The air in the study was solidified like amber.
William remained seated in the high-backed chair. The ironed telegram lay flat on the mahogany desk before him, like evidence presented in court.
"Close the door."
Evelyn shut the door behind her, cutting off the faint signs of life from the hallway. She stood three paces from the desk—the safest distance between servant and master. Close enough to hear commands clearly, yet far enough not to appear offensive.
William didn't speak immediately. He picked up a clipped cigar and sniffed it gently. Through the haze of cigar smoke, his grey-green eyes roamed over her without hesitation.
From her chestnut bun, dyed to hide the red hair, to the neck that appeared exceptionally fragile from constantly bowing her head, down to the slender waist cinched tight by the rough apron.
It wasn't a man looking at a woman. It was a buyer evaluating livestock, or a collector inspecting porcelain for hidden cracks.
"Literate?" He finally spoke, his voice low and textured like metal.
"My father taught me a little, Sir," Evelyn answered, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet.
"To pick out Harriman's code precisely from a pile of waste paper." William struck a match, the flame illuminating his cold, hard jawline. "Did your father, who died under the train tracks, teach you that too?"
Evelyn's heart constricted violently. He had investigated her. Of course. He was William Ashford.
"No, Sir." Evelyn lifted her head. This time, she didn't avoid his gaze. She knew that in front of this man, excessive humility would be seen as incompetence. Only a measured amount of sharpness could win respect.
"It was because of you."
William raised an eyebrow, his hand pausing mid-motion.
"I've been cleaning the third floor for three months. I've heard you curse that letter over the phone." Evelyn's voice was as calm as stagnant water. "You said 'H' is a greedy mongrel. So I thought, news about a mongrel, even stained with tea, is more valuable than Miss Aurora's dance invitations."
Silence.
Only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace broke the stillness.
William stared at her for a long time before suddenly letting out a short, cold chuckle. He stood up, walked around the desk, and approached her step by step.
The oppressive pressure, mixed with the scent of cologne and tobacco, made Evelyn instinctively want to retreat, but she nailed herself to the spot.
William reached out, two long fingers clamping her chin, forcing her to look up. His fingertips were rough and powerful, carrying an undeniable desire for control.
"Very clever," he whispered, his thumb gently rubbing the skin of her chin. "But sometimes, hounds that are too clever get beaten to death by their masters."
"That is because the hound is not obedient enough." Evelyn looked straight into his eyes, her emerald irises reflecting the man's face. "But I am obedient, Sir. And, I am quiet."
Quiet. That was what William craved most.
He released her hand, as if the ambiguous touch just now had never happened. He turned and walked back to the desk, tossing a schedule out of a drawer.
"Tomorrow morning, six o'clock. Pack your things. You're coming with me to Chicago."
Evelyn froze. "Sir?"
"This merger requires secrecy. Taking a secretary attracts too much attention; taking a butler is too stupid." William sank back into his chair, resuming the posture of a tyrant high above. "Since you can find gold in a trash heap, you will come as my traveling maid. Remember, even if it's just pouring coffee, if I see a single mistake—"
"I will roll myself back to the slums, Sir."
"Get out."
When Evelyn walked out of the study, her back was soaked in cold sweat.
She leaned against the cold corridor wall, breathing heavily. She had passed the first trial. Not only had she survived, but she had also entered his inner circle. Chicago—that was the frontline of the railroad war, and her chance to completely alter her destiny.
"What are you doing here?"
A sharp female voice pierced the quiet of the corridor.
Evelyn straightened up abruptly and saw Aurora standing at the top of the stairs, lifting the hem of her elaborate lace dress. She had just returned from a tea party, carrying the heavy scent of rose perfume that clashed with the cold hallway.
"Miss Aurora." Evelyn quickly lowered her head and performed a standard curtsy.
Aurora stared suspiciously at the closed study door, then at Evelyn. A woman's intuition gave her an inexplicable sense of discomfort—this submissive maid seemed to carry an aura she detested.
"William let you into the study?" Aurora stepped closer, using her feather fan to tap Evelyn on the shoulder.
"The Master asked me to clear the ashes from the fireplace, Miss," Evelyn lied without a single tremble of her eyelashes. "Because Mrs. Hope said I have the lightest hands and wouldn't disturb him."
"Hmph, that eccentric man." Aurora rolled her eyes, seemingly accepting the explanation. In her eyes, William was just a boring machine who only knew work, and a creature like a maid posed no threat at all.
"Stay away from him." Aurora withdrew her fan, patting her dress with disgust as if Evelyn were a source of infection. "The smell of poverty on you will offend his nose."
"Yes, Miss."
Watching Aurora's arrogant retreating figure, Evelyn smiled soundlessly in the shadows.
Be as arrogant as you like. By the time you realize I'm on the chess board, your King will be dead.
After leaving the main building, Evelyn didn't return to the dormitory. She changed into her most tattered clothes, wrapped a scarf around her face, and slipped out of the manor under the cover of night.
She was heading to the "Tenth Ward" in downtown.
It was a gathering place for gamblers, drunks, and illegal lottery dealers.
She was leaving for Chicago tomorrow, and might not return for two weeks. Her mother's medicine had run out two days ago. Although William might give her a raise, that would be at the end of the month.
She needed money now.
Evelyn walked into the smoke-filled "Policy Shop." The air reeked of sweat and cheap alcohol. Men with bloodshot eyes screamed at the numbers on the blackboard.
This illegal "numbers game" was the slum's only hope, and its biggest trap. The winning numbers were based on daily clearinghouse figures, with extremely high odds.
In her past life, today was September 13, 1899.
Evelyn remembered this date because, in her previous life, she had been robbed of her only dollar outside this very shop and had cried all night in despair. And while she wept, she had stared fixedly at the winning numbers on that blackboard until they were carved into her bones.
4-27-09.
She walked to the counter and slammed the only five dollars she had—her entire savings from six months of work—onto the greasy table.
"All in," she whispered, mimicking the accent of a street thug. "4, 27, 09."
The bookie, a fat man missing a front tooth, looked mockingly at the heavily wrapped woman. "All in? Little girl, don't go crying to your mommy when you lose it all."
"Bet it."
Ten minutes later.
When the numbers were chalked onto the board, wails erupted throughout the shop. Only Evelyn stood in the corner, tightly clutching the three hundred dollars she had exchanged.
Three hundred dollars. In this era, it was a fortune, equivalent to five years of her wages. Enough for her mother to stay in the best sanitarium for six months.
She quickly stowed the money, slipping out of the crowd like an alert alley cat.
The night wind blew the scarf from her face, revealing emerald eyes that shone shockingly bright in the darkness.
Right now, her pocket held her mother's life, and her mind held the plan to bring down her enemies. Tomorrow, she would board the train to the center of power.
This was what rebirth felt like.
Not just surviving.
But winning.