Chapter 7 - The Morning After
Sunlight pierced through the heavy velvet drapes of the Costa estate, casting long, dusty beams across the grand foyer where Nadia knelt on her folded towel, holding a toothbrush and a bucket of soapy water.
Her knees ached. Her lower back throbbed. The glamour of the plum silk gown felt like a bizarre fever dream she had hallucinated two nights ago.
She wore her standard gray uniform pants and the faded cotton t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into its usual messy bun.
As far as the rest of the estate staff was concerned, nothing had changed. She was still the invisible maid scrubbing the pale bone grout between the tiles.
Footsteps sounded from the top of the grand staircase.
Slow, deliberate strikes of leather against wood.
Nadia didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the grout line, dragging the bristles through the dark trench with steady, rhythmic precision.
A pair of polished Oxfords stopped right beside her bucket.
Darian Costa.
He didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, towering over her, looking down at the gray uniform and the peeling cuticles on her hands.
"You're scrubbing the wrong section," Darian rasped.
Nadia paused, her gloved hand hovering over the soapy water. She looked up slowly, her expression flat and unimpressed.
"Excuse me?"
"The section by the west wing," Darian said, his tone entirely serious. "Someone tracked mud there last night. Probably Marco. Focus your efforts there today."
Nadia stared at him. "Is that an order, boss?"
A slow, cryptic smile touched the corner of Darian’s mouth.
"It's a request," he corrected softly. "From a toddler who needs help wiping his boots."
Before Nadia could formulate a sarcastic response, the heavy front doors burst open, shattering the quiet morning air.
Stepping into the grand foyer, flanked by four armed enforcers and looking like a man who hadn't slept in a week, was Marcus Thorne—Darian’s chief rival from the Pendleton syndicate.
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Marcus carried a leather briefcase in one hand and a menacing sneer on his face.
"Put down the toothbrush, Nadia," Marcus called out, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "Your boss's playtime is officially over. The commission has called an emergency vote. By noon, Darian Costa won't even own the floor you're kneeling on."
