Vengeful Vows (Marital Privileges #3)

1. Mara

1

MARA

M y fingers clutch stiff bedding when a door creaking open reaches my ears. I glance up as multiple footsteps clatter over expensive oak floorboards, catch a glimpse of a gold cufflink, and then shift my focus back to the task at hand.

My job isn’t to pry into the lives of the wealthy residents who call the Chrysler building home. I am here to wash the sheets, clean the toilets, and only be seen when summoned.

Rarely does the summoning come from the people wearing designer labels and tailored suits. They’d never associate with the “help.” They bark their orders at my supervisor, who then passes them on to me for far less than the exorbitant fee charged by the company responsible for maintaining and cleaning the apartments in the most sought-after building in Myasnikov.

A turndown service is the reason for two hours of overtime this evening. It doesn’t take two hours to turn down sheets and fluff pillows. The “help” hadn’t serviced this apartment in over three years, so the floors needed vacuuming, and the opulent, larger-than-my-apartment bathrooms required restocking.

I could have sworn I overheard Mrs. Whitten telling my supervisor that the building’s latest short-stay tenant wasn’t arriving until late this evening. It’s not even seven. Surely they’re not early. I’ve yet to meet a rich person who isn’t chasing their tail.

Curious, I take a second glance at the trio entering the suite from the far entrance. The apartments in the Chrysler building are large enough to require multiple entry points. Only owners and guests may use the main entrance. The rest use the servants’ entrances and corridors wedged between priceless paintings and opulence most can only dream of achieving.

Mrs. Whitten, the building supervisor, leads the procession with such animated gestures that she resembles a headless chicken moments from being dunked into a pot. She is slim and a few decades older than me and has a sharp wit and intelligence. I like her, though I doubt she knows who I am.

I am an expert at remaining hidden. No one pays attention to me, not even the stout man with a thick mustache who tosses his bag onto the bedding I recently straightened before he unbuttons his trousers like he is without an audience.

Mrs. Whitten dips her chin in appreciation when I silently move toward the servants’ entrance. She often says she wants her guests to feel at home while under her roof. The unnamed man looks ready to do just that.

Once I reach the safety of the alcove, I fumble for the EarPods in my pocket. They were a gift from Mr. Whitten. They were dusty enough to show they weren’t new, but they’ve made my commute home far less boring over the past month, and for that, I am forever grateful.

With my head down, I breeze into the employee locker room, grab my gym bag from its hiding spot, and make a beeline for the shower block. I don’t usually change out of my maid’s outfit at the end of my shift, but today is different because it’s Tillie’s tenth birthday.

I promised to meet her and Mrs. Lichard at the bowling alley at 7:30 p.m. sharp. The bus trip home will eat into time I don’t have. My schedule is always tight, but it’s even tighter this week.

The unisex bathroom is quiet. Only the chefs and lead housemaids remain on the premises at this hour. They’re allowed access to the upper levels after hours and take full advantage once their coworkers leave.

While the latest hit from M?neskin blasts my ears, I dump my bag onto an ancient bench inside a wall-less shower cubicle and strip.

Everything in this building is antique, including the radiators. It takes forever for the water to heat up. Since I’m in a hurry, I opt for a deodorant bath instead of drenching my hair as my pounding temples are begging.

In seconds, I smell like one of the women who stand on the corners in my half of Myasnikov late at night, hoping for their Pretty Woman moment. My hoop earrings are cheap, as is the comb I hurriedly rip through my hair, but they add a touch of sophistication to my outfit. They make it look more like a date ensemble than a mom hoping the blowout-budget present she bought will keep her off her daughter’s shitlist for being late to her first and likely last birthday party.

I’m not dressing up with the hope of securing a date. That ship sailed not long after I gave birth. Barely sixteen with a baby in tow doesn’t attract many suitors, and the rare few who assumed my child meant our date would end with more than a kiss never made it past the first course.

I am merely hoping a little glam and a flirty smile will lower the bill of a birthday party for ten of Tillie’s closest friends. I didn’t consider how inflated non-luxury items had become in the past few years. I wouldn’t have suggested a bowling party if I knew it would cost fifty dollars per guest to knock down some pins.

