Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Wasn’t Supposed to Matter
Vincent Rossy was bigger up close.
That was Norah’s first thought.
Her second was that he looked much worse than she had realized.
He sat behind a massive desk in a black shirt with the sleeves pushed toward his elbows. Tattoos covered his forearms and disappeared beneath the fabric.
An empty white bowl sat in front of him.
Her bowl.
Norah stopped three feet inside the room.
Enzo closed the door behind her.
Vincent looked at her.
Not at her uniform.
Not at her shoes.
At her.
“What’s your name?”
“Norah Bennett.”
“You work here?”
“I clean here.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Norah swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
Vincent touched the rim of the empty bowl.
“What did you put in this?”
“Chicken.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Obviously.”
“The bones, mostly.”
Enzo coughed into his hand.
Vincent looked at him.
“Something funny?”
“No.”
Vincent returned his attention to Norah.
“Continue.”
“Onion. Garlic. Carrots. Rice. Salt. Pepper.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“What stock?”
“Water.”
“What seasoning?”
“I just told you.”
Vincent stared.
Norah suddenly became aware of how ridiculous the situation was.
A mafia boss was interrogating her about soup.
“Who taught you?”
“My mother.”
“Chef?”
“Receptionist.”
Enzo looked away again.
Vincent noticed.
“Get out.”
Enzo pointed toward himself.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I brought the soup.”
“And your reward is leaving with your teeth.”
Enzo grinned.
“Good night, Norah.”
The door closed.
Norah was alone with Vincent.
He looked toward the empty chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
Norah sat.
Vincent studied her for several seconds.
“You’re scared.”
“Should I not be?”
The corner of his mouth moved.
It was almost a smile.
“What have people told you about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Norah remained silent.
Vincent leaned back.
“You know what happened six months ago?”
“I heard something.”
“What?”
“That somebody poisoned you.”
His gaze sharpened.
Most employees would have pretended ignorance.
Norah had just answered honestly.
“Since then,” Vincent said, “food has been difficult.”
Norah glanced toward his thin face.
“Difficult?”
“My doctors call it conditioned trauma.”
She waited.
“My body thinks every meal is another attack.”
“That sounds awful.”
Vincent seemed caught off guard by the answer.
Not frightening.
Not weak.
Awful.
The word had no judgment inside it.
He looked at the bowl again.
“Tonight was the first time I finished something.”
Norah’s expression softened.
“I’m glad.”
“Why?”
“Because people are supposed to eat.”
Vincent stared at her.
Norah immediately wished she could retrieve the sentence.
Then he laughed.
It was quiet.
Short.
But real.
She had not expected laughter from him.
“I’ve had three doctors explain my condition,” he said. “Six chefs design menus. A nutritionist from Switzerland flew here twice.”
“And?”
“You think the solution is that people are supposed to eat.”
“That wasn’t a solution.”
“What was it?”
“Common sense.”
He smiled again.
For the first time Norah saw what he might have looked like before the poisoning.
Dangerous, certainly.
But alive.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Make it again tomorrow.”
Norah blinked.
“The soup?”
“Yes.”
“I’m working the east wing tomorrow.”
“Not anymore.”
She stiffened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re cooking.”
“I’m not a cook.”
“You were tonight.”
“That was dinner.”
“Mine, apparently.”
Norah looked down.
Vincent noticed her hands.
The skin around her knuckles was red from chemicals.
A small burn marked one wrist where the broth had splashed.
He frowned.
“You really made that for yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Because you were hungry?”
Norah said nothing.
Vincent understood.
“How much do they pay you?”
Her eyes lifted.
“I don’t think that’s relevant.”
“I own the company.”
“Then you already know.”
Vincent did not.
That irritated him.
“Tomorrow. Ten.”
“I start at six.”
“You start at ten now.”
“Doing what?”
“Making breakfast.”
“You want soup for breakfast?”
“Maybe.”
Norah stood.
“Mr. Rossy—”
“Vincent.”
“I’m not calling you Vincent.”
“Everyone else does.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
He almost smiled again.
Norah took a breath.
“I need this job.”
“You still have it.”
“Cleaning.”
“Cooking pays more.”
“How much more?”
Vincent named a number.
Norah thought she had misunderstood.
“What?”
“Is that insufficient?”
“That’s more than my brother made in a month.”
“Then say yes.”
Norah looked around the study.
Nothing in her life came this easily.
Not anymore.
Easy things were usually traps.
“What happens when you stop liking my food?”
“You go back to cleaning.”
“And if I accidentally make you sick?”
Vincent’s expression changed slightly.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
He watched her carefully.
“But for the first time in six months, I want to believe somebody.”
The room became quieter.
Norah nodded.
“One week.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll try it for one week.”
“You negotiate often with employers?”
“I’ve never met an employer who carried an organization chart involving armed men.”
His eyes flashed with amusement.
“One week.”
Norah walked toward the door.
“Norah.”
She turned.
“Tomorrow make something different.”
Her face fell.
Vincent glanced at the empty bowl.
“I need to know whether it was the soup.”
Norah understood.
“Or me?”
Vincent did not answer.
She left.
Enzo was waiting outside.
“Well?”
“I think I got promoted.”
“To what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s normal around here.”
She started down the hall.
Enzo followed.
“Norah.”
She stopped.
His humor disappeared.
“If Vincent eats because of you, people will notice.”
She frowned.
“Why would anyone care?”
“Because weakness changes power.”
“I’m making soup.”
“In this house, nothing is just soup.”
That sentence followed her all the way home.
At 11:40 p.m., Norah climbed the stairs to her apartment.
A man was sitting outside her door.
She stopped.
He wore a gray coat.
No smile.
No introduction.
He held a photograph.
Norah recognized the man in it immediately.
Her brother, Liam.
The photograph was recent.
Much more recent than the last time Norah had seen him.
The stranger stood.
“Your brother still owes money.”
Norah’s mouth went dry.
“I’m making payments.”
“Not fast enough.”
“I paid last Friday.”
He stepped closer.
“You have until the end of the month.”
“For what?”
“All of it.”
Norah stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“Fifty thousand.”
“I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
The man looked at her maid uniform.
Then at the expensive neighborhood visible through the stairwell window.
His smile finally appeared.
“No.”
He handed her the photograph.
“But maybe the people you work for do.”
Norah looked down at Liam’s face.
On the back of the photograph were four words.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU WORK.
When Norah looked up again, the man was already walking down the stairs.
For the first time that night, Vincent Rossy was no longer the person she feared most.
May you like
And she had no idea that before morning, someone inside the Rossy estate would already know about the photograph.
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