Chapter 1 - The First Morning After the Dance
The morning light filtering through the high windows of Corsini House felt far too bright for my liking. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood holding the small white card, the silence in the dining room stretching out like a tightrope. Julian did not break his gaze. He sat at the head of the heavy mahogany table, a steaming cup of dark roast coffee untouched beside his plate, watching me with an intensity that made it difficult to draw a full breath.
I forced my eyes back down to the paper, my thumb trembling slightly against the thick cardstock. The words inscribed in his precise, angled handwriting did not threaten me with termination, nor did they mention the reckless performance I thought had gone entirely unnoticed. Instead, they referenced the rhythm of the previous night, noting the unexpected grace with which I had moved across the polished floorboards when I believed the entire world was asleep.
"You didn't lock the drawing-room doors," Julian said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a low bass note.
My cheeks burned hot enough to sear. I lowered the card, staring at the polished wood of the table instead of his face. "I thought... I thought everyone was asleep, Mr. Corsini. I didn't mean to—"
"I didn't say you woke me," he interrupted, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "I said you didn't lock the doors. Martin checked the perimeter feeds this morning. He wanted to know why the camera in the west wing was pointed at an empty sofa for four minutes."
I swallowed hard, waiting for the axe to fall. A live-in housekeeper caught singing into cutlery and spinning around in her employer's oversized dress shirt usually found herself packing her bags before the clock struck noon. I braced myself for the cold dismissal, the polite yet firm instruction to clear out my locker in the garage apartment.
Instead, Julian set his ceramic cup down with a sharp clink. "You have training," he stated, not as a question, but as an observation he had clearly spent some hours piecing together. "Real training. Not just local community center classes."
"I took lessons when I was younger," I muttered, staring intently at my shoes. "Before things changed."
"People don't move the way you moved last night unless they spent years in a studio," Julian replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to solve a puzzle he couldn't quite map out. "People also don't quit unless something breaks underneath them. Why are you cleaning houses for a living, Sadie?"
May you like
The bluntness of the question stung, but worse than that, it hit too close to a truth I had spent nearly two decades burying. I tightened my grip on the small white card until the corners crumpled. "Because debts don't care about childhood dreams, Mr. Corsini. And rent doesn't accept pirouettes as a form of payment."
Julian leaned back in his chair, the shadows from the morning sun framing his sharp jawline. He studied me for a long moment, the air thick with unspoken tension, before he finally waved a hand toward the door. "Clear the breakfast tray, Sadie. And lock the drawing-room doors next time. The cameras miss enough as it is."
