The year I turned eighteen, the Winslows found me. They told me I was their long-lost second daughter, a child swept under the rug of their vast, untouchable empire. On my third day in their cold, cavernous estate, Benson, the family butler, approached me with a silver tray and a flat voice. “The late eldest daughter was betrothed to the Crawford family,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “Mr. Winslow says you are to take her place.” I pulled my hair back into a tight, no-nonsense ponytail, threw on the worn, oversized coat I’d lived in for years, and caught a cab to the Crawford estate. A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood by the towering iron gates, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked impatient, checking his watch every few seconds. “So, you’re the one the Winslows dragged out of the gutter?” He tilted his head, studying me like a stray cat that had wandered onto his manicured lawn. “Is the Winslow estate a charity now? They’ll take back just about anything.” The woman beside him stepped forward, handing him a bottle of sparkling water. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were razor-sharp. “Oh, Damian, don’t be cruel. She’s survived out there on her own for so long; she must be quite… resilient. Tell me, Iris, what was your last job? A waitress? A grocery cashier?” “Lindsay, don’t tease her,” Damian said, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her. Then he turned back to me, his tone dry and transactional, as if we were negotiating a cheap lease. “I don’t recognize this betrothal. But since you’ve dragged yourself all the way out here, I’ll throw you a bone. Our housekeeper is retiring next week. You can take the job. I’ll pay you thirty-two hundred a month.” I didn’t say a word. In my palm, my cheap phone buzzed. My grandfather had just wired me twenty million dollars. 1 “What’s the matter? Thirty-two hundred too little for you?” Damian’s voice broke the silence. He loomed over me, his condescension naked and heavy. “Let’s be clear about who you are. You’ve been living like a vagrant for years. You have no degree, no manners, and you can’t even afford a decent coat. I’m only offering you this job as charity, out of respect for your late sister.” Lindsay giggled, hiding her mouth behind a manicured hand. “You’re too kind, Damian, really.” She stepped closer, pinching the pilling fabric of my sleeve with two fingers, her face twisted in theatrical pity. “Iris, sweetie, this coat is practically disintegrating. It’s time for an upgrade. I suppose thirty-two hundred is a fortune to someone like you. Did you ever see that much money at the shelter?” I looked at her beautiful, hollow face, then glanced down at the screen of my phone. The notification was still glowing: “Incoming wire transfer: $20,000,000.” Twenty million. So this was what my grandfather meant by “taking her place.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket, keeping my face entirely blank. “Mr. Crawford, my family sent me here to honor a commitment. A marriage.” Damian let out a harsh, bark-like laugh. “A marriage?” He stepped in closer, his shadow falling over me. “Iris, do you actually think you’ve become a princess overnight? If the Winslows cared about you, would they have let you take a dingy yellow cab here? No security, no driver, not even a decent car. To them, you’re just a pawn they threw out to absorb a blow.” Lindsay sighed on cue, wrapping her arm around his. “Damian, don’t be so blunt. You’ll break her heart. She just got a taste of the high life; let her have her little dream.” She looked at me, her eyes dripping with mock sympathy. “Take some advice, Iris. Damian doesn’t owe you anything. This arrangement belonged to your sister. Since you’re just a cheap knockoff, you should know your place. Being a maid is a good gig. At least you’ll have a roof over your head and won’t starve on the streets.” A cheap knockoff? I slightly raised an eyebrow. Right then, my phone rang. It was the custom ringtone for my eldest brother, Charles. Before I could move, Damian snatched the phone right out of my hand. “Look at that. Is the Winslow family checking up on their stray?” He pressed speakerphone without asking. Charles’s voice came through, cold and sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you dead out there yet? Still haven’t settled in?” Damian shot me a smug, triumphant look, leaning down toward the microphone. “Charles, it’s