilted her head slightly. “Is Mr. Kingsley… always around?”

“Depends on his mood,” Sophie muttered, almost too low to catch. “Lately he’s been…” She paused. “Never mind. It’s not your business.”

They walked toward the staff quarters.

“Breakfast is at 6:30 a.m. sharp. Uniforms are in the locker room—you’ll find your size. You’ll sleep in the east servant wing. You’re lucky,” Sophie added as they reached the door. “One of the newer rooms is open. You’ll have some privacy.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Sophie gave her one last hard look. “Don’t give me a reason to regret hiring you.”

“I won’t.”

The moment the door shut, Carolina exhaled and leaned against the wall. Step one: complete. She’d made it inside.

Now came the hard part—watching everything.

She would listen to every footstep. Study the man who wore Kingsley’s face. Wait for him to do something Kingsley never would.

And when he did, Katherine would be ready.

⸻

The following day, Carolina’s alarm buzzed at 5:45 a.m.

She sat up slowly in the narrow servant bed, the stiff white sheets still creased from storage. Pale morning light poured through the thin curtain as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and pulled on the crisp grey-and-white maid’s uniform. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind was sharp, alert, and already tracking the plan.

Everything matters. Every word, glance, movement.

By 6:30 a.m., she stood silently in the back kitchen as other staff bustled around preparing breakfast—avocado toast, Greek yogurt with blueberries, oat milk cappuccino. All according to Katherine’s notes.

Sophie assigned her to dust the sitting rooms and polish the hallway railings. Carolina moved quietly through the east wing, memorizing every detail: the scent of lemon oil on the banister, the exact shade of gold thread in the hallway rug, the way the house felt like it belonged to someone powerful and empty at the same time.

Around 9:00 a.m., a door opened upstairs.

Footsteps.

Firm, composed, confident.

Her heart picked up. She stepped back from the rail and looked up just in time to see him.

The man walked in briskly, his coat slung carelessly over one arm, his phone pressed against his ear. His eyes were stormy, lips pressed in a thin line. Something about his posture—the way his shoulders rolled forward slightly, his jaw clenched—radiated irritation.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the house staff instinctively straightened.

“Good evening, sir,” the butler said respectfully, followed by a chorus of subdued greetings from the others.

But he didn’t answer.

Not a nod. Not even eye contact.

He just marched forward, heels clicking against the marble, and disappeared up the staircase.

Carolina stood by the hallway arch, feather duster in hand, still in uniform—hair tied, thick glasses in place, apron slightly wrinkled from the morning’s work.

Her breath hitched.

She watched him as he climbed the stairs two at a time, not once glancing back. And her heart twisted.

He looked exactly like Kingsley.

The same confident gait.
The same perfectly styled hair.
The same chiseled face she remembered.

Carolina’s brows furrowed.

“That’s him… it has to be him.”

She stepped back into the shadow of the corridor wall, her heart still thumping.

“Why would Katherine say that’s not Kingsley? That’s literally him. Everything—the walk, the face… It’s him. She’s hurting, maybe that’s all. Maybe she’s just not ready to see him like this. Maybe this is all a waste of time…”

….
At precisely 8:00 p.m., it was time for dinner.

In the kitchen, the head chef had just finished plating the final dish. A fresh croissant, golden and steaming. A bowl of smooth tomato soup, garnished with a swirl of cream and a sprig of parsley. And finally, a tiny porcelain cup of espresso, the crema perfectly intact. The scent was bold, earthy—unmistakably Kingsley’s preference, just as Katherine had told her.

“Tray ready,” the chef muttered, sliding it onto the silver cart with a practiced hand.

Carolina, who had spent the better part of the day sweeping hallways and organizing linen closets, stepped forward. She wiped her palms on her apron and carefully balanced the tray.

“I’ll take it up,” she said with a smile, though her voice trembled slightly.

As she climbed the staircase toward the master suite, her pulse began to quicken. The hallway to Kingsley’s room was quiet, dimly lit with wall sconces that cast amber pools of light across the polished floor. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly—his cologne, no doubt.

At the door, she followed protocol, gently setting the tray down on the small table just outside. Then, knocking lightly, she called:

“The dinner is here, sir.”

No answer.

She waited, turning to leave—

“Bring it in.”

