His Fiancée Poured Hot Tea on the Maid in Front

The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Moretti estate’s grand library, casting long bars of golden light across rows of leather-bound volumes that chronicled a century of ruthless empire-building.

Gabriel sat behind his mahogany desk, a cup of black coffee cooling beside an open ledger. But his mind wasn't on shipping routes or municipal bribes. It was on the girl with the burn.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter,” Gabriel said.

The door opened, and Mrs. Vance, the estate’s veteran housekeeper and resident nurse, stepped inside. She held a thick manila folder in her hands, her face carrying a grim, weathered expression. Mrs. Vance had raised Gabriel after his mother passed; she had seen every monster that walked through these doors, and she had buried most of them in her heart.

“You asked for the household audit, Gabriel,” Mrs. Vance said, walking over and placing the folder on his desk.

Gabriel opened it. Inside were detailed medical logs, payroll slips, and a series of confidential incident reports dating back over the past two years.

“Talk to me,” Gabriel said without looking up.

“Camille was worse than you knew,” Mrs. Vance said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. “It wasn't just Elena. Over the last six months, three kitchen maids and a parlor cleaner left without notice. They told the employment agency they were homesick, but I spoke to the girl who left in January—Sarah. Camille pushed her down the back stairs because she stained a rug with red wine. Threatened to blacklist her family from every estate in Massachusetts if she went to the police.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. The silence in the room grew heavy enough to crush bone.

“Why wasn’t I told?” Gabriel asked, his voice dangerously low.

“Because you were busy cleaning up the docks, negotiating the Jersey syndicates, and playing the part of the respectable billionaire philanthropist,” Mrs. Vance shot back, refusing to flinch under his gaze. “You stopped looking at the house, Gabriel. You thought because you brought a woman of ‘good breeding’ into the nest, the rot would stop. But rot doesn't care about pedigree. It cares about opportunity.”

Gabriel slowly closed the folder. He leaned back in his leather chair, staring up at the carved ceiling.

“Where is Elena?” he asked.

“She’s in the north wing recovery room. Her arm is blistered badly, but Mrs. Vance applied the salve. She’ll heal, though she’ll likely have a faint scar.” The older woman paused, watching him closely. “She’s terrified you’re going to throw her out anyway. Her mother is sick, and she needs this job to pay for the insulin.”

Gabriel stood up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. “Pack a basket from the kitchens. Fresh fruit, broth, and whatever else the doctor recommends. I’m going to see her.”

Mrs. Vance’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she nodded. “Aye, Gabriel. It’s about time you started acting like the master of this house again, instead of a ghost haunting it.”

Ten minutes later, Gabriel walked down the quiet, sunlit corridors of the staff quarters in the north wing. The stone here was older, the ceilings lower, but the air was clean and smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.

He stopped in front of door 14 and tapped twice.

“Come in,” a small, nervous voice called out.

Gabriel pushed the door open. The room was modest—a clean white bed, a small oak desk, and a window looking out over the stables. Elena sat on the edge of the mattress, her left forearm wrapped in pristine white gauze. When she saw who was standing in the doorway, she scrambled to stand up, nearly tangling her legs in the bedsheets.

“Mr. Moretti! Sir! I—I’m sorry, I should be downstairs—”

“Sit down, Elena,” Gabriel commanded, his voice firm but entirely devoid of the cold menace she had expected.

She froze, slowly sinking back onto the mattress, her wide brown eyes darting nervously around the room.

Gabriel stepped inside, setting a small wicker basket on the desk. He pulled a wooden chair away from the table and sat down across from her, resting his elbows on his knees.

“How is the arm?” he asked, nodding toward the gauze.

“It—it hurts, sir. But Mrs. Vance gave me some medicine. It’s better.”

“It’s not better,” Gabriel corrected bluntly. “It’s a second-degree burn caused by negligence and malice. You have every right to walk out of this house and never look back.”

Elena swallowed hard, looking down at her lap. “If I walk out of this house, my mother loses her insurance at Mount Sinai. And we lose the rooming house in Astoria. In my line of work, Mr. Moretti, pride is a luxury you can only afford if you have savings.”

Gabriel studied her. She wasn't older than twenty-two, with dark hair tied back in a messy bun and dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion and fear. There was no artifice in her, no desperate hunger for status like the one that had driven Camille into his arms. There was only survival.

“Your mother’s medical care is covered under the Moretti Foundation, effective immediately,” Gabriel said quietly. “And your salary has been doubled, retroactive to your first day here.”

Elena’s head snapped up, her jaw dropping. “Sir? Mr. Moretti, you don’t have to—I didn't mean to cause trouble at dinner—'

“You caused no trouble, Elena,” Gabriel interrupted. “The trouble was already here. You simply exposed it.” He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Rest. If anyone from the main house bothers you, give them my direct number.”

He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, Elena’s soft voice stopped him.

“Mr. Moretti?”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Why did you break off the engagement over... over a cup of tea spilled on a maid?”

Gabriel looked at her for a long moment, the afternoon light cutting across his sharp features.

“Because,” Gabriel said softly, “when you see someone reveal their true nature over something small, you know how they will treat you when the world burns down.”