« On me doit mon salaire de cette semaine et le droit de partir. »
«Vous avez ce droit.»
« Alors je démissionne. »
Ronan la regarda longuement.
Puis il hocha la tête une fois.
« Je ferai doubler votre salaire et vous le verserai pendant les six prochains mois. »
«Je ne veux pas de votre charité.»
« Ce n’est pas de la charité. »
« J’ai l’impression d’être coupable. »
« C’est de la culpabilité. »
Son honnêteté l’a désarmée.
Ivy se détourna.
« Je n’ai pas de temps à perdre avec la culpabilité, Monsieur Blackwood. »
« Ronan. »
« Ce n’est pas mon rôle. »
« C’est le cas si je le dis. »
Her eyes flashed.
“There. That’s the problem.”
Ronan went quiet.
Ivy immediately regretted it, but only because he looked as if the words had landed exactly where she meant them to.
She drew a breath.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Before he could say more, Matteo Rossi appeared at the end of the hallway.
Matteo was Ronan’s right hand, a slim man with dark hair, watchful eyes, and a face that rarely revealed what he knew. Tonight, that face was grim.
“Boss.”
Ronan did not look away from Ivy.
“What?”
Matteo hesitated.
“It’s already online.”
Ivy’s stomach dropped.
Ronan turned.
“What is?”
Matteo handed him a phone.
On the screen was a shaky video from the ballroom.
Vivienne raising the crop.
Ivy standing still.
The crowd watching.
Ronan catching the whip.
The caption read:
MAFIA BOSS CATCHES FIANCÉE WHIPPING PLUS-SIZE MAID AT ELITE PARTY.
It already had thousands of views.
Lena peeked from the study and gasped.
Ivy felt the world tilt.
“No,” she whispered.
Ronan’s thumb paused over the screen.
The video replayed. The moment of the strike. The blood on Ivy’s shoulder. The horrified silence of two hundred people who had seen everything and done nothing.
“I’ll have it removed,” Ronan said.
“You can’t remove the internet.”
“I can remove whoever posted it.”
Ivy stared at him.
“Do you hear yourself?”
Ronan froze.
Matteo looked away.
Ivy hugged her injured arm against her body.
“My brothers go to school with kids who have phones. My landlord watches gossip pages. My whole life is about to become a joke for strangers.”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t get to promise that.”
Her voice finally shook.
Not from pain.
From fear.
Ronan saw it, and the sight seemed to hurt him.
Before he could answer, Vivienne’s voice echoed from the far end of the corridor.
“She’s right to be afraid.”
Vivienne stood beneath the archway, flanked by her father and two private security men who no longer looked confident.
Her eyes were red, but not from crying.
From rage.
“You wanted the world to see a wounded servant?” she said. “Fine. Let them see all of her.”
She tossed a folder onto the hallway table.
Papers spilled across the polished wood.
Photographs.
Bank records.
A copied ID.
Ivy went cold.
Ronan looked down.
“What is this?”
Vivienne smiled.
“Ask your precious Ivy why she used three different names before she came here.”
Ivy’s throat closed.
Lena whispered, “Miss Ivy?”
Vivienne stepped forward, every diamond on her body glittering like a weapon.
“Ask her why she was fired from her last estate.”
Ronan’s eyes moved slowly to Ivy.
Vivienne delivered the final blow with pleasure.
“Ask her what happened to the old woman who died after Ivy Lancaster served her tea.”
The hallway became smaller.
Ivy heard the rain. The distant voices of guests leaving. The low buzz of Matteo’s phone vibrating again and again with messages.
But all she could see was the folder.
The photographs.
The copies.
The pieces of a life she had spent years burying because poor people did not get fresh starts. They got records. Rumors. Mistakes that followed them like dogs.
Ronan picked up the first page.
Ivy knew what he saw.
Ivy Lancaster.
Ivy Monroe.
Ivy Valez.
Three names.
Three addresses.
Three jobs.
All real.
All incomplete.
Vivienne watched him with bright, cruel satisfaction.
“Well?” she asked. “Still want to defend her?”
Ronan read silently.
His expression revealed nothing.
That frightened Ivy more than anger would have.
“Ivy,” Lena whispered, “what is she talking about?”
Ivy could not answer. Her mouth had gone dry.
Senator Hale stepped beside his daughter, smoothing his tie.
“This is unfortunate, Ronan. Truly. But you know how these people operate. They earn sympathy first. Access second. Then things disappear.”
Ronan turned one page.
Vivienne’s smile grew.
“The old woman was Mrs. Eleanor Graves. Eighty-four. Widowed. Extremely wealthy. Ivy worked for her under the name Ivy Monroe. Mrs. Graves died three weeks later.”
“She was dying before I arrived,” Ivy said.
Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
Vivienne looked delighted.
