DAY ONE
Valerie's POV
“Where is that fat fuck?!”
My eyes pop open from a deep sleep, and I sit up, immediately alert. I think I would recognize Margaret Patterson's voice even if I was dead.
Wondering if I'll ever grow thick enough skin to not be affected by what she throws at me, I hastily make my bed. I'd been called every name under the sun since I was old enough to understand what words are. Probably even before then.
I must have been asleep for a few hours by now because the sun has dipped low, bathing the scene outside my window in a warm orange. It’s tranquil, the kind of evening that gives you the will to live tomorrow and I wished I could sit and read.
But I can't, I can already hear her stomping up the stairs. She’s close. “Valerie!”
She pushes the door, slamming against the wall in synchrony with my heart slamming against my chest. I face her, bracing myself as she walks in holding black fabric bunched in her hands. “Good evening, Mother.”
“I've been calling you for five minutes, you pig,” she spat, icily.
I bow low, as her words join the mountain of hurt in my chest. My parents hated me from the day I was born because of an ugly dark scar as a birthmark that covers most of my face. They rejected me right there in the hospital and I've felt that rejection everyday of my life.
The Patterson family is well known in the city, while nobody outside these four walls knew I existed. Everybody knew about Daphne though, ‘the Patterson's only child,’ perfect in every way.
“Are you now deaf, as well as stupid?” Mother continued, advancing closer. My heart jumped in my chest, continuing it's quick rhythm. Soon she’d be close enough to hit me.
I had a formula for these types of situations, tried and tested over years of aggressive, instantaneous feedback. First, just apologize. “I'm sorry, Ma'am.”
Next, explain and back up.
“I was doing a little cleaning and I wasn't paying attention,” I said taking a few steps back. I’ll never admit that I was sleeping, even if she comes into my room at 4am and sees the drool on my face. The last time I did, the bruise I got didn't go away for weeks.
And finally, apologize again. “I'm really sorry, Ma'am.”
She looks me up and down, disgust evident in her face. “Then at least you can be somewhat useful this evening.”
She tosses the black fabric in hernhand at me and I catch it before it falls to the ground. “Get ready, you're going to the hotel to work right now. Go and dress up.”
While it wasn't unusual to be summoned to do the oddest of jobs, it was usually in the house. As I stand there, too long for her liking, she clicks her tongue at me, getting impatient. “Make it quick, you slug! Why are you still standing around?”
I dash into the small adjoined bathroom, changing in record speed. She gestures for me to follow her as she walks out of my room.
“You must not mess things up. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mother,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. Even though I wasn't sure what I wasn't supposed to mess up, I knew I would be in a world of pain if I did.
We walk to the living room, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Tonight, you’re on janitor duty at the new Hotel, the Grand Royale.”
“Janitor duty?” I blinked, confusion furrowing my brows. “Why on earth would I. . .?”
Her glare cut me off mid-sentence. “Don’t make me repeat myself. You’ll wear the uniform, clean the floors, serve the guests and shut up.”
“Yes ma'am.”
“And no talk of you being a Patterson. No one should ever find out,” she says, tossing something at me. “If I hear any such talk, the next time you step out of this house will be when you're fifty. Do I make myself clear?”
The lanyard in my hand is attached to a general access badge and an ID which states me, Valerie Patte, as a janitor. I feel my chest tighten but I nod.
She struts off without another word and a bodyguard escorts me to the car. I don't doubt that he's here to make sure I come back, not to actually protect me.
At least I get to leave the house, I think as we drive through my parents' beautiful home. It has never felt like mine, it's felt more like a gilded cage.
I get started with work immediately I'm dropped off at the hotel. It's beautiful, a fine new addition to my parents' already existing multitude. My first task is delivering room service.
As I walk through the halls I notice that the lights are actually flames but. . . not. I know that if the glass they're suspended in should break the fire won't burn. They're enchanted.
I whistle in my mind. This must have cost a pretty penny because magic is a rare and lost art now.
I've watched documentaries and read books about how everyone had magic thousands of years ago, how our civilization used to be dependent on it instead of technology. Historians don't know why only a handful of people can use it now, if we stopped being born with the ability to manipulate the universe or our bodies just forgot how.
But now they're very few and far in between, with the average wielders just strong enough to produce bulbs and non-tarnish jewelry that changes colour.
Balancing the tray in one hand, I make my way through the corridor leading to the private suites. I pass by the poker room, the murmurs drowning out the faint echo of my footsteps. They must be having some sort of a party, from the sound of smooth jazz and occasional laughter. My nerves on edge, my head down, I avoid any eye contact with passing staff or guests.
As I round the corner, I catch unusual movement out of the corner of my eye so I look up.
A tall man, his steps unsteady, staggers toward the wall for support. He leans heavily against it, clutching a gold-embossed room card in his hand.
Something’s wrong with him. His head is tilted as if he’s trying to stay awake, but his body isn't cooperating. Oh no, was he falling?
Without thinking, I set the tray down on a side table and rush toward him, grabbing him by his arm.
“Sir, are you okay?” I ask, now realizing that I probably wouldn't be able to help if he actually faints. His weight would take us both down.
His suit jacket is perfectly tailored, the fabric smooth beneath my fingers, but he shifts heavily against me as he struggles to stay upright. “Sir!”
“Room. . .,” he gargles, voice hoarse, barely audible. “Need to go. . .”
I struggle to hear him. “Sir?”
“Need to get away. . . Now.” His words slurs together, and he lurches toward me.
The sharp, delicious scent of expensive cologne mixed with something more bitter hit me. That isn’t alcohol. My hackles rise.
Daphne found it funny to slip stuff into my food until I adapted to sni
ffing —almost sensing it— or I'd spend the day trying to work groggily.
He'd been drugged.