Alas, I promised Tillie she’d enter her double-digits era in style.

I am a woman who keeps her word.

The fact I’m working as a maid announces this tenfold.

My parents aren’t wealthy, but they could purchase an apartment in the Chrysler building if they were willing to sit across from a bank manager.

I can barely afford a bus fare to this side of town. I shouldn’t complain. Wealth comes with a heap of conditions most consenting adults wouldn’t agree to.

I walked away from my family to ensure my daughter would never have to consider their terms, much less follow them to the wire as I was forced to when I was a child.

Although it isn’t close to glamorous, we have a good, stable life.

After shaking off haunted memories that will cause more than my vocal cords to shake, I replace my nonslip shoes with heels, stuff my uniform into my oversized purse, and then spin to face the exit.

Partway around, the truth hits me. I forgot to replenish the aftershave in the primary bedroom of the west wing apartment. The grandeur that takes up almost every floor on the west side of the building was serviced first thing this morning.

Although most apartments are stocked with high-end department store cologne, Mrs. Whitten was adamant that this tenant required a special order. She promised to deliver her selected purchase to my service trolley within the hour so I could unbox it and display it before her VIP tenant arrived late this evening.

That was over eight hours ago.

“Shit,” I murmur to myself, glancing at the time.

If I don’t leave now, I risk missing the 7:15 bus. The next one won’t arrive until after the time I agreed to meet Tillie and Mrs. Lichard.

I consider ignoring Mrs. Whitten’s determination to make this owner’s stay as comfortable as possible. The thought doesn’t linger for long. I need this job. I can’t risk it for anything. I just need to move fast so I can purchase my daughter’s birthday cake and eat it too.

“Mara.” My supervisor leaps to her feet, shocked when I barge into her office at the speed of a bullet leaving a gun. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I do,” I reply, nodding.

Val isn’t as stiff and rule-abiding as Mrs. Whitten. Her head is the first on the chopping block when her staff step out of line, so although she hates it, she must pull us into line when necessary.

“But I forgot this.”

While flashing Val an apologetic grin, I snatch up a bottle of cologne from her desk and exit her office as fast as I entered it.

Technically, this isn’t either of our faults. Mrs. Whitten said she would have the cologne delivered to me. I would have collected it before wrangling an ancient vacuum cleaner into submission if I’d known she wasn’t a woman of her word.

As I dart through the door of an office too small to be considered anything more than a broom closet, Val shouts something. I miss what she says, but assuming it is an offer to drive me to the bowling alley to make sure I’m not late for Tillie’s party, I shout back, “I won’t miss it, but thanks!”

I wave goodbye and sprint down the servants’ corridor. My pace isn’t graceful, and I’m sweating more than when I wrestle fitted sheets onto mattresses too large for one person to handle, but it’s effective. I make it to the west wing in record time.

A second cuss for the evening escapes my lips when I realize I forgot to check the owner’s register, leaving me unable to announce my request for access to their apartment.

When you knock on one door in the service corridor, almost all the tenants on the same floor answer. We’re supposed to greet the tenants by surname to avoid confusion.

“Hello… h-housekeeping.”

I press my ear to the door and wait.

I’m reasonably sure no one is home, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. It took months for me to enter an apartment in this building and not quiver like a bag of nerves. I don’t want anything to push my progress back. Even with the profession of over half the residents here scaring the living daylights out of me, I need this job.

Dentists aren’t on my list of childhood fears.

Doctors, though, are at the top.

When I don’t receive a verbal response, I shake off memories that will make more than my vocals shudder, before testing the latch.

The door is unlocked, saving me from a long walk back to Val’s office for the master key that opens every apartment in the building, including the glitzy penthouse.

“S-sir… Housekeeping.”

My stutter frustrates me, but it’s expected. I can’t recall a time I haven’t stuttered when speaking with a member of the opposite sex. It’s a neurosis I’ve had since childhood, and it worsened when I was robbed at gunpoint six months ago.

