Saving the Bride

by Kira Blakely

  As I child, I never liked reading, but I did love this room.

  Still, I shouldn’t be here.

  I head to the other door on the opposite side of the room, I bump into a table, the lamp atop it toppling over the edge as it wobbles.

  I whip out my hand, catch it, and freeze. Christ, that was close.

  It may be too noisy downstairs that no one hears doors opening or floorboards creaking but if something shatters, someone will investigate. And who knows who that someone might be?

  So far, I’ve only seen maids but who knows? Lauren saw one of those thugs the last time she was here.

  I have to be more careful. I put the lamp back in place then go out the door.

  I close it behind me, walking down another hall that leads to my father’s study.

  If I’m going to find any evidence about what’s going on, I’m sure it will be in there.

  I walk faster but stop halfway through. A thud sounds and I turn my head.

  A woman, a maid, stands on the stairwell leading to the attic, a feather duster a few steps below her.

  Shit.

  I raise a finger to my lips. Don’t scream, woman.

  She doesn’t, simply staring at me with dumbfounded, wide eyes. She’s pale as a sheet, frozen in place, a petrified statue. I slip away and leave her there.

  I’m lucky she didn’t scream.

  I have to hurry.

  I reach the double oak doors to my father’s study, press my ear to the wood to make sure no one is about to spring on me.

  Nothing, no sound. It’s empty.

  Then again, I expected it to be, the study was my father’s private sanctuary during his lifetime, his sanctum where he hatched all his ideas, made all his important phone calls, and planned.

  “Sorry, Dad,” I mumble under my breath.

  I check over my shoulder – no one behind me. Good. Still, as a precaution, I grab a potted plant in the middle of the hall and topple it over.

  Fragments of the soil, and the colorful marbles mixed in with pebbles inside the pot scatter across the carpet. It’s a mess but at least, it will help me hear if someone’s approaching.

  I enter my father’s study, click the door closed behind me. I turn around and growl under my breath. Fuckers.

  I can count the times I’ve been in this room on one hand, but each time it was pristine, impeccable, without a single paperclip out of place.

  Now, there are books and sheets of paper scattered on the floor, some of them shredded, and every drawer hangs open, its contents in disarray.

  The huge, mahogany desk is cluttered and my father’s family portrait, the one with him, his parents, and his brother, that hung above it, is on the floor with a gaping hole in the middle. Beside it lies the urn which contained my father’s ashes, now broken into pieces, remains on the floor.

  “Bastards,” I grunt.

  Who would do something like this? And why would they?

  I pick my way around the desk. The computer is on. It’s doing something, active in some sort of program, so I bend over and get a closer look. I read the words on the screen.

  Oh, Christ. The computer is deleting a massive amount of files from the company drive.

  No.

  I try to stop the process but fail. Commands and passwords are not registering. Desperate, I hit print instead, to make copies of the documents before they disappear.

  The printer whirs to life, spouting out the copies one by one. I snatch the pieces of paper as they come out, my eyes furiously scanning them.

  These are important documents, many of which have my father’s signature. Why are they being deleted?

  I print out more than a dozen documents. A man grumbles curses down the hall.

  I cancel the printing process and snatch the last document from the printer tray, then stalk toward the closet, slip inside. I stand deathly still and clutch the papers to my chest.

  Seconds later, the door opens and I peek through the cracks in the closet door. One of those hired killers – the bald fucker with the thin beard, enters. He still has his sunglasses and pushes them up on his head as he looks around.

  I hold my breath and don’t move a muscle.

  Just in case, my eyes travel around the closet, resting on a black and silver walking cane in the corner. It’s probably not as strong as the hoe, or as deadly, but it will have to do if worse comes to worst.

  If.

  Mr. Sunglasses approaches the desk, kicking some of the sheets of paper away. He goes around the desk, leaning over the computer. Then he sits in the leather chair, swivels it to the side, and props his feet up.

