The crystal chandelier cast a harsh glare over the twenty-seat mahogany table.

"Keep the bowls filled, Iris," Mrs. Gable muttered, shoving a heavy silver tureen into my hands. "And don't look anyone in the eye."

"Understood."

Steam rolled off the surface of the lobster bisque. The porcelain handles burned against my raw palms, a lingering reminder of yesterday’s laundry basement.

I stepped into the dining room.

Laughter echoed off the paneled walls. Celeste held a champagne flute, leaning into Jasper’s shoulder. He wore a velvet dinner jacket, his posture stiff but his smile practiced.

At the head of the table sat Hugh White, the family patriarch. To his right sat a man I didn’t recognize.

"Damon, you haven't aged a day since our last venture in Boston," Hugh boomed, raising his glass.

Damon tilted his head. He had sharp features and dark, observant eyes that didn't match the relaxed curve of his mouth. "I just learned how to hide the gray, Hugh."

"Nonsense! You're sharper than ever."

I moved down the line, ladling the scalding orange liquid into gold-rimmed bowls.

"Is this the new girl?" Celeste's voice cut through the chatter.

I kept my focus on the soup.

"She seems a bit slow, doesn't she, Jasper?" Celeste asked, her tone thick with fake concern.

Jasper didn't spare me a glance. "Good help is hard to find."

"Maybe she needs motivation."

I approached Celeste’s chair. The tureen weighed heavy in my grip. The liquid sloshed, bubbling near the brim.

"Serve me from the left, Iris," Celeste ordered. "You know the rules."

I shifted to her left side. I lowered the silver ladle.

Celeste suddenly twisted her torso. She drove her elbow sharply upward, slamming bone directly into my wrist.

The heavy porcelain slipped.

Boiling soup spilled over the edge.

A tidal wave of scalding liquid splashed across my forearm.

Fire erupted across my skin. The sheer heat stripped the breath from my lungs. I clamped my teeth together, trapping the scream in my throat.

The tureen shattered against the hardwood floor.

"Are you blind?!" Celeste shrieked, jumping up from her chair. She brushed a single drop of broth off her designer dress. "You clumsy idiot!"

I gripped my wrist. The skin on my right arm was already turning a violent, angry red. Fluid-filled blisters bubbled to the surface in seconds.

"I'm so sorry, Miss White," I forced out, my voice entirely flat.

An unexpected calm washed over me. I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I just stared at the damage.

"Sorry doesn't fix my dress!" she yelled.

The guests murmured among themselves.

"These agency hires are always so careless," a woman across the table whispered.

"She just dropped it right on her," another man agreed.

I looked at Jasper.

He sat two feet away. He stared at the broken porcelain. He didn't look at my arm. He didn't defend me. He simply picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

"Look at this mess," Celeste continued, pointing a manicured finger at my face. "You can't even handle a simple bowl of soup!"

"You hit my arm," I stated.

The dining room fell dead silent.

Celeste's eyes widened in mock horror. "Excuse me? Are you accusing me of ruining my own dinner party?"

"I am stating a fact."

"Hugh, did you hear this?" she spun toward her grandfather. "She ruins the meal and then calls me a liar!"

Hugh frowned, waving a dismissive hand. "Just get her out of here, Celeste. It’s ruining the appetite."

"Go to the kitchen," Celeste commanded, a victorious smirk playing on her lips. "When we finish, you will scrub this floor until it shines. By yourself."

I turned to leave.

"Hold on."

The deep voice came from the head of the table.

Damon set his napkin down. He didn't look at Celeste. His dark eyes locked entirely on my blistering arm.

"The girl needs ice," Damon said.

"She needs to learn how to do her job," Celeste snapped back.

"Second-degree burns tend to distract from one's duties," Damon replied, his tone polite but unyielding. He met my gaze. "Go run that under cold water."

"Thank you, sir," I whispered.

"Don't thank him!" Celeste stepped into my path. "You don't leave until I dismiss you."

"Celeste," Hugh warned, a rough edge to his voice. "Let the maid go. Damon is right. It's unsightly."

Celeste scowled, stepping aside. "Fine. But you clean this up later, Iris. Every last drop."

I walked out of the dining room.

The kitchen was empty. I turned on the industrial sink, shoving my arm under the freezing stream. The temperature shock sent a violent tremor down my spine.

My skin looked melted. The blisters stretched across my forearm, tight and agonizing.

Jasper's silence replayed in my mind. He watched me burn. He watched her do it.

Two hours later, the grand foyer doors slammed shut. The final guest had departed.

Mrs. Gable marched into the kitchen.

"They're gone," the head maid said, tossing a roll of paper towels onto the counter. "Miss White wants the dining room spotless before you sleep."

"My arm is severely burned," I said, showing her the angry red welts.

"My instructions were clear." Mrs. Gable looked away, her face hardening. "Get it done, Iris."

She left me alone.

I grabbed a bucket and a mop. I dragged them down the hall, every movement pulling at the damaged skin on my arm.

The dining room was a disaster zone. Broken porcelain shards littered the floor. Orange grease stained the expensive rug.

I dropped to my knees.

I picked up the sharpest piece of the tureen. My fingers shook. The pain radiated from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder.

"You didn't cry."

I spun around, dropping the shard.

Damon stood in the doorway. He had lost the dinner jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

"Guests are supposed to leave through the front, sir," I said, clutching my injured arm against my chest.

"I forgot my coat," he replied, stepping into the room.

"The coat check is in the foyer."

"I know."

He walked closer, his leather shoes silent on the hardwood. He stopped right in front of me, crouching down to my eye level.

"Why didn't you scream?" he asked.

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

"Most people would have caused a scene."

"Miss White wanted a scene. I prefer not to give people what they want."

Damon reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, white tube of ointment and set it on the floor beside my knee.

"Burn cream," he said. "Apply it after you finish scrubbing."

I stared at the tube. "Why are you giving me this?"

"Because I saw her shove you."

My head snapped up. "You saw?"

"I see a lot of things." Damon stood up, towering over me. The shadows of the chandelier cast sharp angles across his face. "Hugh thinks his granddaughter is a saint. Your ex-boyfriend thinks she's a bank. But you and I know exactly what she is."

I froze. "How do you know about Jasper?"

Damon smiled. A cold, calculating curve of his lips.

"Have a good night, Iris."

He turned and walked out of the room, disappearing into the dark hallway.

I grabbed the tube of cream. The plastic was still warm from his pocket.

My phone vibrated in my apron.

I pulled it out. Another message from the unknown number.

*You missed our meeting in the library. Turn around.*

I whipped my head toward the dark corner of the dining room. A shadow detached itself from the heavy velvet curtains.