I woke up the next morning with the sickening certainty that Mrs. Grant knew everything. The kiss, the complicity, the entire disastrous exchange in the pool Harrison had seen it, and Harrison reported to her. My phone remained silent, but the lack of communication felt like the quiet before a judge's sentence.
I was scrubbing the delicate tiles in the greenhouse, one of the few places in the house that smelled of living things instead of old money and ammonia, when the shadow fell over me.
"Sasha."
The sound of Mr. Harrison's voice was always dry, emotionless, and final. I straightened immediately, my heart hammering.
He was dressed perfect, a clipboard held loosely in his hand. He didn't look at the flowers or the dirt; his focus was entirely on me.
"Mrs. Grant is under the impression that the staff is becoming careless," he said, his voice low and precise, devoid of anger, which made it far more terrifying. "She believes there are distractions compromising the order of the house."
He paused, letting the silence stretch until I could hear the panicked buzzing in my own ears.
"I have not reported anything specific to Mrs. Grant yet,"
he continued, and the words hit me like a physical blow. Mrs. Grant didn't know. The crushing threat of my past was still locked away. Harrison was operating on his own authority. "And I don't intend to. But that is entirely dependent on you, Sasha."
He took one step closer, his eyes cold and clinical. "You are playing a dangerous game, and you don't even know the rules. Mr. Ethan Grant is not interested in you; he is interested in what you represent. You are a disposable resource, a liability. And in this house, liabilities are removed."
He didn't mention the kiss or the pool. He didn't need to.i understand, His warning was chilling in its professional detachment. He was confirming everything my survival instinct screamed at me: Ethan's charm was a calculated trap.
"I need you to understand," he said, lowering his voice further, creating a conspiratorial intimacy that was profoundly unsettling. "Mrs. Grant demands order. Mr. Ethan creates chaos. If you want to be safe if you want to keep the job that allows you to remain here you will stay away from him. You will go back to being a ghost. You will focus only on your duties."
The warning was a choice: choose my job, choose my survival, or choose Ethan and be exposed.
"I understand, Mr. Harrison," I managed, my voice thin.
"Good," he said, a brief, sharp nod. "Because I don't want to report unnecessary complications. Your fate is in your hands." He turned and walked away, the clipboard swinging slightly.
Phew
The weeks that followed Mr. Harrison's chilling warning were a study in psychological pressure. I retreated entirely, adopting the life of a true ghost. I cleaned, I polished, I remained silent. I saw the silver tea set, but I never saw Mrs. Grant, nor did she send any further demands. The lack of surveillance was a heavier burden than the pressure, because it meant she was perfectly satisfied that I was neutralized. I had successfully chosen survival.
My life became a cold, meticulous routine. I avoided the pool, the north wing, and any area where Ethan might be. He also went silent. His phone remained off my radar, and there were no more late-night texts. The warning from Harrison had been brutally accurate: Ethan had probably moved on, likely consumed by the fallout of being caught with a maid perhaps.
The silence lasted for two weeks fourteen days of agonizing emptiness that confirmed my disposable nature. The adrenaline addiction was replaced by a dull, aching loneliness, and the fear of Mrs. Grant was slowly eclipsed by the raw pain of being abandoned. I had betrayed Ethan for survival, and he had simply forgotten I existed.
I tried to convince myself this was a victory. The fugitive Chimamanda was safe, working, and anonymous. But the silent betrayal was agony.
The shift in the atmosphere of the house was subtle at first. More flowers arrived, more champagne was ordered, and the staff seemed to move with a strange, secretive excitement. I paid it no mind, focusing only on the rhythm of my work.
I was crossing the main foyer, polishing the glass case that held the family's antique hunting rifles, when I stopped dead.
He was there. Ethan.
He was standing by the towering front window, laughing a bright, genuine sound that tore through the cold quiet of the house. He was looking down at a woman whose arm was linked tightly through his.
She was stunning. Tall, elegant, draped in expensive, neutral fabrics, with hair the color of refined gold. She looked like she belonged entirely to this house, to this wealth, to his world. She didn't look like a fugitive maid.
They were talking intimately, oblivious to the staff around them. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, and his touch, once so possessive and electric on my own skin, was now entirely devoted to her. The sight of his affection for her the easy charm, the soft eyes was a physical blow, confirming that everything we had shared was merely a momentary distraction, a means to an end.
I dropped my gaze, my hands freezing on the polishing cloth, trying desperately to become the invisible ghost Harrison had commanded. I couldn't breathe.
I continued my work, pretending I hadn't seen them, but my eyes darted to the woman. She wore a ring a brilliant, dazzling diamond that looked impossibly heavy on her left hand.
My colleague, Ana, a maid who usually worked the south wing, shuffled past me, carrying a load of fresh linens. I risked a question, needing to puncture the suffocating silence of my misery.
"Ana," I whispered, keeping my voice low. "Who is that woman? Is she new to the house?"
Ana didn't even slow down, her face bright with a busy, knowing smile. "Oh, the fiancée? You didn't hear? You've been so quiet lately."
I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. The blood drained from my face, and the polished glass of the case felt suddenly cold against my fingertips.
"The... fiancée?" I repeated, the word alien and sharp.
Ana nodded, leaning in slightly, treating the news like high society gossip.
"Yes! Miss Victoria Sterling. Big society wedding coming up. The Mayor is delighted. Mr. Ethan is finally getting engaged. Didn't you see the announcement? He's been officially engaged for a week. They just finalized the date last night."
She moved on, oblivious to the catastrophe she had just delivered.
Engaged. The word echoed in the vast, empty space where my hope had been. The quiet conversation in the pool, the confession of his lonely past, the promise of forever it was all a lie, a performance designed to secure his intelligence and his comfort. Harrison was right. I was a disposable resource, a liability.
The terror of Mrs. Grant and the threat of my past suddenly vanished, replaced by a blinding, white-hot pain of betrayal. I hadn't just been used for intelligence; I had been used for comfort, for intimacy, while he was finalizing his real life with someone else.
In that moment, standing over the reflection of the happy couple in the polished glass, I realized I had sacrificed my true identity, my sanity, and my survival for a man who didn't even remember my name. The pain was absolute, and it was a catalyst.