Knowledge that cruelty can come from all walks of life makes me reluctant to speak. If everyone could sign, I’d use that as my sole form of communication.

After a quick scan of the opulent living room, noting it hasn’t changed since I removed the sheets protecting the designer furniture from dust and vacuumed the expensive woolen rugs, I make a beeline for the bathroom in the primary suite.

The bathroom door barely creaks under the pressure of my push. It is ten times quieter than the raging of my heart as I tiptoe across pricy marble floors, but it gives away my presence in an instant.

“I don’t know what Mr. Kershaw told you, but I’m not interested in any pre-interview requisite you seem to think I want.”

I freeze, shocked by the sheer anger in the man’s low, gravelly tone. It’s full of anguish and convinces me that I am gripping something more ominous than a pricy bottle of cologne.

My silence agitates him more. “Did you hear what I said? Leave. Now! ”

While nodding as if he can see me, I stammer out an apology before dumping the boxed cologne onto the vanity and twisting to face the exit.

Since the bottom of my shoes are worn to within an inch of their life, I lose traction on the glossy marble tiles. I skid like a newborn foal, and the brutal collision of my knees on the rigid floor is enough to burst tears into my eyes.

I won’t cry. I didn’t when I was beaten for a handful of measly possessions, so I won’t now, but I’d be a liar if I said my fall wasn’t painful.

My knees are cut and oozing blood, but the man I interrupted shreds my ego to pieces worse than any fall could hack up my skin. “What have you done, you silly little girl? Foolish tricks like that don’t work on me. You’ll need more than a clumsy damsel-in-distress act to gain my attention.”

“I’m not s-silly,” I snap before I can stop myself. “I’m also not a ch-child.”

When the vicious voice returns, a cold wind floats over my skin, producing goose bumps. “Then why do you speak like one?”

“Because I-I… Because…” Realizing I don’t owe him an explanation—and that I will never speak without fear when alone with a man in any room, so how can I defend it?—I return to my feet, grimacing. “Go-good evening.”

I’m almost in the clear when the unnamed man barks out another order.

This one is more sincere than his earlier ones.

“Wait.”

My heart pounds in my ears when a shadow falls over the only exit. He was either hiding behind the bathroom door or not in the bathroom when I entered it.

Either way, his positioning terrifies me.

While swallowing hard, I hear him snap, “You’re bleeding.”

I briefly glance at my thighs before lowering my eyes to my knees. There’s enough blood to announce a fall but not enough to fuss over, so I brush off his concern with a gesture my grandmother would have been proud of.

“It-it’s nothing.”

I don’t even get in half a step this time before he thwarts my exit again. “I said wait. You can’t leave my presence like this. What will the other residents think if they see you leaving with bloody knees?”

Another bout of silence.

Another step.

Another near heart attack.

This heart stutter isn’t solely from fear. It’s from parts of the man’s face being unshadowed by the bathroom light flickering on behind me.

He’s younger than his voice suggests, though still at least a decade older than me. His dark hair is long enough for fingers to get lost in, and a few days of stubble covers a rigid jaw on a deliriously handsome face. His lips and nose are perfectly straight, as level as his brows.

The latter seems more in disgust, as his voice conveys his concern better than the deep groove between his prominent brows does.

This man cannot hide his dislike. His expression reveals his every thought without his lips needing to move. They clearly announce that he isn’t a fan of mine.

I can’t say I’m surprised.

When have rich, powerful men ever respected the help?

I was fired from my last position because I snuck a mint out of a serving dish in the entryway. It was out of date and ghastly sweet, but I thought it would be better to have minty, fresh breath while my boss was in residence than vomit-laced breath.

I was suffering through a severe case of food poisoning, but when I called my boss to announce I was sick, he told me I either arrive at work on time or don’t return to my position at all.

I dragged myself from my deathbed and worked through body aches and chills that made me so delusional I thought asking my mother for help was the right way to go.

I made it to the airport before my smarts kicked back in. Although scared at the idea of adjusting to a new workplace, I’d repeatedly choose that over placing Tillie in unnecessary danger. I’d done it numerous times in the past decade, so what was one more obstacle?

