CHAPTER 1: The Soup on the Marble Floor
Naomi Brooks had learned to move through the Blackwood mansion without making a sound.
That was what people like Celeste Blackwood demanded from the help. No noise. No questions. No eye contact unless spoken to. In the west wing, where chandeliers glowed over cream silk sofas and gold-framed mirrors, Naomi carried a silver breakfast tray with both hands, her back aching under the quiet weight of pregnancy.
She was seven months along. The uniform no longer fit the way it had when she first took the job. The black dress pulled tight around her belly, and the white apron rested above it like a small flag of surrender. Every step reminded her that she was not only protecting herself anymore.
Celeste stood near the sofa in a white designer suit, polished from head to toe, her hair swept back as if not a single thought had ever escaped her control. In one hand she held a porcelain bowl of yellow squash soup. In the other, she held Naomi’s future.
“You think because you’re pregnant, people will feel sorry for you?” Celeste asked.
Naomi stopped in the middle of the room.
“I didn’t steal anything, Mrs. Blackwood.”
Celeste smiled without warmth. “You keep saying that as if truth matters in this house.”
Before Naomi could step back, Celeste threw the bowl forward. Hot yellow soup exploded across Naomi’s chest, her face, her hair, and her swollen belly. The tray clattered to the marble. Naomi gasped, clutching herself with both hands.
The pain was not from the soup alone. It was the shock, the humiliation, the sickening realization that Celeste had waited until the room was empty.
Naomi slipped, one knee hitting the floor hard. Her hand searched for balance, but the marble was slick beneath her palm.
Celeste looked down at her as if she were spilled food.
“Now,” she said softly, “sign the confession.”
May you like
Naomi lifted her tear-soaked face.
And that was when she saw the phone in Celeste’s pocket still recording.
