Chapter 3 EPISODE 3: The Rules of Serving Elara Veyra
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t comprehend what I was looking at.
Then my eyes adjusted.
And everything… shattered.
Elara was sprawled across the center of her enormous bed, silk sheets twisted around her like vines that had tried—and failed—to preserve her modesty. Her bare shoulder was exposed, pale and luminous against the champagne-colored bedding, one long leg tangled in the folds, the other resting lazily on the man beside her.
A man.
There was a man in her bed.
He lay on his back, half-covered by the sheet, chest rising and falling in the slow, careless rhythm of someone utterly unbothered by the world. The sheet hung low on his hips, exposing the sharp cut of muscle along his abdomen, the curve of his collarbone, the tousled black hair that spilled like ink across the pillow. And his arm was draped over Elara’s waist like he owned it.
They were both naked.
My stomach lurched not from the sight of their bodies—though that, too, had burned into my brain like a brand—but I didn’t scream. I didn’t run.
I moved because that was what she trained me to do. I stepped forward, still clutching the tray like armor, and crossed the room without a word. I passed the edge of the bed—deliberately not looking, not thinking, not feeling—and set the tray down on her marble vanity. The porcelain clinked softly. A sound she hated. I adjusted it. Twice. Then turned toward the windows.
The curtains were heavy, and I gripped one edge and pulled it. Immediately, the light flooded the room in a slow, merciless wash—dust shimmered in the beams. The man groaned once and Elara groaned, shifting in the sheets like a woman surfacing from a dream.
I didn’t turn around. I moved to the second window, then the third. The room was awash in sunlight now.
Behind me, the bed rustled.
“Ugh… shut it,” Elara’s voice came, muffled against her pillow.
I turned. She shifted in the bed, propped herself up on one elbow, and squinted toward me—annoyance written in the curve of her brow. For a moment, she didn’t see what was wrong.
Then, she did and the sheet barely clinging to the curve of her hip, one arm draped lazily over the man beside her.
Elara Veyra remembered exactly where she was. What she’d done? Who she’d done it with?
And the fact that I was standing there, and her gaze shot back at mine, furious.
I didn’t look away. I moved to her closet instead, opened the second drawer—left side, always the left—and pulled out the robe she preferred for mornings like these. Pale blue color in silk. I crossed the room and offered it to her, and she outstretched both hands, like an offering to a goddess made of porcelain and wrath.
She took it without a word. Then she rose, slipping into the robe in one practiced motion. The silk fell around her like armor. She didn’t tug it tight. She didn’t bother hiding the hickey blooming purple on her collarbone. She didn’t need to.
She moved toward the vanity, and met my eyes in the mirror.
Elara’s fingers curled around the teacup like it was an extension of her mood—glossed porcelain clutched in manicured rage, and for a moment, I thought she would sip it.
But then she turned towards me and her eyes flicked to me— narrowed slits of fury—and the teacup flew.
It shattered at my feet with a crack like a gunshot, hot liquid spraying across the rug and onto my bare toes. I gasped, but it was too late because a shard of porcelain sliced across my foot, red blooming instantly against pale skin.
I didn’t cry out.
I didn’t move.
I just stood there, hands still clasped behind my back—because that’s what she expected.
Elara strode across the floor, and in one movement, she was in front of me, grabbing my chin with fingers like iron as her nails dug into my jaw as she forced my face up.
“What the hell is he still doing here?” she hissed, “Did I not text you last night to get rid of him before I woke up? Was I slurring? Was I speaking in fucking Morse code? Or did your little peasant brain just choose not to listen?”
“I didn’t see the message. I—I was in the east wing all night, my phone wasn’t—”
“Oh, your phone?” she scoffed, laughing without humor. “Your precious little Nokia knockoff didn’t charge? What a tragedy. What a completely believable, poor-girl excuse.”
She dug her thumb hard into the bone under my cheek.
“I swear to God, Sera, if anyone—anyone—sees that man…if anyone so much as breathes a word, you’re done. Fired, finished, dead to me.”
“No, Elara,” I whispered.“I don’t. I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t mean to mess up. I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right you will,” she snapped. “You’ll clean this up like the pathetic little roach you are. Five minutes. Get him out. And if I hear even one more apology, I’ll break the other cup over your head and call it art.”
She shoved my face away with a flick of her hand like she was wiping off dirt. I staggered back, toes stinging, tears burning in my eyes—but I didn’t let them fall. She wouldn’t have liked that.
“You have five minutes,” she repeated, “And for f’s sake, don’t bleed on the rug. It’s Versace.”
She turned on her heel, already done with the conversation, already vanishing behind the bathroom door like the dramatist she was—hair a mess of post-sin perfection, I didn’t wait.
Elara’s ultimatum was ringing in my ears…like a ticking bomb… Five minutes. Just five….
My eyes darted to the man who was still asleep, sprawled half across the silk sheets like a painting gone wrong—limbs slack, hair mussed in that deliberate, too-handsome way that screamed money. One of Elara’s usual types: pretty, muscular, utterly forgettable.
A sheet clung just high enough to preserve modesty, but the rest of him—bare chest, that stupid necklace glinting against his throat—was a disaster waiting to happen.
I limped closer, each step pulsing pain through my foot, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. If he wasn’t gone in the next four minutes, Elara would find a new way to make me bleed.