The voice was low and calm, smooth but sharp—a knife hidden in velvet.

Carolina froze, her hand still resting on the knob. She felt a cold trickle of tension down her spine.

Slowly, she picked up the tray and opened the door.

The room was dim. Only one floor lamp in the corner was on, casting a soft amber glow across the grand bedroom. The curtains were drawn, and the large king-sized bed stood perfectly made. At the desk by the far window sat the man—him—head slightly bent, eyes fixed on a tablet screen, stylus in hand.

She stepped in cautiously.

“Place it on the table,” he said, gesturing without even glancing at her.

Carolina moved toward the small table near the sofa, carefully setting the tray down. She could hear the tapping of the stylus on the tablet. Her breath caught in her throat.

Just… tapping.

Then, his voice again—calm, offhanded.

“If my wife’s not around, you can bring the food indirectly.”

Carolina swallowed hard. “Okay, sir.”

She kept her voice soft, nonchalant. But inside, her thoughts screamed.

He didn’t recognize me. Not even a flicker. Not even a pause.

Maybe it was the dim light. Or maybe the glasses—thick-rimmed, part of the disguise. Or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t once looked up from his tablet.

Or… maybe it truly wasn’t him.

She turned to leave, heart thudding, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the doorknob.

Then he spoke again.

“I haven’t seen any maid here with glasses.”

Her stomach flipped.

Carolina turned slightly. “I’m new here, sir. I started working today.”

There was a pause.

Finally, he responded. “What’s your name?”

She cleared her throat. “Angela.”

Another pause. He still didn’t look up.

“Okay. You can go.”

She nodded, already stepping backward. “Good night, sir.”

She slipped out the door, closed it behind her softly, walked to her assigned maid’s quarters, and leaned her back against it, exhaling deeply.

The room was small and plain—a twin bed, a simple desk, and a narrow window that looked out to the garden walls. Still holding her phone, she quickly pulled off her shoes, crossed to the bed, and sat. Her heart was still beating fast—not from nerves, but from how surreal the night had felt.

She dialed Katherine.

Katherine picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” came her eager voice.

“Hey… It’s me.” Carolina’s tone was low, almost cautious. “I just left his room.”

Katherine sat upright in her hotel bed, clutching the phone tighter. “Tell me everything. Did he recognize you?”

“No… and that’s the strange part,” Carolina replied, standing and pacing her tiny space. “I walked into the room. It was dim—just the side lamp was on. He was on his tablet the whole time. He didn’t look up, not fully.”

“But you were right in front of him?”

“Yes. He told me to drop the tray on the table, and when I turned to leave, he asked my name. I said it was Angela. He didn’t question it.” She paused. “He did mention something though. He said he’s never seen any maid wear glasses.”

Katherine’s silence was sharp.

“That’s weird,” she murmured. “You’re sure he didn’t recognize your face? Your voice?”

“I thought he might. But honestly, he looked… distracted. Like something was on his mind. He barely looked up. It could’ve been the glasses, maybe the lighting, I don’t know. But… he looked exactly like Kingsley. Like, spot on.”

“And the voice?”

Carolina sighed, biting her lip.

“I can’t say for sure. I mean… I only heard him speak properly a few times at the retreat, you know? It’s been a while, so I don’t have his voice memorized or anything. But it wasn’t off. Just… I don’t know.”

“What did he order for dinner?”

“Croissant, tomato soup, and espresso.”

Katherine sat up straighter.

“Espresso?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“That’s not right,” Katherine said slowly, frowning. “Kingsley never takes espresso at night. Ever. Even after long days, he always has a glass of wine with dinner. It’s always wine in the evenings, always.”

Carolina blinked. “Well… maybe he changed? People change their tastes, Kat. I mean, it’s been years since you lived with him. Maybe now he takes espresso at night. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

There was a long pause.

“You’re right,” Katherine said softly. “Maybe I’m reaching. But still… something’s off. Please keep watching. Don’t rush anything. Just… observe. You’re the only eyes I have in that house.”

“Okay,” Carolina said. “But Kat… are you sure you’re not just seeing what you want to see? Maybe it’s not that he’s different. Maybe it’s just that he is who he is now—and it’s not who you remember.”

Katherine didn’t respond right away. When she finally did, her voice was calm but firm.

“No, Caro. That man in that house is not my Kingsley.”