Chapter 34 CHAPTER 34: The Servants’ Table
The foyer had barely settled into silence after Elara disappeared upstairs when the driver returned through the front doors carrying the long white garment case. The polished marble floor reflected his careful steps as he approached, the case balanced respectfully in his hands as though it contained something far more fragile than fabric. I had remained near the base of the staircase, unsure whether I should follow Elara or remain where I was until summoned. The air in the mansion still felt unsettled, as though her anger had left a lingering pressure in every corridor.
“Miss Sera?” the driver said quietly, stopping a few steps away from me.
I looked up, my thoughts snapping back from the dizzy spiral they had been falling into. His expression was neutral but uncertain, the way staff always looked when something had gone wrong but no one wanted to be the first to acknowledge it.
“Yes?” I asked softly.
He lifted the garment case slightly. “Miss Veyra asked for this to be brought inside.” He hesitated before continuing, glancing briefly toward the staircase as though expecting Elara to appear again. “What would you like me to do with it?”
For a moment, I simply stared at the case. The polished white surface looked pristine and elegant, its silver clasps catching the foyer’s light in small flashes. Only hours ago, it had been part of a calculated performance — something meant to provoke Auren, to confront him. Now it looked strangely out of place, like a prop left behind after the stage had emptied.
“I’ll take it,” I said finally, stepping forward.
The driver looked relieved, though he kept his tone respectful. “Are you sure, miss? It looks rather heavy.”
“I’m sure,” I repeated gently, taking the case from him.
It was heavier than I expected. The weight of the Red Reign dress pressed through the case into my palms, reminding me again of the strange chain of events that had carried it from boutique to mansion to café and now back again. The driver released his grip slowly, making certain I had it securely before letting go.
“If Miss Veyra asks for it later,” he said carefully, “shall I tell her you have it?”
“Yes,” I answered after a moment. “Tell her I’ve taken it to the staff wing for safekeeping.”
He nodded politely. “Very good, Miss Sera.”
For a second neither of us moved. The foyer remained quiet around us — no footsteps, no voices from the upper level. The staff understood when to disappear, and today was one of those moments.
“I suppose it didn’t go the way she expected,” the driver said cautiously.
I looked at him quickly.
He raised both hands slightly in surrender. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speculate.”
“No,” I said softly. “You shouldn’t.”
But there was no accusation in my voice. Only exhaustion.
He gave a small respectful nod and stepped back. “If you need help carrying that, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Then I turned toward the staff corridor.
The mansion’s polished grandeur faded quickly as I walked deeper into the house. Marble gave way to dark wood, then to the quieter hallways used by staff. The light changed too — softer, less theatrical, the kind that belonged to ordinary living rather than performance.
The garment case felt heavier with every step.
By the time I reached the staff quarters, my arms ached slightly from the strain, and my mind felt equally burdened. My small room waited at the end of the narrow corridor, a simple space compared to the sweeping luxury of Elara’s suite.
I pushed the door open with my elbow and stepped inside.
The room greeted me with familiar simplicity — a narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a desk by the window. Nothing ornate. Nothing intimidating. Just quiet.
I placed the garment case carefully on the bed.
For a moment I simply stood there, staring at it.
“So much trouble for one dress,” I murmured to the empty room.
The silver clasps gleamed under the soft light, almost inviting curiosity. Slowly, almost against my better judgment, I opened them.
The lid lifted.
Crimson silk spilled into view like captured fire.
The Red Reign dress lay folded perfectly inside, every line of embroidery intact, the deep color glowing even in the modest light of my room. It looked powerful. Dramatic. Untouched by the tension it had created.
I let out a quiet breath.
“Auren Draven,” I whispered under my breath, shaking my head slightly. “You have no idea what you started.”
By the time I reached the staff kitchen, the mansion had slipped into its quiet midday rhythm. The heavy door swung open with a familiar creak, and warm air filled with the scent of roasted garlic, butter, and simmering tomato broth wrapped around me instantly. The kitchen was one of the few places in the house that felt alive in a human way — not curated, not staged. Copper pans hung above the long central counter, sunlight filtered through the high windows above the sink, and the distant hum of the refrigerator blended with the soft clatter of cutlery. At the small staff table near the far wall, Neille, Rosa, and Marco were already seated with half-finished plates in front of them.
Chef Lorenzo stood near the stove, broad-shouldered and imposing in his white coat, stirring something slowly in a deep pan. He noticed me before anyone else did. His thick eyebrows lifted slightly as his gaze traveled over my face, as if he were measuring the exhaustion I hadn’t yet realized I was carrying.
