Shattered Glass and Silent Pain
The crystal flute hit the marble with a sharp crack that cut through the string quartetâs melody like a gunshot. Champagne sprayed across the floor, tiny bubbles catching the light from the chandeliers before they vanished. Emily Carter froze, her bare feet stinging from the cold stone and the tiny shards that had nicked her skin. Eight months pregnant, she felt the baby kick hard as if protesting the long night too.
A server in a crisp black uniform rushed over with a broom, shooting her a warning glance. âClean it up and keep moving, Carter. The senator wants another round.â
Emily nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her ankles were swollen, her lower back burned like fire, but she had no choice. The Hawthorne family paid wellâbetter than any other job she could find in her conditionâand she needed every dollar for the baby. She knelt carefully, ignoring the way her belly pressed against her thighs, and swept the broken glass into a dustpan.
From across the ballroom, Victor Hawthorne watched the scene unfold. The silver-haired billionaire stood near the grand staircase, a glass of scotch in his hand, surrounded by people who wanted something from him. But his eyes kept drifting back to the young pregnant maid who moved with quiet dignity despite everything.
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He didnât know why she looked so familiar. Something about the shape of her face, the determined set of her jaw. He shook the thought away and turned back to his guests.
Emily finished cleaning and stood slowly, one hand on her lower back. She picked up a fresh tray of champagne and forced a small smile as she moved through the crowd again. Her feet were raw, but she kept going. Hour eleven. Hour twelve. The music never stopped, and neither did she.
