Chapter 2 - The Invisible Maid
To survive in the Rossi estate, Beatrice Miller had learned to become invisible.
It was an impossible thing for her body to do. At twenty-eight, Beatrice was a large woman in a world that seemed personally offended by every inch of her. Her black uniform pulled across her shoulder blades. The apron strings cut into the softness of her waist. Her thighs brushed together when she hurried down the polished marble corridors, and every staircase in the mansion felt like it had been designed by someone who hated women who needed to breathe.
The other staff members did not have to be cruel outright. Most cruelty was quieter than that. A pause when she reached for a second dinner roll in the staff breakroom. A smirk when she bent to pick up dropped towels. A whisper that stopped the second she stepped into the laundry room.
Beatrice had spent years apologizing for doorways, chairs, photographs, and air. She had learned to laugh first so no one else could wound her with the joke. She had learned to stand in corners at lavish parties she served, lowering her eyes when beautiful women with collarbones like jewelry complained about calories while handing her empty champagne flutes.
But six-year-old Lily Rossi had never seen her that way.
Lily saw Beatrice as warmth. After the car bombing that killed Lily’s mother, Elena, two years earlier, the little girl had stopped speaking entirely. Doctors came and went. Specialists were flown in from London and New York. Therapists with soft voices sat in the bright sunroom with plush dolls and cards and carefully chosen words. Nothing worked.
Then one rainy afternoon, Beatrice had found Lily hiding under the massive oak kitchen table, shaking uncontrollably because thunder had rolled over Lake Michigan like an explosion.
Beatrice had been carrying a silver tray of warm shortbread cookies. She should have called the nanny. She should have alerted Leo. Instead, she sat on the cold floor with great difficulty, pushed a cookie beneath the wooden fringe of the table, and said softly, “My grandmother used to tell me thunder was just heaven moving heavy furniture.”
Lily had stared at her through dark, tear-filled eyes.
Beatrice had taken a bite from her own cookie. “I never liked that explanation, honestly. Heaven should have much better manners.”
For the first time in six months, Lily had giggled. Two days later, she spoke her first words since her mother’s death: “More shortbread, Bee.”
From that day on, Beatrice became the child’s anchor. While Leo ran a vast criminal enterprise masked as an international logistics corporation, Beatrice washed Lily’s clothes, braided her dark hair, and sat beside her during asthma attacks.
That was precisely why Victoria Kensington hated her.
Victoria was the daughter of Senator Richard Kensington—a man whose political influence Leo required to launder his shipping contracts. Victoria was sleek, blonde, razor-thin, and wore clothes that cost more than Beatrice made in three years. She had spent six months positioning herself to become the next Mrs. Leo Rossi. But Lily refused to look at Victoria, refusing her expensive gifts and shrinking away whenever Victoria tried to touch her.
Tonight, Victoria had decided to force the issue. She had arrived at the mansion unannounced while Leo was at a syndicate meeting in downtown Chicago. When Lily had refused to eat the sugar-free dinner Victoria ordered, Victoria had snapped, grabbing the child by the arm. When Lily panicked and began to wheeze, Victoria had panicked too—locking the girl in the dark cellar to hide the escalating asthma attack before Leo returned.
When Beatrice had tried to intervene, Victoria had struck her across the face with a heavy brass candleholder.
Now, as the emergency paramedics packed their equipment in the grand living room above, Leo stood near the fireplace. His face was carved of granite.
The paramedic, a young man who looked terrified just being inside the Rossi residence, cleared his throat. "Mr. Rossi, your daughter's airway is clear. The inhaler stabilized her, but her oxygen levels dropped significantly. She needs rest. Miss Miller’s quick actions saved her life."
Leo didn't look at the paramedic. His dark eyes were fixed on Beatrice, who sat on a velvet sofa, holding an ice pack against her swollen, bruised cheekbone.
"Mateo," Leo said softly.
Mateo stepped forward from the shadows. "Yes, Leo?"
"Take Victoria upstairs to the study. Do not let her leave."
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"Leo!" Victoria shrieked from the hallway, where two guards held her arms. "This is insane! You're taking the word of a fat, ignorant servant over mine?! My father will destroy you!"
Leo didn't even turn around. "Mateo. Lock the door."
