By the time Millie and Clara finished, the sun was gone, the sky fading to pink and gold.
They trudged inside, sweaty and sore, and dropped onto the worn bench in the staff lounge.
Clara rubbed her wrist and sighed.
“Bet some rich guy’s out there right now, feet up, sipping something fancy while we were out scrubbing bird crap.”
Millie snorted.
“Fancy? Try imported wine on a private jet.”
Clara grinned.
“Right.
Probably complaining the caviar’s not cold enough.”
“Oh, the tragedy,” Millie said.
“I found a dead wasp in my bra at lunch.”
Clara burst out laughing.
“We should bill them for emotional damage.”
“I’ll put it under ‘therapy fund,’ right after ‘blisters’ and ‘sunburn.’”
Their laughter filled the room, easing the day’s ache for a moment.
Eventually, they shuffled into the kitchen, grateful for the cool air and smell of food.
Sandra and Andrea moved between the counters, carrying dishes in and out of the dining room where the Morettis were eating.
“I thought that damn tea table would break before I finished scrubbing it,” Clara muttered, dropping into a chair.
Millie took a plate from one of the staff.
“Could’ve been worse. At least we skipped dinner service. Sandra and Andrea got stuck with it.”
They’d barely started eating when a warm voice broke in.
“Hey, ladies. Mind if I join you?”
A tall, lean guy stood in the doorway, sun-streaked hair tousled and a smile so easy it looked like it had never been asked to frown.
Sheila waved toward the empty chair.
“Not at all, Alfie. Amelia, Clara—this is Alfie, the gardener’s son. He’s helping out while Paul’s out sick.”
Alfie nodded, his eyes crinkling with an effortless charm that made him instantly likable.
“Yeah, Dad’s been a bit under the weather, but Ethan’s been understanding about it.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” Millie said.
Alfie speared a roasted potato with his fork, his tone light despite the news.
“So, for now, I’m stuck on full-time groundskeeping duty until he’s back on his feet.”
His easy laugh and laid-back charm seemed to fill the cramped kitchen like late-afternoon sunlight filtering through a dusty window.
Even Clara—who usually needed at least three sarcastic exchanges before warming up to anyone—was already smiling at him.
By the time they’d cleared the plates and wiped down the counters, Millie was drained.
“Night, Clara,” she mumbled through a yawn, giving a half-hearted wave before trudging down the narrow hallway.
All she could think about was peeling off her dusty clothes and collapsing onto the lumpy mattress like it was a five-star bed.
That fantasy shattered the moment she opened the door.
“Amelia! Finally!” Andrea practically danced into the room, her face glowing.
“You won’t believe this—Evan Moretti actually smiled at me during dinner!”
Millie blinked and managed a tired, “Oh… wow.”
But Andrea was already off and running, narrating every delicious detail: the way Evan’s hand hovered over the salt, that slow nod of his head, and—her favorite—the smolder in his eyes.
Millie sank onto her bed, hugging her pillow like a lifeline.
“That’s great, Andrea,” she said, her voice flat with fatigue.
Unfazed, Andrea leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
“I don’t want to read too much into it, but I swear I felt something—something real.”
A groan rose in Millie’s throat, but Andrea didn’t skip a beat.
She bounced on the edge of her mattress as if fueled by pure adrenaline.
“So… what do you think of the brothers? I’m low-key obsessed with a lot of them, but Evan’s my number one. He’s super friendly. So warm. So nice. So sweet. He’s fun to talk to.”
Millie buried her face in her pillow.
With a muffled sigh, she mumbled, “Evan’s… nice,” though her stomach tightened at the sound of his name.
Andrea wasn’t finished.
“Yeah. Well, like I said, they’re all HOT! But Ethan’s way too serious, but that’s kind of hot, right? Like, intense in all the right ways. And Aidan—ugh, broody, dark, and totally mysterious. Honestly, how are we even supposed to choose?”
Millie didn’t answer.
Her brain had officially powered down.
And she was about to beg for mercy—or at least for five minutes of silence—when they heard a knock on the door.
Both girls froze.
Andrea’s eyes lit up as she instinctively smoothed her hair.
Millie sat up slowly, her heart ticking a little faster.
The knock came again—firm, no-nonsense, and clearly not the kind you wanted to ignore.
Andrea sprang to her feet.
“Ooh, that must be for me!”
She threw the door open like she was stepping into a rom-com—then stopped short.
Standing there, stiff as ever, was Mr. Jameson.
He looked exactly as he always did: upright, stone-faced, and dressed like the concept of “intimidation” had been tailored into a uniform.
“Millie,” he said.
“Mr. Ethan Moretti has requested his evening brandy in the study. Would you kindly attend to it?”
Millie froze, her stomach plummeting like a stone.
Of all the Moretti brothers, Ethan was the one she’d most hoped to avoid.
Maybe he’d already forgotten it—but she hadn’t.
Not even close.
“Maybe Andrea could—”
“I’ll do it!” Andrea chirped, perking up like a golden retriever at the word ‘walk.’
Millie jumped on the lifeline.
“Yes! Perfect. Andrea can go. I think I—uh, I need to use the bathroom,” she added, her voice edging toward panic.
But Mr. Jameson didn’t so much as blink.
“Mr. Ethan specifically requested you, Miss Foster.
The bottle is in the cellar.
Kindly bring it to him now.”
“Okay, Mr. Jameson.”
Millie’s pulse quickened as she descended into the cellar, forcing herself to take slow, steady breaths.
The low light pressed in around her, thick and heavy.
The air smelled of damp wood and stone, cool against her skin, but it did little to quiet the unease churning in her gut.
She scanned the room, half-hoping for a shadowed corner or a forgotten barrel she could vanish behind.
But everything was in perfect order—bottles lined up with clinical precision, labels exact.
The Morettis didn’t leave room for mistakes.
Or hiding.
Then, unwelcome, the memory came.
“I must admit, I wasn’t expecting someone like you. I’m not quite sure what to do with you. How to punish you for your… disobedience.”
Ethan’s voice echoed in her mind with unnerving clarity.
That first meeting had branded itself onto her—his stare had left her rattled.
Her eyes moved to a narrow gap behind a tall shelving unit.
Maybe, just maybe—but even as she stepped toward it, reality settled over her.
This place was Mr. Jameson’s domain, mapped and memorized to the inch.
She wouldn’t get far.
With a resigned breath, she turned back, fingers closing around the neck of the brandy bottle.
It felt too heavy for its size, as if it had absorbed the tension she carried.
Holding it tight, she headed upstairs.