Chapter 3 - The Cost of Invisibility
Upstairs in the cavernous laundry sorting room, the smell of bleach and hot steam hung thick in the air. Kayla stood over a massive industrial folding table, her hands moving mechanically as she smoothed out a stack of pristine linen napkins. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
When she had woken up at five in the morning, the master suite had been empty. The heavy duvet was neatly folded over her legs, and a single hundred-dollar bill lay resting on the corner of the nightstand beside her work shoes. There had been no security guards waiting outside the door, no shouts of betrayal, no immediate execution. Just an eerie, echoing silence.
The heavy metal door of the laundry room pushed open, and Mrs. Gable stepped inside, her face carved from stone, her posture rigid as a iron rod.
“Kayla Hughes,” Mrs. Gable barked, her voice cutting through the hum of the dryers like a scalpel.
Kayla dropped the napkin she was holding, her blood running cold. This was it. The axe was falling. She had expected to be fired, escorted off the property by armed guards, or worse. She braced herself for the shouting.
“Yes, Mrs. Gable,” Kayla whispered, staring fixedly at the scuffed toes of her sneakers.
“Mr. Woods has reviewed the staffing logs for the east wing,” the head housekeeper said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she crossed her arms over her stiff gray uniform. “He noted that you worked sixteen consecutive hours yesterday without a break.”
Kayla swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I volunteered, ma'am. The night maids were sick. I needed the extra hours.”
“Mr. Woods does not care about your justifications,” Mrs. Gable snapped, though there was a strange, unsettling edge of bewilderment in her tone. “He cares about estate efficiency. And liability. A fatigued worker makes mistakes. Mistakes cost money.”
“I didn't make any mistakes,” Kayla defended softly, looking up, unable to keep her eyes entirely lowered. “The master suite was spotless. Every surface polished. Every drape washed.”
“Except for the part where you collapsed across his bed like a common vagrant,” Mrs. Gable hissed, stepping closer. “You are ordered to report to the private study on the ground floor immediately. Mr. Woods wants to speak with you personally.”
Kayla felt the air leave her lungs. A private audience with Gunther Woods. The man who ruled the city’s shipping lanes and financial districts from the shadows. The man who supposedly broke the bones of men who looked at him the wrong way.
“Is he... is he going to fire me?” Kayla asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound composed.
May you like
“If you have any sense, you’ll pray for firing,” Mrs. Gable replied coldly, turning on her heel. “Move. Now.”
Kayla walked down the endless, echoing corridors of the east wing, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly against the marble. Her hands were ice cold. Every step felt like a march toward a guillotine, her mind racing through every possible worst-case scenario.
