Emma swallowed hard and forced herself to obey. She was only nineteen, yet she carried the weight of a house that wasn’t hers—a house that belonged to her father, Richard Carter, a successful real estate developer often away on business. After her mother’s death, he had remarried quickly, desperate to give Emma “a family again.” What he didn’t know was that Linda’s affection for him was as shallow as the champagne in her glass.
In his absence, Linda became a tyrant. She made Emma clean the mansion top to bottom, cook every meal, and care for Linda’s infant son, Mason. The housekeeper had quit months ago, unable to endure Linda’s drunken tantrums. Now Emma did it all—alone.
“Don’t think you can rest yet,” she spat, pointing at the floor. “You’ll clean until it shines like my diamond ring.”
Emma’s vision blurred. Her back ached. Tears fell, mixing with soap and dirt.
Suddenly, the front door opened. Footsteps—firm, decisive—filled the hall.