  He’s right in front of me. If he swivels that chair a little more, he’ll probably see me through the gaps in the shuttered closet door.

  The sound of a phone ringing freezes my blood.

  The man presses a cell to his ear. “Yeah, boss?”

  Boss?

  “Have the files been deleted?”

  I freeze. The voice is muffled but distinctive. Loud enough for me to make out.

  It’s Uncle Terrence. The thought makes my skin go cold and my stomach coil.

  Oh, fuck – the light on the printer is still on. It’s still on.

  If Mr. Sunglasses notices, I’m dead.

  Thankfully, he doesn’t.

  “Yeah,” he says, into the phone, and snatches a pen from the metal holder on his desk. He twirls it between his fingers. “It’s getting there.” Mr. Sunglasses shrugs. “There’s a lot.”

  Uncle Terrence grumbles something indistinct.

  “Everything’s going according to plan,” the goon assures him.

  “ – failed me before. I’m not going – more slip-ups from you.”

  The thug’s Adam’s apple bobs, the pen in his hand stops.

  “And what about that other thing –?” my uncle asks – I can only make out every other word.

  Mr. Sunglasses grins. “It’s been taken care of.”

  “– renovations?” my uncle asks.

  He twirls the pen again. “Messy. If you ask me, they’re going a bit slow.”

  Another grumble.

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Back soon.”

  Then the line goes dead.

  The thug puts his phone back in his pocket and continues to twirl the pen, humming an unfamiliar tune.

  He twirls it successfully a few times, it falls on the carpet right in front of the closet. I squeeze myself further against the wall.

  He looks at the door to the closet.

  It’s cold in the room, even in the closet but I’m sweating like a pig right now.

  Look away, dick.

  A crash sounds outside the room. The man in the sunglasses gets up, places the pen back in its holder. Slipping his sunglasses back on, he heads to the door.

  “What the hell is happening?” he shouts down the passage.

  “I slipped on a marble and fell,” another man answers, his voice familiar. “I think I pulled a hamstring.”

  “Oh, quit whining like a baby. I’ll go get a maid.”

  He leaves the room and slams the door behind him.

  I wait a few minutes, then gulp a series of deep breaths. Anger thrills me – a dangerous pulse in the center of my forehead.

  So Uncle Terrence is the one behind all this. He’s the one who tried to kill me, the one who hired the goons, the one who sent my mother off to a mental institution, the one who’s taken over the mansion, the one who’s deleted all the important company files.

  This is a complete takeover.

  The question is: Why?

  I try to remember Uncle Terrence.

  He’s younger, slightly taller. Darker hair than my father’s. Same eyes. He has a small scar above his eye from where he hit the edge of a table when he was a boy. He likes to drink wine, smokes occasionally. He didn’t like my mother, always scoffed when she was around. He liked me, though.

  He always ruffled my hair, gave me presents for my birthday and whe
n I got into all that partying that sometimes led to scandals or accidents, he was the only one who didn’t give me a lecture.

  I liked him too.

  Did he like my father? I thought he did. Did my father like him? Come to think of it, my dad often remarked that he felt sorry for Uncle Terrence, that he loved misery.

  He never seemed miserable, but maybe he was. And maybe, just maybe, now that my father is gone, he has shown his true colors.

  The pile of documents is heavy in my arms.

  Hopefully, they will give me more than mere theories and speculations.

  I put the papers on my lap and begin reading.

  Chapter 19

  Lauren

  “I’m so glad there’s finally someone around here my age,” Maggie gushes as she puts her arm around mine, escorting me through the servants’ entrance of the mansion. “You have no idea how boring it’s been without someone to talk to, and there are so many interesting things to talk about.”

  I’ve been caught. But not by one of the thugs.

  Instead, I’ve been caught by Maggie, a maid working at the mansion who has mistaken me for the maid who was supposed to fill in for Glenda.

