Chapter 2 - THE WHITE CARD
The breakfast room of the Corsini mansion was a study in intimidating opulence. Polished mahogany, heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the pale Boston morning light, and silver silverware that gleamed with cold precision. At the center of it all sat Julian Corsini, cutting a slice of toast with clinical exactness.
My fingers trembled as I held the small white card.
Read it. His voice from a few moments ago still echoed in my ears—low, level, devoid of anger yet heavy with an undeniable weight.
I looked down at the handwriting. It was neat, sharp, and upright, just like the man himself.
“Next time, Miss Quinn, adjust the volume on the record player before you attempt a pirouette near the Queen Anne side table. Antiques are fragile. Your form, however, was surprisingly disciplined.”
My breath hitched. The blood rushed violently to my face, hot and humiliating. He had watched. Not just part of it—he had watched the whole thing. He had watched me in his oversized white shirt, sliding across his floors like a fool, singing into a wooden spoon like a washed-up ballerina desperate for an audience she lost a lifetime ago.
I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes back up to meet his. Julian’s dark gaze was fixed on me, unblinking, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth that made him look even more dangerous.
“I apologize, Mr. Corsini,” I managed to choke out, my voice squeaking slightly before I cleared my throat. “I... the laundry room flooded, and my uniform got soaked. It was an emergency measure, and—and the music... I didn't realize the common areas were monitored.”
“They weren't, until three nights ago,” Julian said calmly, setting his butter knife down with a soft clink. He took a sip of his black coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. “And they are monitored for security reasons, Sadie. Not for entertainment. Though I admit, your interpretation of a theatrical bow was... memorable.”
“I can pack my things,” I said, my pride suddenly flaring up beneath the suffocating waves of embarrassment. If he was going to fire me, I wanted to get it over with before I melted into a puddle on his expensive Persian rug. “I breached housekeeping protocol. I wore your personal clothing without permission, and I tracked water into the drawing room. You can deduct it from my final week’s pay.”
Julian didn't answer immediately. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his long fingers together under his chin. He looked at me—truly looked at me—not as a nameless housekeeper who emptied his wastebaskets and polished his silver, but as a person he was trying to solve.
“Who taught you?” he asked quietly.
I blinked, thrown off guard. “Excuse me?”
“The footwork,” Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. “The extension before the spin near the fireplace. That isn't something one picks up watching television. You had training. Real training.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. The ghosts I had buried nineteen years ago—the cracked toe shoes, the smell of rosin and damp canvas, the sudden death of my father that turned our world into a mountain of debt and foreclosure notices—scratched faintly at the inside of my ribs.
“That was a long time ago, Mr. Corsini,” I said coldly, my spine straightening despite myself. “Before I needed a job that paid twice my worth just to keep my health insurance from lapsing.”
Julian held my gaze for a long, silent moment. The air between us felt charged, thick with unsaid things, heavy secrets, and the dangerous proximity of two people who were both hiding from their pasts.
May you like
Then, slowly, he picked up his coffee cup again.
“You’re not fired, Sadie,” he said softly. “Go change into a dry uniform. Martin will be inspecting the perimeter cameras from last night. I suggest you stay out of the drawing room until further notice.”
