AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Brenda sniffed disdainfully. “Well, don’t expect me to pick up your slack around here.”
My fingers tightened around the bread knife but I kept my voice even. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Chad and Rachel exchanged a wary look, sensing the tension they had become too familiar with over these past two years.
I steered them back towards their seats at the table. “Let’s get you two fed before homework.”
Brenda watched us with an expression that tried for maternal but only managed disinterest. “Make sure they wash up after,” she instructed before turning on her heel and disappearing into the depths of the apartment she never made a home.
As Chad and Rachel munched on their sandwiches, my mind wandered back to Mom—how she’d fill these rooms with laughter and love. It was her absence that was most present in every corner.
The sounds of Dad coughing brought me back to reality, reminding me of why we endured Brenda’s presence—his health was declining and there were bills to pay. She was supposed to be part of that equation when she married Dad; we soon realized it was only because she thought there was a life insurance payout waiting for her.
I sighed inwardly; love was replaced by convenience and opportunism in our household since Laura Johnson had taken her last breath. But as long as Dad needed me, as long as Chad and Rachel needed stability, I’d shoulder this life without complaint.
“Can you read us another chapter tonight?” Rachel asked with hope in her eyes.
“Of course,” I smiled at her, pushing aside my own exhaustion for later. “We’ll see what adventures await tonight.”
Chapter Two
Cassius
The maid’s hurried departure, a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, intrigued me more than it should have. In the grandeur of the Wintertide Hotel, with its crystal chandeliers and marbled floors, she was a striking contrast—her simplicity a whisper among shouts of luxury.
I shook off the odd sensation, returning to my work. The masquerade ball demanded perfection, and I intended to deliver nothing less. As I walked through the hotel’s halls, my mind meticulously checked off the arrangements—the caterers, the musicians, the security detail. Yet, there was a disruption in my usual focus.
Why did her image linger? It was not just her beauty, which was certainly there in an unrefined, natural sense. It was her eyes—they held stories untold and a resilience that seemed to pierce through the layers of security that cocooned me.
I made my way to the grand ballroom, clipboard in hand. The decorators were doing their final touches; the room transformed into an ethereal dreamscape with fabrics cascading from the ceiling like waterfalls of silk.
“Mr. Portman,” one of the event planners approached with a question about table placements.
I answered without missing a beat, but as she walked away, satisfied with my decision, I couldn’t help but wonder about the maid.
Her presence was an anomaly in my world. A world where everything could be bought and everyone had a price. Yet her hurried apology had been genuine—unpracticed and unrehearsed—a stark contrast to the sycophantic smiles that usually surrounded me.
A waiter passed by with a tray of flutes filled with golden liquid. I declined with a gesture; alcohol wouldn’t clear my thoughts. They were clouded by the maid in the Wintertide Hotel who had unwittingly unsettled me with nothing but a glance and an apology.
***
Perched in my office, the city sprawled below like a chessboard, each skyscraper a piece I could maneuver. The soft glow of my desk lamp cast long shadows across the blueprints and guest lists for the masquerade ball. My hand moved over the paper, the pen scratching out names and adding others in a rhythmic monotony that mirrored my thoughts.
A ball. It was just a ball, but with layers like an onion, each one revealing another facet to those who bothered to look closer. For me, it was a necessary charade—a dance of masks and money, where every twirl and dip meant more funding for the housing projects that kept me awake at night.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the leather contour to my form. The view from my window was captivating, an endless expanse of lights and life. It was out there, beyond the glass, where my true interest lay—in the neighborhoods that were crumbling, in the families that were struggling.
I closed my eyes briefly, allowing myself a moment’s respite from the weight of expectations. When I opened them again, I caught sight of my reflection in the glossy surface of my laptop—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up—a man far removed from the grandeur of masquerade balls.
I pulled out another sheet of paper, sketching ideas for the event. An auction perhaps? Exclusive experiences to bid on—all for charity, of course. I could almost hear the clinking glasses and feel the buzz of excitement such items would generate.
But as I poured over lists and plans, her image crept into my mind—the maid from Wintertide Hotel. A small part of me wondered what it would be like to see her there at the ball—not in uniform but in a gown that didn’t hide her figure or her grace.
I shook my head slightly, dispelling the unwelcome distraction. There was work to be done; I couldn’t afford such diversions.
The phone on my desk rang abruptly, shattering my reverie. I answered it with a curt “Portman.”
“Mr. Portman,” came the voice of one of my assistants on the other end. “The caterers need final confirmation on their menu selections for—”