Damian Crawford. Iris just got here, but she doesn’t seem to understand the Crawford family’s expectations.” There was a brief pause on the other end. When Charles spoke again, his voice was ice. “Tell her to behave. Running around looking like a beggar is embarrassing to this family. If she wants to ruin her life, tell her to do it quietly. Don’t come crawling back here to annoy me.” With a sharp click, the line went dead. The dial tone droned in the quiet air. Damian burst into laughter, tossing my phone onto the gravel. “Hear that, Iris? That’s the family you’re so proud of. They don’t even want to look at you. They’re disgusted by your very existence.” Lindsay shook her head, looking at me like I was a pile of trash. “How pathetic. Cast out by your own flesh and blood. Iris, if you have any dignity left, go down to the basement and clean up the maid’s quarters. If you’re late, you won’t even get dinner.” I bent down and picked up my phone. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the glass screen. I blew the dust off it. “Where are the maid’s quarters?” I asked. Since Charles wanted me to “settle in,” I wanted to see exactly how much rope these two would give themselves to hang with. Damian scoffed, pressing the intercom by the gate. “Mrs. Landis, take the new maid down to the basement. Lay down the rules. Make sure she doesn’t wander around and get dirt on my carpets.” 2 A middle-aged woman in a stiff, dark grey uniform marched over. She swept a dismissive gaze over me. “Understood, Mr. Crawford. Leave her to me.” She turned to me, her tone sharp. “Follow me. Don’t dawdle.” I followed her through the grand, gilded foyer, past towering marble pillars, and down a flight of narrow, dimly lit wooden stairs. The air in the basement clung to the skin, damp and smelling of old mildew. Mrs. Landis pushed open a warped wooden door. “This is your room.” It was a cramped, windowless box. There was a single rusted metal bed frame and a dented locker. The sheets on the thin mattress were yellowed and threadbare. Mrs. Landis crossed her arms, her eyes hard. “Mr. Crawford says your duties include scrubbing the toilets and cleaning up after the dogs in the garden. You’re to be up by five every morning to prepare breakfast for the household. Any mistakes, and it comes out of your pay. Got it?” I stared at the stained, yellowed sheets and said nothing. Mrs. Landis gave me a rough shove. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question!” I sidestepped her next touch, my eyes instantly turning cold. “Don’t touch me.” She blinked, caught off guard, before her face flushed with fury. “Oh, think you’re someone special, do you? You’re trash that even the Winslows didn’t want. You don’t put on airs in this house. In this basement, “I” am the law.” She pointed at a pile of dingy rags in the corner. “Now, get moving. Scrub the five toilets on the main floor.” I ignored her, walking over to the metal bed. I gave one of the rusted legs a sharp kick. The frame let out a loud, agonizing groan, swaying precariously. “I don’t sleep on cheap beds,” I said. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Mrs. Landis let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t sleep on cheap beds? Who do you think you are, a guest at the Ritz-Carlton? If you don’t like it, sleep on the street!” Ignoring her screeching, I dialed a number. “Hello, is this the concierge at the Ritz-Carlton? I need a complete set of your signature presidential suite bedding delivered. Silk sheets, premium down pillows. Yes, deliver it to the Crawford estate. Bring it down to the basement.” I hung up and turned to the stunned housekeeper. “You can leave now. I’d like to rest.” Mrs. Landis stared at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “Are you insane? You think you can afford the Ritz? Just wait! I’m telling Mr. Crawford!” She slammed the door behind her as she stormed out. Within ten minutes, Damian and Lindsay burst into the basement room. Damian’s face was dark with rage, his finger practically touching my nose. “Iris! What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a maid! Why are you ordering luxury bedding from the Ritz?” Lindsay held her nose, waving a hand in front of her face. “Ugh, Damian, the smell down here is atrocious.” She sneered at me. “Iris, did living in shelters rot your brain? Your salary is thirty-two hundred a month. How do you plan to pay for this? Or were you expecting Damian to foot the bill?” Damian sneered. “In your dreams! I won’t pay a single cent. Let’s see how you handle it when they show up with the bill!” I leaned against the dented metal locker, watching them play their little roles. “I’m paying with my own money. What does it have to do with you?” Damian laughed as if I’d delivered a killer punchline. “Your own money? You were a homeless stray! How much could you possibly have? The rags on your back wouldn’t even clear ten dollars at a thrift store!” