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“A maid at the Wintertide Hotel,” I replied, feeling an odd mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Early twenties, slender build. Her uniform covered the rest, even her hair. She worked yesterday evening.”
There was a brief silence as he processed my request. “You sure about this?” he asked cautiously.
“I just want to know more about her,” I explained, trying to sound nonchalant despite the unfamiliar tightness in my chest.
“All right,” he conceded with a hint of curiosity coloring his voice. “Consider it done.”
As I turned back to my desk and the endless lists and plans waiting for me there, there was an unfamiliar lightness in my step—a sense that something real was on the horizon, just out of reach but moving closer with every passing moment.
I shuffled through the stack of blueprints and reports sprawled across my desk, each page a testament to the project that had consumed me for the better part of the year. The development plan for the city’s dilapidated west side wasn’t just another notch in my portfolio; it was personal. This was where I’d grown up, where every pothole and graffiti-tagged wall was a memory etched into my very being. I owed it to that scrappy kid with too-big dreams to turn this place around.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes tracing the outlines of new buildings, parks, and community centers that promised a brighter future—a future I was determined to secure. It wasn’t just about profits or reputation; it was about legacy. It was about giving back to a city that had given me so much, even when it had nothing left to give.
But as I pored over zoning permits and environmental assessments, my focus wavered. A pair of wide eyes framed by dark lashes flickered into my mind’s eye, unbidden yet insistent. The maid—her name was a whisper in a crowded room that somehow echoed louder than all the rest.
It was absurd. I’d had countless interactions every day, brief exchanges with people from all walks of life, gold diggers throwing themselves at me, yet none clung to me like this one. There was something about her—the way she held herself with quiet dignity even as she apologized for a stumble, the way her eyes had met mine for just a fraction of a second too long.
With a frustrated sigh, I pushed away from the desk and stood by the window once more. The city stretched out before me, lights flickering as if sharing secrets in the darkness. Was the maid out there somewhere at this very moment? What did she dream of when she looked at these same stars? My chest tightened at the thought—such musings were foreign territory for me.
I shook my head, attempting to dislodge her image and the curious warmth that accompanied it. This was not the time for distractions; I had an entire community counting on me to bring this project home.
Chapter Three
Mila
The grand ballroom stretched out before me, opulent and vast, the chandeliers overhead a constellation of shimmering stars. I pushed my cart along the plush carpet, my hands automatically reaching for the polish and cloth to wipe down the gleaming surfaces. The echoes of my movements were lonely in the cavernous space, a contrast to the laughter and music that would soon fill it.
As I straightened a row of chairs, something glinted on the floor by a secluded corner table. Curiosity tugged at me, leading me closer. It was an invitation to the masquerade ball, its golden trim catching the light, forgotten or dropped in haste. The cardstock was heavy in my hand, embossed with intricate designs that spoke of exclusivity and elegance.
A furtive glance around confirmed I was alone. The silence seemed to hold its breath as I slid the invitation into my apron pocket, my heart thumping against my ribs. The rush of excitement tinged with guilt sent a warm flush across my cheeks.
Back to work, I forced myself to focus on polishing silverware, yet my thoughts fluttered like moths around a flame. I imagined slipping into a gown that transformed me from a maid into a princess, a mask concealing my identity as I stepped into the throng of dancing couples.
In this daydream, Cassius Portman appeared through the crowd like a beacon. He’d extend his hand and I would take it and…
My hand brushed against my apron pocket where the invitation lay hidden—a golden ticket to a life that felt unreachable. It grew heavy with possibility, its weight reminding me that for one night, I could cast aside my cinder-gray existence and step into a storybook. The temptation tugged at me with each passing second until it felt less like a piece of paper and more like a symbol of rebellion—a chance to dance on the ashes of routine and rise anew.
In this pocket-sized rebellion, even if only for an evening, I could imagine myself as more than Mila Johnson, maid at the Wintertide Hotel. I could be anyone—a creature of fantasy amidst a sea of masked faces—and perhaps even find myself in the arms of someone who saw beyond my station into the heart that beat beneath.
***
The chime above the door at Breadcetera heralded my entrance, a sound as comforting as the aroma of freshly baked bread that enveloped me. Josie was already there, perched on a barstool by the window, her silhouette framed by the dusky glow of the setting sun.
I slipped into the seat beside her, shedding the heaviness of my maid’s uniform like a second skin. The warmth inside bakery caressed my cheeks, a stark contrast to the cool grandeur of the Wintertide Hotel’s ballroom that still lingered in my mind.
Josie turned to me, her eyes alight with curiosity. “So? Tell me everything. You sounded so very mysterious on the phone.”
I chuckled, pulling the masquerade ball invitation from my pocket and sliding it across the counter toward her. “Looks like fate is mocking me,” I quipped. But as she unfolded the paper, her eyes widened.
“Mila! Is this—”
“An invitation to the Wintertide ball,” I interrupted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I found it, just lying there.”
Josie’s excitement bubbled over like a pot left too long on the stove. “You have to go!”
I shook my head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s not that simple. I’m not even allowed to attend.”
“But why not?” Josie leaned in, her enthusiasm infectious but misplaced. “You found an invitation! It’s fate.”