I’m pulled from my thoughts when a creak sounds through my ears. I learn the stranger’s concealment isn’t as sinister as I first thought when he moves closer.

He’s wearing a towel.

That’s it.

A.

Towel.

My brows stitch together as I take in the situation. His coverage isn’t from the towels I left on the mattress earlier today. It’s from the shower mat I placed outside the freestanding multi-head shower cubicle.

The scratch in my throat worsens. Not only did I enter the bathroom of an owner without permission, but I also entered while he was showering.

There’s no way I will keep my position now.

Val will have no choice but to let me go.

I try to keep the devastation out of my voice that I will need to rebuild trust with another employer as I say, “I’m s-so sorry. I knocked.” I lower my eyes to my hands knotted in my skirt, hoping a painful twist will stop the rest of my confession. “When you didn’t a-answer, I assumed you ha-hadn’t arrived yet.”

The nerves pushing me to the brink of being sick ease slightly when he replies, “Not that I need to explain myself, but I have poor hearing in my left ear.”

My eyes dart to his left ear before slowly moving to his narrowed gaze. Even hooded, there’s no hiding his frustration.

“Oh.”

His explanation is plausible. You have to face away from the faucets to keep your right ear unclogged, which is nearly impossible with six showerheads.

The stranger moves our conversation forward remarkably fast, like he can’t wait to get rid of me. “Do you have any Band-Aids?”

“F-for?” I ask, lost.

The mat isn’t long enough to wrap around his waist, so it slips between his mannish thighs when he bends down to inspect the cuts on my knees more attentively. I love the crazy tile design they installed when they renovated this bathroom two months ago, but they’re a nightmare to clean since they shred any material you glide over them—knees included.

“I think I have s-some Band-Aids in m-my purse.”

When he raises his eyes to my face, my breath catches at the full intensity of his narrowed gaze. His eyes are green but could be mistaken for blue since the limbal rings are the color of the deepest ocean.

They’re utterly hypnotic, as mesmerizing as his handsome face.

Although he seems unappreciative of my stare, it doesn’t come through in his tone when he asks, “And that is where?”

“Huh?” Excuse my daftness. I can’t recall the last time a man was this close to me and I wasn’t a shaky mess, so my bewilderment is understandable.

I don’t understand my body’s reactions. Fear should be my first emotion, but for some reason, it isn’t. It can’t be the stranger’s soul-stealing looks. I’ve been surrounded by captivating men most of my life, though none have ignited such a fierce response from my body that panic has to fight to make itself known with my gut.

The stranger bounces his eyes between mine for a few seconds before he clarifies, “Your purse.”

“Um.” My nose wrinkles as I wedge my hand between us.

I’m so entranced that I forgot I am carrying my purse.

The stranger’s lips tug as if he appreciates my daftness, before he removes my purse from my grasp. He rummages through my limited belongings like he conducts bag searches regularly before he pulls out a three-strip of Band-Aids.

“Two should cover it, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

He zips up my purse, tosses it next to the bottle of cologne, and then nudges his head to the vanity.

I dart my eyes between him, the vanity, and the Band-Aids three times before the truth hits me.

He wants me to sit on the vanity so he can tend to my wounds.

His efforts to “fix” me might appear chivalrous to others.

I am on the other end of the spectrum.

“I sh-should go. S-sorry about the interruption.”

Even taking a wide berth doesn’t stop me from bumping into him as I race for the exit. The bathroom is massive, but most doorways are similarly wide. It’s impossible to bypass someone without touching them. This is why most predators stalk their prey from the doorways.

Mercifully, the stranger’s balk when our arms brush is as jarring as mine. It jolts him away from the only exit, giving me unobstructed clearance to safety.

“Mara…” Val shouts when she spots me sprinting down the servants’ corridor. “Why are you running? Are you okay?”

I sprint past her fast enough to keep my tears at bay and, hopefully, to ensure I make it to the bus stop with thirty seconds to spare.