I spent the rest of the day moving like a shadow. I followed Bianca from room to room, dusting, arranging pillows, polishing surfaces that were already spotless. My hands worked, but my mind stayed trapped upstairs—in that bedroom, on that shattered cup, on the sound of his voice when he shouted my name.
"What the hell, Aria."
It echoed again and again in my head.
Bianca, of course, didn't miss the chance to make my day worse.
"Careful," she said when I nearly knocked over a vase in the hallway. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself again. You're already famous for breaking things."
I bit my tongue.
By three o'clock, my shift finally ended. My body ached, but my heart felt heavier than my limbs.
I returned to my room, closed the door gently, and leaned against it.
Only then did I allow myself to breathe.
Why did his opinion matter so much?
He was my employer. Nothing more.
And yet… when he ignored the second cup of coffee I made, it felt worse than when he yelled at me.
I changed into simple clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands.
"They're just hands," I whispered to myself.
"Not fragile. Not useless."
Still, they trembled slightly.
That evening, I was helping Martha prepare dinner when the doorbell rang.
Something changed in the air.
Martha froze for half a second, then quickly wiped her hands on her apron.
"She's here," she murmured.
"Who?" I asked.
Before she could answer, Bianca rolled her eyes. "The queen mother herself."
Martha shot her a warning look.
"The grandmother," Bianca corrected with a shrug. "Mr Sinclair's grandmother."
My heart skipped a beat.
Sebastian Sinclair had a grandmother?
"She visits once every few months," Martha explained quietly. "And when she does… the whole house changes."
We heard his voice in the living room, different from how I usually heard it.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Warm.
"Grandmother, you should have told me you were coming. I would have cleared my schedule."
A soft, elderly voice replied, amused.
"And deny myself the pleasure of surprising my stubborn grandson? Never."
Martha smiled to herself. "That's Madam Eleanor Sinclair."
Minutes later, she entered the kitchen.
She was small, elegant, with silver hair neatly pinned back and eyes that looked like they had seen both joy and sorrow in equal measure.
She wore a blue dress and walked with a cane, but her presence filled the room effortlessly.
Sebastian followed behind her, his hand lightly supporting her elbow.
"This is the kitchen," he said. "And this is Martha."
"Ah, Martha," the old woman said warmly. "Still running this house like a kingdom, I see."
"And failing every day," Martha laughed.
Then her eyes fell on me.
"And who is this?" Madam Sinclair asked.
I straightened instantly.
"I'm Aria, ma'am. A maid."
She studied me gently, not the way people usually did—measuring my clothes or my posture—but as if she were trying to read my heart.
"A maid," she repeated softly. "Or a young woman trying to survive."
My throat tightened.
Sebastian stiffened slightly. "Grandmother"
"You hired her," she said. "That means she matters."
Her gaze returned to me.
"Come closer, child."
My feet moved before my fear could stop them.
She reached out and held my hands.
They were warm.
"You look like someone who cries quietly," she said.
I swallowed.
"I'm fine, ma'am."
She smiled sadly.
"No one who says that ever is." Sebastian looked away.
Later that night, I was told to bring tea to the small sitting room where Madam Sinclair rested.
My hands shook as I knocked.
"Come in, dear." She was alone.
"Thank you," she said when I placed the tray down.
"Sit with me for a moment." I hesitated.
"I… I don't think I'm allowed"
"You are," she said firmly.
So I sat.
"You work for my grandson," she said. "Is he kind to you?"
I didn't know how to answer.
"He's… professional," I said carefully. She chuckled.
"That means no." I looked down.
"He was not always like this," she said quietly.
Then she began to speak, more to herself than to me.
"When Sebastian was twelve, his father fired a driver for scratching the company car. The man begged. He had a sick daughter. It was raining. He had nowhere to go."
Her hands tightened around her cane.
"Sebastian watched it happen. He said nothing." She closed her eyes.
~~
"That night, I took him to the driver's house. We stood in the rain. We saw the daughter coughing, shaking with fever. We saw the wife crying."
My chest ached as I listened.
"I told Sebastian something that night," she continued.
"Power does not make you superior. It makes you responsible.
The moment you believe someone is beneath you, you become smaller than them."
She opened her eyes.
"He cried. He begged his father to rehire the man. He paid the hospital bills from his savings." I blinked in shock.
"That boy had a soft heart," she whispered.
"The world hardened him." Silence filled the room.
"I see how he looks at you," she said suddenly.
My breath caught.
"He doesn't realize it yet," she added. "But he does."
I stood up quickly. "Ma'am, I should go" She smiled gently.
"Don't be afraid of him." I bowed slightly and left.
From the hallway, I heard voices. Sebastian and his grandmother.
"You're cruel for no reason," she said.
"I'm careful," he replied.
"No. You're afraid."
Silence.
"You push people away before they can disappoint you."
Another pause.
"And that girl," she continued, "she reminds you of who you were."
His voice was low.
"She's a maid."
"And you," she replied sharply, "are a man."
I walked away before I could hear more.
But my heart was pounding.
~~
That night, as I lay in bed, her words replayed in my mind.
"Power does not make you superior. It makes you responsible.."
And for the first time since I entered that mansion, I wondered…
Was Sebastian Sinclair truly heartless?
Or just wounded?