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “I’m warning you, Iris. If you try to use the Crawford name to run a scam, I will personally throw you out of here in pieces!” Just then, a sleek black Mercedes Sprinter with the Ritz-Carlton logo pulled up to the estate gates. A team of immaculate hotel managers in tailored suits entered the mansion, carrying several oversized, pristine boxes. The lead manager bowed politely to me. “Excuse me, are you Miss Iris Winslow? Your signature silk bedding collection has arrived. The total comes to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.” 3 A suffocating silence fell over the basement. Damian’s eyes bulged, staring at the high-end packaging. Lindsay’s face twisted into an ugly mask of disbelief and envy. “One… one hundred and twenty thousand dollars?” she shrieked. “For some bedsheets?” The hotel manager kept his professional smile. “Yes, ma’am. This is custom-tailored Italian silk, a limited global release.” Damian snapped out of his daze, pointing at me. “Iris! Where did you steal that money? Did you swipe a Winslow credit card?” I didn’t bother answering him. I tapped my phone screen against the payment terminal the manager held out. “Ding.” A crisp, clear electronic chime echoed in the cramped basement, confirming the transaction had cleared. The manager’s smile grew even wider. “Thank you for your patronage, Miss Winslow. Would you like our staff to set it up for you?” “No, thank you. Just leave them here.” The managers set the boxes down carefully, bowed, and withdrew. Damian stared at my phone, utterly speechless. Lindsay gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with jealousy. “It has to be stolen! There is no way the Winslows gave her that much cash! Damian, this is a crime! We need to call the police!” Damian’s eyes lit up. He pulled out his phone. “Yes! The police! You’re finished, Iris!” Right in front of me, he dialed my second brother, Chase. “Chase, it’s Damian. I have to report something urgent. Iris stole from your family!” On the other end of the line, Chase’s voice came through, thick with sleep and sheer, unadulterated irritation. “Are you out of your mind? Who calls this early?” Damian rushed to explain. “No, Chase, listen! Iris just dropped a hundred and twenty grand on silk sheets without blinking! She’s an orphan! Where would she get that kind of cash? She must have stolen your card!” There was a two-second silence on the other end. Then, Chase’s roar practically rattled the phone. “She bought a bed, so what? Did she spend your damn money? A hundred and twenty grand is pocket change! A single tire on my car costs more than that! If you ever call me again with this pathetic garbage, I will personally ruin you!” The call disconnected with a sharp beep. Damian stood frozen, his hand still holding the phone to his ear. Lindsay’s jaw dropped. Damian took a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. He glared at me, his voice trembling. “Did you hear that, Iris? Chase doesn’t even care enough to look into it. You’re such an embarrassment to them that they won’t even prosecute you for stealing. They treat you like you don’t even exist!” Lindsay chimed in, eager to soothe Damian’s bruised ego. “Exactly! The Winslows are so wealthy that a few hundred thousand is nothing to them. But their attitude toward you says it all. Iris, don’t think a little stolen money makes you queen of this castle.” Damian sneered. “Mrs. Landis! Throw all of this trash out! A maid sleeping on Italian silk? Not in my house.” Mrs. Landis eagerly complied, waving in a couple of male groundskeepers to grab the heavy boxes. I watched them calmly. “Damian, are you sure you want to touch my things?” Damian threw his head back. “In this house, I make the rules! Throw them in the dumpster outside!” I didn’t stop them as they dragged the boxes away. Instead, I quietly opened my phone and marked the order as delivered. 