“Sera,” he called in his thick accent, his English bent gently around Italian sounds. “Mamma mia, ragazza, you look like you forget how to eat, eh? Come, come. Sit. Mangia something before you fall down like overcooked pasta.”
I blinked in surprise, still standing near the doorway. “Chef, I—”
He waved a wooden spoon in the air dramatically. “No arguing. Sit, per favore. Even the queen upstairs must eat, sì? And you, you work more than the queen.” His expression softened just slightly. “Sit.”
I hesitated only a moment longer before giving in. The smell of warm bread and herbs made my stomach tighten in quiet protest. I slid into the empty chair beside Rosa, folding my hands briefly in my lap before reaching for the plate Marco pushed gently toward me.
“Here,” Marco said, sliding it closer. “Before Chef decides to chase you with a ladle.”
From the stove Lorenzo grumbled loudly, “I do not chase. I persuade. Is different.”
Rosa leaned forward immediately, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “Where have you been all morning?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “We thought you were upstairs with Miss Elara preparing for something dramatic.”
Neille chuckled softly from across the table. “With her, it’s always something dramatic.”
I gave a small, tired smile at that, picking up a fork though my appetite hadn’t quite caught up to my exhaustion. “You’re not entirely wrong,” I said quietly.
Rosa’s eyes widened. “So something did happen.”
Marco leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his arms as he watched me. “Let me guess,” he said thoughtfully. “Another social battlefield?”
I exhaled slowly before answering. “Miss Elara decided to visit La Crème Morning Lounge this morning.”
Neille nearly choked on his water. “The fancy place downtown? Where coffee costs more than my weekly groceries?”
Chef Lorenzo snorted from the stove. “Bah. Coffee should be espresso, strong like life. Not ten dollar milk soup.”
“Yes,” I replied, allowing a faint smile. “That one.”
Rosa’s curiosity intensified immediately. “Why would she go there? She hates crowded places.”
I hesitated briefly, twirling my fork against the plate as though the answer might hide somewhere between the grains of rice and roasted vegetables. “She believed someone was there.”
Marco raised an eyebrow. “Someone important?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “Mr. Auren.”
The reaction around the table was immediate.
Neille had been reaching for the bread basket when the name left my mouth.
Her hand froze mid-air.
For a moment she didn’t even blink. The easy curiosity that had been on her face vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, stunned stillness she tried — and failed — to hide. The piece of bread slipped slightly from her fingers before she caught it again, clearing her throat in a way that sounded far too forced.
“Mr. Auren?” she repeated quietly.
Our eyes met across the table for a brief second, and in that look something unspoken passed between us.Becuse Neille knew.
And the realization clearly hit her all over again now. She leaned back slowly in her chair, eyes flicking around the table to make sure Rosa and Marco hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Then she forced a small, casual shrug that didn’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders. “Well,” she muttered under her breath, lowering her voice just enough that only I could hear, “that explains why your morning turned… interesting.”
I prefer this response
I nodded quietly.
Chef Lorenzo turned fully away from the stove now, resting one large hand against the counter. “Madonna santa,” he muttered. “And she goes looking for him in a public café? That is not romance, that is opera.”
“It almost became one,” I admitted softly.
Rosa lowered her voice instinctively. “Did she confront him?”
I shook my head.
“That’s the strange part,” I explained. “By the time we arrived… he had already left.”
A quiet wave of disbelief moved around the table.
“You’re kidding,” Marco muttered.
“I wish I were.”
Neille rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And how did Miss Elara react to that?”
I stared down at my plate for a moment before answering.
“Imagine a thunderstorm,” I said softly. “But one that never actually rains.”
Rosa blinked. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It was,” I admitted.
Chef Lorenzo gave a low grunt of understanding. “Ah,” he said, pointing his spoon in the air. “The silent anger. In Italy we say that kind is worst. Boom later, capisce?”
I nodded slowly. “She didn’t say a single word the entire drive home.”
“And when she got back?” Marco asked.
I let out a quiet breath.
“She went straight to her room,” I said. “Like a storm disappearing into a locked sky.”
The kitchen fell briefly silent after that. Even the simmering pot on the stove seemed quieter somehow.
Rosa finally leaned closer again, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Well,” she whispered, “something tells me the house isn’t finished feeling that storm yet.”
I looked down at my plate again, the memory of the folded note still pressing faintly against my pocket.
“You’re probably right,” I murmured.