5. Chapter 5
A ria
Aria paused at the end of the immaculate, pastel-coloured terrace, clutching the heavy bag of cleaning supplies, her fingers already sore from the weight.
The houses stood regally, painted in soft shades of pink, blue, and cream-colours, gentle and perfect, which reminded her of the pastel colour set her favourite teacher had once gifted her for her birthday.
It was a moment of escape from her harsh reality.
She swallowed hard against the wave of bitterness that rose within her chest-she could never afford such elegance, not in this lifetime.
The feeling was fleeting, gone as soon as it came.
There was much to be grateful for and bitterness left a foul aftertaste on the rest of the day.
The bag's strap cut into her shoulder as she adjusted it, her worn gloves peeking out from the top alongside a faded scarf meant to protect her hair.
Aria flexed her hands instinctively, the memory of bleach burning her skin still vivid, despite the passing years.
In the beginning, she'd learned quickly and painfully that benevolence often concealed danger.
Standing in front of the elegant iron railing, her thoughts wandered back to a distant, darker time.
At ten years old, her life in the UK began not amidst pastel-painted luxury, but in stark, institutional halls of converted RAF bases, filled with echoes of confusion, fear, and the murmured promises of safety from distant adults .
She remembered clutching her younger sister's hand, desperate not to lose her amid the organised chaos.
They had been brought to the UK by a neighbour she vaguely knew in Kosovo-someone who had seemed kind but turned out to be very different from what she had expected.
The house they were taken to had plenty, but none of it was for her or her sister.
Instead, Aria had spent months scrubbing floors until her palms were raw, trying to soothe Lule, who cried endlessly for their mother.
Kindness was measured, conditional, and often absent.
Only when Aria began to understand that there were things far worse than hard labour planned for her and her sister did she dare to speak.
Hesitantly, fearfully, she confided in the social worker who had come for an inspection.
From then on, the two girls were placed in a series of foster homes.
Safety came in fragments, and permanence remained a foreign concept.
Unaccompanied refugee children like her, arriving in the 1990s, were often shuttled between temporary shelters, foster homes, and hostel rooms. Each space carried its own silent burden of uncertainty, where belonging was temporary and security a privilege.
Friendship was a luxury the survival instinct could not afford .
Aria never excelled at school-English was hard and books were harder still-but she could cook, clean, and work harder than anyone her age.
She moved out as soon as she was able, taking Lule with her.
From then on, her life had one focus: to give her sister everything she deserved.
She owed it to their parents and to the older brother they had left behind.
They had given up everything so the girls survived.
Some days, she wished she had stayed. At least then they would have been together in a better place.
She blinked the memories away, her vision clearing as the vibrant houses returned into view.
Taking a steadying breath, Aria forced her feet to move, her resolve hardening.
She had survived those uncertain days, and she would survive these ones, too.
Each cleaning job was another step forward, another quiet victory against a past she couldn't change but refused to let define her.
With a last lingering look at the street she both envied and resented, she lifted her chin and moved towards the bright red door, determined to scrub away the past with every careful sweep and polish.
Aria had the passcode for the digital keypad.
Years of working for the couple had led to this small measure of trust-but no more.
Aria still remembered the day Mrs. Lackenby's pearl earrings went missing and the police were called.
The earrings were eventually found at a neighbour's house, but nothing had terrified her more.
The humiliation, the fear, the sharp, cold sense of vulnerability that clawed its way into her dreams. For months afterward, she had nightmares about being led away in handcuffs, and of Lule refusing to come and see her in prison .
She had insisted they install cameras after that incident-not just for their peace of mind, but for her protection, too. She couldn't risk living under that kind of suspicion again. They had agreed in the end. After all, good help was hard to find.
Mrs. Leckenby was already waiting as Aria keyed in the code on the keypad.
"You're late," Mrs. Lackenby said crisply, without glancing up from smoothing her immaculate linen skirt.
Her cut-glass accent sliced through the quiet morning like crystal against porcelain.
"Living room first. The rug needs a deep clean-last night's party was.
..exuberant. Then the bathrooms. And do check the skirting boards, won't you? The dust is positively Victorian."
"Yes, ma'am," Aria murmured.
"I've left a list on the marble island. Try to finish before three-I'm expecting someone.
Oh, and the upstairs windows are terribly streaky.
I noticed them from the street." Still, her eyes never quite met Aria's.
They slid past her, onto the coat stand or the stairs, as though making eye contact would breach some unspoken rule.
"Of course, ma'am," Aria said.
Mrs. Lackenby walked to the door, while her husband lingered in the study, the door slightly ajar .
"Darling, I'm off. Don't forget lunch with the Maitlands. Try not to overdo the brandy this time." She air-kissed his cheek and floated out in a cloud of Dior.
Aria bent down to pick up a fallen porcelain cat, but a flicker of movement caught her eye. Mr. Lackenby stood at the doorway, one hand on the frame, his gaze fixed on her backside.
Aria froze as his glazed eyes met her glacial ones.
He startled slightly and shuffled back into his study like a scolded schoolboy, the door clicking softly behind him.
She exhaled sharply and turned away, jaw clenched. She knew better than to say anything. All the good feelings of the morning dissipated into the ether.
Mrs. Lackenby was in her forties but looked younger, a polished woman with sleek hair, bespoke clothes, and handbags bearing designer logos Aria could never pronounce.
Her husband was handsome enough, though his nerves often betrayed him with ill-timed flatulence.
Worse, his eyes lingered too long on women who weren't his wife.
Their parties left behind a mountain of work for Aria-wine stains, shattered glass, strange smells, and once, feathers and glitter she couldn't explain.
Some of the leftovers made her wonder what kind of parties they were really hosting, but she never asked.
She just did her job and kept her mouth shut.