4 The next evening, the Crawford estate was ablaze with lights. Damian was hosting a lavish party to celebrate some minor, third-rate charity award Lindsay had won, inviting the city’s second-tier trust-fund crowd. Mrs. Landis tossed a skimpy, black-and-white maid costume onto my bed. “Put it on. Mr. Crawford wants you serving drinks to the guests tonight. He had this specially ordered in your size.” The fabric was insultingly sparse; the hemline wouldn’t even cover my thighs. I dropped the uniform onto the floor and stepped on it. “Tell him to wear it and serve the drinks himself.” Mrs. Landis bristled, her finger shaking as she pointed at me. “Don’t push your luck! Mr. Crawford said if you don’t put this on, he’ll have your old suitcase thrown into the fountain!” My gaze turned ice-cold. Inside that worn leather suitcase was the only thing left to me by the director of the shelter who had raised me—an old, battered diary containing the names of all the orphans she had cared for. I walked out of the basement and entered the grand ballroom. The air was thick with expensive perfume, loud laughter, and jazz music. Damian, dressed in a custom tuxedo, stood in the center of the room with a glass of champagne, holding court among his wealthy friends. Lindsay stood beside him like a proud swan in a white couture gown. When he saw me walk in wearing my old, oversized coat, his expression instantly darkened. “Iris, who said you could come out looking like that?” He marched over to me, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Where is the uniform I bought you?” Whispers began to ripple through the room. “Is that the stray the Winslows dragged back?” “I heard she’s practically illiterate.” “The Winslows must be mortified. Sending her to work as a maid at the Crawfords’…” Lindsay giggled behind her hand, her eyes glittering. “Oh, Damian, let it go. Maybe she’s just shy. She’s probably never seen an event like this before.” Damian sneered. “There is no negotiating in this house.” He turned to Mrs. Landis. “Go. Throw her suitcase into the fountain. It seems she needs a wake-up call.” A couple of security guards ran down to the basement and dragged my battered leather suitcase out into the courtyard. I moved toward them. “Stop.” Damian stepped in front of me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Hurts, doesn’t it? If you get down on your knees and beg Lindsay to forgive your rudeness yesterday, I might think about giving it back.” Lindsay looked down her nose at me. “I don’t even need you to kneel, Iris. Just say, nice and loud, that you don’t deserve to bear the Winslow name, and I’ll have Damian let you go.” I stared directly into Damian’s eyes. “If you throw that in, I will make you regret the day you were born.” Damian burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “Make me regret it? Do it! Throw it in!” With a heavy splash, my suitcase—the one that had been my only constant for fifteen years—was hurled into the deep waters of the stone fountain. The latch broke on impact, and my belongings spilled out into the water. The old diary, its pages fragile with age, instantly began to soak and disintegrate. A sharp pain squeezed my chest. The blood rushed to my ears, and my hands curled into tight fists. Lindsay walked to the edge of the fountain, looking down. “Oh dear, it’s just a bunch of garbage anyway.” She lifted her foot, intending to step on an old photograph that had landed on the wet stone rim. Before she could, my hand whipped out. “Slap!” I put every ounce of my strength into the blow. The impact cracked through the courtyard, and Lindsay was thrown off balance, hitting the stone tiles hard. The courtyard fell into absolute, terrified silence. Damian stared at her, then turned to me, his face contorted with rage. “Iris! You’re dead!” He raised his hand, swinging a heavy, open-palmed strike toward my face. But a split second before his hand could connect, the phone in his pocket blared with a shrill, demanding ringtone. Damian froze mid-swing, his eyes instinctively darting to the screen. “Caller ID: Benson (Winslow Family Butler).” Frowning, he swiped to answer and put it on speakerphone. In the quiet of the courtyard, Benson’s dry, commanding voice carried clearly to every ear. “Mr. Crawford.” “The elder Mr. Winslow is deeply displeased to hear how his granddaughter is being treated. Your hospitality has certainly been… eye-opening.”
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