Chapter 4 - The First Taste of Venom
The double mahogany doors of the penthouse opened before I could knock twice.
Vanessa stood there, swathed in an imported silk kimono, holding a cup of espresso. Her glossy dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her skin glowing from expensive morning serums. For a split second, my heart seized in my chest. Would she recognize the shape of my nose? The sound of my breathing?
She looked right past my eyes, her gaze instantly raking down over my faded uniform, my sensible shoes, and my plastic bucket of supplies.
A sneer of distaste curved her perfect, rose-tinted lips.
"You're seven minutes late, Martha," she snapped, not bothering to offer a greeting. She turned on her bare heel and walked back into the expansive, marble-clad living room. "Take off those filthy shoes at the foyer. I don't want street grime tracked across my Italian travertine."
"I am so sorry, ma'am," I murmured, pitching my voice an octave lower and adding a slight, hesitant rasp. "The subway had a delay."
"I don't care about the subway," she said coldly, without looking back. "Your excuses don't interest me. What interests me is getting this place spotless. The last idiot the agency sent couldn't even steam cashmere without leaving watermarks."
I stepped out of my shoes, putting on the cotton slippers I had brought in my bag, and followed her into the cathedral-like living space. The view of Central Park was breathtaking, but the atmosphere inside the apartment was toxic, thick with arrogance.
Vanessa walked over to the grand piano—the Steinway Daniel’s father had left him—and ran a manicured finger across the high-gloss black finish. She inspected her finger, then wiped it aggressively against my apron.
"Dust," she barked. "Every surface in this room needs to be sanitized. Then you'll go to the master suite, unpack my six shopping bags from Bergdorf’s, steam the dresses, and color-code my shoe closet."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, keeping my head bowed. "Would you like me to prepare lunch later?"
Vanessa laughed—a sharp, ugly sound that I had never once heard her make during our elegant Sunday brunches at the country club.
"You touch my food? God, no. You probably don't even wash your hands properly. Just stick to cleaning, old woman. And if you break anything, the agency will take it out of your pathetic paycheck."
She threw her silk scarf onto the floor, deliberately letting it drop at my feet. "Hang that up. And don't make any noise. I have an important phone call."
She strutted toward the private terrace, sliding the glass door shut behind her.
May you like
I knelt down on the cold marble floor, picking up the silk scarf. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the raw shock of witnessing the monster my son intended to marry. The sweet, deferential girl who had once held my hands and said, *“Mrs. Whitmore, Daniel’s happiness is the only thing that matters to me,”* did not exist.
She was an illusion. And I had just stepped behind the curtain.
