I wanted my mother.
The thought came so suddenly that I almost made a sound.
When she had been alive, she could tell I was crying from the next room. She used to knock twice before entering, then sit beside me without demanding an explanation. “Tell me when the words arrive,” she would say.
But there was no one left to knock twice.
At least, that was what I had believed until Ethan Caldwell locked the kitchen door and asked the one question no one else had dared to ask.
Who hurt you?
The clock above the pantry showed 3:27.
Six o’clock. He had told me to bring the medical bills to his accounting office at six.
I pressed the towel harder against my mouth and laughed once, bitterly and softly. Billionaires made impossible things sound like errands. Fifty-two thousand dollars had been a mountain I climbed every day with blistered hands. To Ethan Caldwell, it was apparently a task to finish before lunch.
I did not know whether to be grateful or ashamed.
Maybe both.
At 4:10, someone knocked on the kitchen door.
My whole body went still.
“Ivy?”
It was not Ethan’s voice.
It was Mrs. Alvarez, the housekeeper, her tone low and careful.
I wiped my face quickly, though there was no hiding the bruises. “One second.”
“I was told not to disturb you,” she said through the wood. “Mr. Caldwell asked me to bring you something.”
I hesitated. “Are you alone?”
A pause.
“Yes, child. I’m alone.”
I opened the door only a few inches. Mrs. Alvarez stood in the corridor wearing her navy robe over her uniform, her silver hair pinned in a loose knot. In her hands was a small first-aid kit and a folded cardigan.
The moment she saw me, her face changed.
Not dramatically. Not with a gasp or a cry.
Worse.
Her eyes softened with recognition.
“Oh, Ivy.”
I looked down. “Please don’t.”
“I won’t ask what you can’t answer.”
That kindness nearly undid me.
She stepped inside and locked the door behind her exactly as Ethan had done. Then she guided me to a chair near the island and opened the first-aid kit.
“Mr. Caldwell said you might need help cleaning that cut.”
“He told you?”
“He told me enough.”
Her hands were steady as she dabbed ointment along my split lip. She smelled faintly of lavender and starch, the comforting scent of folded sheets and quiet competence.
“I should have said something,” I whispered.
Mrs. Alvarez paused.
“No,” she said. “Someone should have noticed.”
The words landed deeper than blame ever could.
I stared at the floor while she taped a small bandage near my mouth. “He’s going to fire me.”
“Mr. Caldwell?”