  I should consider myself lucky, I guess.

  I’ve slipped through the gate without any difficulty and now, I’m walking across the vast backyard to the mansion, the fact that I’m with Maggie sure to quell any suspicions.

  Whatever the circumstances, I’m in. And now, I should seize this opportunity to help Chase in any way I can, starting by getting some information.

  “What things?” I ask her, glancing at the pool as we pass by.

  “Well…” Maggie tucks a strand of chestnut brown hair behind her ear. “For starters, the old master of the house threw himself off a balcony last year.”

  “What?” My eyes grow wide.

  This is the first time I’ve heard this. Chase’s father is dead. But suicide?

  Maggie pulls my arm, bringing me to the side of the house. She points to a balcony on the fourth floor.

  “Right there.”

  I note the distance between that balcony and the ground. Anyone who jumped off that balcony would be dead for sure.

  “Do you know why?” I ask Maggie.

  “No.” Maggie leads me down a paved path from the side of the mansion. “They say it’s because of money problems. Imagine. A billionaire with money problems?”

  She places her hand over her mouth, lowers her voice to a whisper. “If you ask me, it’s disappointment because of his son.”

  “His son?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “I hear he slept with some powerful politician’s fiancé or something.”

  My eyes narrow. “Really?”

  I have to say I can imagine Chase seducing a rich woman, given how he seduced me, the thought of which drives a pike of jealousy into my chest. I dismiss it, though, telling myself that I’m the woman Chase loves now. Besides, it’s a rumor. I can’t really put any credibility on something a maid has heard or doubt Chase because of hearsay.

  “It’s so tragic,” Maggie continues. “Because his son died a few months ago, too. He fell off a cliff while hiking and he drowned in a river.”

  I touch my chin. “I see.”

  “Tragic, right? And you know what?” She looks around then lowers her voice to a whisper as she leans close to me. “They never found his body.”

  I nod. “Mm.”

  Now that I believe.

  “They say they found it, but they never did. That casket they buried was empty.”

  “Shocking.” I glance back at the mansion. “Um… are you sure we’re going the right way? Because the mansion is behind us.”

  I point to it.

  “Of course we are.” Maggie beams, gripping my arm tighter and resting her head on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to see the mansion. But first, we need to get you changed.”

  She lifts her head to look at me, her coffee brown eyes meeting my hazel ones.

  “You might be only filling in for Glenda but you’re a maid here now, at least for today. And Polly – that’s the head housekeeper, or at least, she thinks she is – doesn’t like maids who aren’t dressed up for the job. Why, last week, she even hired someone for wearing black stockings underneath their uniform.”

  Maggie holds a hand over her mouth. “She’s grumpy because she can’t find a husband.” She sighs. “I sure hope I don’t end up like her.”

  We stop in front of a two-story house with a front porch. Beside the door, there’s a whiteboard with more than ten rules written on it.

  “Here are the servants’ quarters,” Maggie informs me.

  I blink. This is where the servants live? How many are there?

  “Come.” Maggie pulls my arm and brings me inside the house. “I don’t think Glenda’s uniform will fit you but I’m sure mine will.”

  She drags me down the hall, stopping at the door near the end. She opens it and gestures for me to come inside.

  “Come in. Come in. Make yourself feel at home. For all you know, you might work here as a full-time maid one day like me.”

  I doubt it, but I say nothing as I go to sit on her bed.

  It’s a small room, but it’s well-ventilated and it looks cheerful with its yellow walls. The bed is soft, too.

  “Let’s see.” She goes through the rack inside her closet. “By the way, do you have a boyfriend?”

  The question takes me by surprise and it takes a few seconds for me to answer. “Actually, I do.”

  “Really?” Maggie sits on the bed beside me, its springs creaking. “How old is he? What does he look like?”

  “A few years older,” I answer. “As for how he looks, well…”

  I scratch the back of my head.

