Novi looked up from the floor she’d been scrubbing for the past hour. Mave stood in the doorway of the Westwing bathroom, arms crossed, silver streaked hair pulled back so tight it looked painful.
“Where?” Novi asked, keeping her voice pleasant. Mave pointed at a tile that was objectively spotless.
“There, do it again.” Novi bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she’d regret.
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “I’ll make sure it’s perfect.” Mave’s eyes narrowed. She’d clearly been hoping for an argument, but she had nothing to work with.
She turned on her heel and stalked away, her sensible shoes clicking against the marble.
The moment she was gone, Novi slumped against the bathroom wall. 3 weeks, she thought.
3 weeks of this woman treating me like gum on her shoe. It had started small.
Accidentally forgetting to tell Novi about schedule changes, assigning her the worst tasks, scrubbing toilets, cleaning gutters, organizing storage rooms that hadn’t been touched in decades.
Then it escalated last week. Nun had sent Novi to help with laundry, but conveniently forgot to mention that the industrial washing machine had a broken spin cycle.
Novi had spent 4 hours handringing sheets while Mave watched from the doorway with barely concealed satisfaction.
Two days ago, Mave had directed Novi to clean the blue room on the third floor, which didn’t exist.
Novi had wandered the mansion for an hour before Winston, the kindly butler, found her and gently explained that there was no blue room, and yesterday, yesterday was the worst.
Mave had asked Novi to taste test a soup she was preparing. Novi, thinking this was finally an olive branch, had eagerly agreed.
The soup was approximately 90% cayenne pepper. Novi had spent 20 minutes coughing over the sink while Mave watched with an expression of pure innocence.
“Oh dear,” she’d said. “I’m not sounding sorry at all. Did I add too much spice?”
“My mistake.” “She hates me,” Novi thought miserably. “And I don’t even know why.” But she had her suspicions.
The way Mave’s eyes lingered on Zach during meals. The way her voice softened when she spoke to him.
The way her expression curdled every time Novi was in the same room as their employer.
Mave was in love with Zach. And she saw Novi as competition. Which is ridiculous.
Novi told herself firmly. Zack barely looks at me. He barely looks at anyone. I’m just here.
But even as she thought it, her mind drifted back to that morning. 3 weeks ago, waking up in his bed, the note on the pillow, the memory of being carried in his arms.
Don’t read too much into this. She’d been reading into it ever since. She had also developed a routine over the past 3 weeks.
And during the day, she worked, she cleaned, organized, did whatever tasks Mave or Winston assigned her.
She kept her head down and her complaints to herself. But at night, at night was different.
Every night around 1000 p.m., she would go to Zach’s room. She would sit in the armchair by his bed and she would sing.
It had started that first night on the balcony and continued without discussion. Zach never asked her to come.
She never asked if she should. It just happened. And every night, without fail, she watched the tension melt from his face as her voice wrapped around him.
She watched his breathing slow, his eyes flutter closed, his body finally surrendered to sleep.
For a man who hadn’t slept properly in 14 years, he now slept like the dead.
Because of her, I’d because of me, Novi thought as she walked toward his bedroom that evening.
“I do that for him. I give him peace.” The thought made her heart flutter in ways she tried very hard not to examine.
She knocked softly on his door. Come in. She pushed it open and found Zach sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him.
He was still in his workclo, tailored gray pants, white button-d down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and his dreads were pulled back from his face with a simple band.
“God, he’s gorgeous,” Novi thought for the thousandth time. “It’s actually unfair how gorgeous he is.”
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