Chapter 3 - Broken Hands And Cold Commands
I raced down the back servants' staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
In the lower corridor, I intercepted a young catering worker who was carrying an empty silver tray toward the scullery.
I grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around with just enough force to make him drop his towel.
“Where is Emily Sterling?” I demanded, keeping my voice down to a harsh, dangerous whisper.
The worker blinked at me in sheer terror, his gaze darting to my face and then to my tailored suit.
“Who? The lady of the house?” he asked, visibly confused by my intense fury.
“Yes, Emily! Where is she right now?”
“I... I don't know who owns the house, sir,” the young man stammered, trembling under my grip.
“Ms. Ashley told the catering staff that the girl in the grey apron handles the heavy dishwashing in the back service kitchen.”
“She said that Emily is on kitchen duty until every single pot from the banquet is scrubbed clean.”
My vision blurred with pure, incandescent rage.
“The service kitchen?” I choked out, barely able to breathe.
“Yes, down the dark hallway behind the walk-in freezers,” he whispered, pointing toward the unventilated rear annex.
I did not release him gently; I shoved past him and sprinted down the narrow, dimly lit service corridor.
The air grew thick, humid, and nauseatingly hot as I neared the heavy stainless-steel swing doors.
Through the narrow glass panel, I heard the relentless sound of pressurized boiling water striking metal.
I stepped inside the service kitchen, and the scene that met my eyes tore my soul into pieces.
The room was narrow, poorly lit, and filled with choking steam from an old commercial sink.
There was no air conditioning in this forgotten corner of my fifty-million-dollar mansion.
Standing over an enormous cast-iron basin was Emily.
Her slender body was bent completely forward, trembling under the weight of massive industrial roasting pans coated in thick, burnt grease.
Her gorgeous chestnut hair was matted with sweat and dirty dishwater, clinging loosely to her hollow cheeks.
She was wearing a faded, oversized grey smock that was drenched through to her skin.
Her delicate, artistic hands—the hands that used to paint beautiful water landscapes—were red, cracked, and severely swollen from harsh industrial chemicals.
Small cuts lined her knuckles, and soapy, filthy water ran down her bruised forearms.
Standing just two feet behind her was my sister Ashley, holding a glass of iced Pinot Grigio and scrolling through her phone.
“Put some real muscle into it, Emily,” Ashley snapped without even looking up from her screen.
“The guests are demanding the chocolate soufflés, and the chef says you haven't even touched the baking trays yet.”
“Please, Ashley,” Emily’s voice sounded weak, raspy, and completely broken.
“I have been standing on my feet since six this morning... my back is spasming, and my hands are bleeding.”
“Can I please just have ten minutes to sit down and drink a glass of water?”
Ashley sneered, taking a slow sip of her wine before pointing a manicured finger directly into Emily’s exhausted face.
“You will sit down when the work is finished, you useless little charity case!” Ashley hissed venomously.
“My brother married you out of pity because he felt bad about your pathetic background!”
“You don't contribute a single dollar to this family, so the least you can do is earn your keep while Daniel is away earning real money!”
“If you complain to Daniel when he calls, my mother will convince him that you're mentally unstable and have you committed to an institution.”
“Do you understand me? Now scrub those pans faster before I pour this wine down your filthy back!”
Emily’s shoulders shook violently as she choked back a quiet, desperate sob.
May you like
She lowered her head, gripped the steel wool sponge with her bleeding fingers, and leaned back over the scalding grease.
Every ounce of patience, every shred of familial loyalty, and every drop of mercy inside my soul died in that exact second.