  “Well?” Maggie asks, leaning forward.

  “Well, he’s cute,” I tell her, blushing as I wring my hands on my lap. “And he works out so he has this really great body.”

  “Really? Oh, he sounds so hot,” Maggie croons.

  “He is,” I say, without thinking.

  She sighs, her eyes darting to the ceiling. “You are so lucky.”

  I give a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”

  “I am so jealous.” She leans back against the wall. “I wish I had a hot boyfriend who could whisk me out of here.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find one someday.”

  Maggie turns to me, biting her lower lip, then she gives a big smile. “I like you, Cindy.”

  It’s the name of Glenda’s replacement, the name Maggie thinks is mine. Even so, I can’t help the warmth in my chest at her words. The name may be fake but her smile and her words aren’t, nor is the joy of finding a friend in an unexpected place.

  A friend.

  Come to think it, I don’t really have one.

  There are some people I took classes with and discussed lessons with back in college but I wouldn’t really call them friends. The closest thing I have to a friend is Kelly and well, I don’t really like her much.

  “I like you too, Maggie,” I say.

  Her smile gets even wider, showing me all her perfect teeth.

  For a moment, she looks at me, smiling. Then she stands up so quickly the bed bounces, one finger in the air. “Right. Your uniform.”

  She pulls out a knee-length dress that matches hers out of a closet – black with a white lace apron to match its collar and a white sash tied around the back.

  “Try it,” she urges, leaving the room. “I’ll wait outside.”

  As soon as she’s gone, I undress, putting on the uniform. It’s not exactly a perfect fit, being a little loose around the armpits and waist after I zip it but it will do. Actually, it’s not that different from what I was wearing, though it’s cleaner, which is a welcome change.

  As I’m tying the ribbon behind me, Maggie knocks.

  “Are you done?” she asks.

  “Yup.”

  She comes in, clasps her hands over her mouth. You’d think I was wearing a
wedding gown.

  “It looks great on you,” she gushes.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  “Now, we have to do something about that hair.”

  She pulls out the drawer of her dresser and presents me with a box of scrunchies.

  I choose the black one, tying my hair in a tight ponytail.

  Maggie gives me a thumbs up. “Perfect!”

  I bend over and catch my reflection in the mirror. I still look the same, but I guess I look more like a maid now.

  “Let’s go.” Maggie pulls my arm, dragging me out of the room.

  “But my clothes…”

  “You can get them later. We’re late.” She drags me out of the house.

  Now, she tells me.

  I follow her to the mansion and she ushers me through the back door, straight into the kitchen.

  As soon as we get in, the flavorful aroma of spices wafts into my nostrils and I close my eyes, breathing it in. Now, that’s heavenly. My mouth waters and my stomach almost grumbles in response.

  “Cindy,” Maggie whispers.

  What is that scent? Rosemary? Oregano?

  “Cindy,” Maggie says louder, nudging my shoulder so hard I almost lose my balance. “This is the kitchen.”

  Right. I’m Cindy and I’m supposed to be a maid.

  “Finally, there you are.” A plump woman in her fifties with white streaks in her black bun stands in front of us, her hands on her hips.

  “That’s Polly,” Maggie whispers.

  Out loud, she says, “This is Cindy, Glenda’s replacement.”

  Polly’s scrutinizes me from head to toe, then points to a table.

  “Both of you, get to work. Those dishes aren’t going to put themselves away. And don’t you dare break a single saucer or it will come out of your pay!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maggie answers, leading me to the table where the dishes are.

  As soon as we’re out of Polly’s earshot, she whispers, “I told you she was a grouch.”

  I suppress a laugh, holding a finger to my lips.

  She grabs a pile of plates, placing them in my arms. Then she leads me to the corner of the kitchen where the dish cabinets are, opening the doors to one.

  As she puts the plates back into the cabinet one by one, she starts talking again. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. The mistress of this house, she nearly killed herself, too.”