I hovered at the edge of the bed, swallowing hard.
“Sir,” I whispered, “You need to wake up. Please.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch. I tried again, louder this time. “Sir—please, you have to get up. You can’t be here.”
He groaned, barely conscious, and rolled onto his side, dragging the sheet with him. I flinched as more skin showed, glancing quickly at the door.
Three minutes.
“Sir,” I hissed. “This is serious. You have to leave. Now.”
He cracked open one eye, blinked at me like I was a mirage.
“Who the hell are you?” he slurred.
“I’m the maid,” I said. “And if you don’t move in the next thirty seconds, Elara Veyra will come back in here and make sure your face ends up on every gossip site in the country.”
That got his attention.
He sat up too fast, groaned, and grabbed his head. “F. Is it morning already?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “And you’re still naked in the bed of a woman who wanted you gone before she woke up. You need to get dressed. Now.”
He glanced toward the mess of clothes half-draped on a chaise lounge, then looked back at me, still dazed. “She didn’t seem to mind me staying last night.”
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, grabbing his shirt and shoving it toward him,“Last night, she was drunk. This morning, she’s Elara. And she’s about three seconds away from coming back in here with something sharper than a teacup.”
He finally moved, swinging his legs off the bed, grunting as he fumbled with his jeans. I turned away out of habit, biting my cheek as the blood on my foot smeared across the pale rug. No use hiding it now. She’d see the stain. She’d make sure I paid for it.
“Where’s my watch?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. I was too busy praying the hallway stayed silent.
The man stumbled as he buttoned his shirt, still half-asleep and reeking of cologne, alcohol, and expensive bad decisions.
I didn’t wait for him to find his shoes—I snatched them off the floor and shoved them against his chest. “Move,” I hissed. “Follow me. Quietly.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out the back,” I said. “Before Elara decides to add your blood to the rug.”
He gave a dry laugh that turned into a groan. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
His grin vanished.
I nudged the bedroom door open just enough to peer into the hallway and luckily no one was there as I motioned him forward, one hand on my chest to calm my racing heartbeat, the other guiding him with quick gestures. “Stay close. Step lightly. Don’t speak.”
We crept through the corridor like thieves in someone else’s castle. My foot ached with every step, blood leaving a faint trail behind us, but I kept going.
Down the back stairs. Past the portrait of Elara’s great, Great grandfather, his oil-painted eyes watching like a curse
At the base of the staircase, I paused and cracked open the service door.
Cool morning air spilled into the corridor. The gardens beyond were still cloaked in dawn mist, hedges standing tall like guards. The gravel path sparkled with dew. No staff outside yet. We had seconds.
I pushed the door open wider and turned to him.
“Straight down the garden,” I said. “There’s a break in the hedge by the gardener’s shed. Go left from there and you’ll hit the street.”
He hesitated. “No kiss goodbye?”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped back and opened the door further.
“Tell her thanks for the fireworks,” he added with a wink, and then slipped out, disappearing into the mist. I watched until he was gone. Then I turned back toward the stairs—and made my way to Elara's room again to inform her that he left.
I opened the bedroom door quietly, half-expecting to find Elara pacing, furious, ready to throw whatever hadn't already shattered. But the room was still.
The morning light streamed through the open balcony doors, curtains swaying gently in the breeze. Elara sat outside, perched on the velvet-cushioned bench like a portrait brought to life—robe loose around her shoulders,a cigarette balanced between two manicured fingers. Smoke curled lazily around her face, veiling her in a soft, poisonous halo. Her hair was pinned up in a soft, tousled knot, catching gold from the sun. She looked peaceful. Regal. Like the past half-hour hadn’t happened.
“Did anyone see him?”
I stepped in carefully, the broken porcelain on the floor crunching faintly beneath my feet. “No,” I answered. “I let him out the back garden. No one was around.”
“Good.” She took a sip of water, then set the glass down beside her, she looked unbothered, as if she hadn’t just hurled that teacup like a grenade at my feet. As if her anger had evaporated with the steam off her skin. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”
I didn’t respond. My toe still throbbed, Elara gave her next command,“Clean that up. Then start the bath—rose milk with the sandalwood salts. Not the patchouli. And take out the dior dress. The ivory one with the hand-stitched lace and the gold zipper. I want to look effortless today. I have brunch at eleven with mindy.”
I nodded and returned to the bedroom and moved silently to the broken cup, my fingers shook as I gathered the pieces into my palm, careful not to bleed again. She didn’t like messes. Especially not mine.
As I crouched to gather the last slivers of porcelain from the rug, the sharp trill of a ringtone shattered the quiet— Elara’s phone blared from where it lay on the velvet chaise lounge, screen glowing like a beacon against the dark velvet.
“Check who it is,” Elara said lazily from the balcony, flicking ash over the edge with the same disinterest she gave everything that didn’t orbit her directly. She didn’t even look my way—just exhaled another stream of smoke, her gaze fixed on the hazy skyline like she already knew exactly what was waiting on the other end of that call.
I wiped my hand on my sweater and stood, careful not to leave blood smears on the fabric. The phone continued to ring. I walked to the chaise and reached for it, my fingers hesitating for the briefest second before I turned the screen toward me.
The screen lit up bright against the velvet upholstery, the name glowing in stark white letters: