Chapter 5
5
Victoria
Time for dinner…
Great.
To me, this is the worst hour of my life.
It’s not that I hate my parents; it’s just that I can’t stand them. The constant judgment. Condescending tone, and the conversations they have…
How self-important can two people be?
That doesn’t matter, though, because they have summoned me, so that’s where I’ll be.
Once dressed, I head downstairs and take a seat.
Dinner is exactly what you’d expect from a family who puts more effort into optics than affection.
A table that seats twelve. Only four places are set.
Father at the head, Mother two seats down, and me across from no one. The symmetry is part of the performance. The silence, too.
All this bullshit makes me want to gag.
Why keep up the false pretense? No one cares. It doesn’t matter how hard we try to pretend. No one on the staff cares if we are just another dysfunctional, wealthy family who hates each other. Why do we have to go through all this trouble?
“Victoria, sit up straight,” my mother says gently, eyes flicking to my elbows.
I adjust my posture and resist the urge to mutter something about Victorian torture devices. Pretty sure that wouldn’t go over well.
Death or anything controversial like that is not a “proper” subject for the table.
Father clears his throat. “Tell me about the new staff p>
My mother sits up, perfecting her posture. She’s not used to Father making conversation. She’s practically starved for attention, so this is her moment to shine. “I’ve hired on new summer staff. With all the entertaining we have planned, I thought it would be best to bring on a few more people to help around the house. Angela will be working in the kitchen. Her son will assist p>
Son.
No name. No identity. Just a category.
This woman is so pretentious it’s almost comical.
Father nods. “What does the boy do p>
My father runs his dinner table like his boardroom: with precision, condescension, and an unshakable belief in his own superiority. Why she married him is beyond me.
Mother dabs the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin she hasn’t dirtied. “He’s there to help. Chop vegetables. Carry groceries. Nothing complicated p>
My father turns to me. “Stay out of the kitchen p>
“Because my presence might contaminate the produce?” I counter.
His eyes flicker. “Because you’re a distraction. And you’re a Danforth p>
I almost laugh. Being a Danforth is a title worth defending.
“Angela comes highly recommended,” Mother adds, placating. “Margret recommended her p>
“And who is Margret p>
“You remember, she was the head of the household for the Winslows p>
Father’s head bobs up and down. “Yes. Good. They are old money. Discreet p>
There it is again. That word.
Discreet.
My father worships discretion the way some people worship God. Preferably a god with a tight-lipped lawyer and offshore accounts.
He cuts into his filet mignon with precision.
“If this goes well, I might offer her a long-term contract,” Mother adds, trying desperately to engage him in more conversation.
“How generous,” I say. “And her son p>
He pauses, sips his wine. “Help is help. He’ll take what he’s given and be grateful p>
I push my small, chopped asparagus pieces into a line. “Maybe he has a name p>
My father doesn’t answer. He never does when he’s decided the conversation is over.
After dinner, which should probably be referred to as torture, I slip away before coffee is served.
I know the routine. The adults, a.k.a. the parentals, will stay and discuss estate finances and upcoming fundraisers. My mother will pretend to be interested in business. My father will pretend to value her input. It’s all so exhausting.
Instead, I head toward the back staircase, the one that leads to the servants’ wing. I don’t usually take this path, but I’m dying to bump into the son.
The estate is quiet this time of night. The kind of silence that echoes. Polished hardwood. Dim lighting. Hallways lined with portraits of long-dead relatives who were probably awful people.
I don’t know why I’m looking for him.
Curiosity, maybe. Or guilt that he was the subject of dinner conversation, but not important enough to be named.
Maybe I just want to see the look on his face when I give him a preemptive sorry. Followed by, my father will most likely treat you like garbage.
But I don’t find him. I do hear him, though. Low voices through a cracked pantry door.
“Don’t get any ideas, Lorenzo.” Meryl’s voice sounds sharp and tired.
Lorenzo. So that’s his name. It’s fitting. Sexy. Like him. Oh, jeez… head out of the gutter.
I wait for a beat to see if they say anything else, but all I hear is silence.
Then a cough. “She’s not for you. You’re just the help. Her father would skin you alive for even thinking about it.” Elise speaks this time. She’s closer to my age and has no filter. Or at least that’s what I’ve gathered over the years when I have eavesdropped on the staff.
There’s not a lot to do around here when your parents forbid you from socializing with people whom they deem less than…
And seeing as everyone has their opinion. I have grown up all alone in this hellhole.
My heart stutters.
I step back into the shadows, out of instinct. Not wanting to be caught, but still not wanting to leave. I want to hear what he says and how he says it.
Oh, who am I trying to kid? I want to hear his voice.
Lorenzo doesn’t reply. Not at first. “Good thing I wasn’t thinking.” His voice is flat. Controlled. But something else is there as well. It doesn’t sound like defeat. It sounds like a dare.
I hope it is.
Because as I take a step back and leave my hiding place and head to my room, I can’t stop thinking about his voice. The perfect amount of danger in his tone. But I also can’t stop hearing what was said, by everyone…
“Just the help p>
They say it like it’s a sin.
Like breathing the same air as us is some kind of offense. But what if the air down there is cleaner? What if the helper sees more than the helped?
What if the boy they tried to put in a box doesn’t stay in it?
I want to know what happens when he breaks out. I think I want to be the one watching when he does.
Because I’m done being stuck behind glass.
Maybe he’s the one with the key.