"Are you insane?"
I closed my locker and turned. A girl from my homeroom stood there, her phone shoved aggressively toward my face.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"You're actually stalking him?" she demanded, her voice carrying down the crowded hallway. "The charity case is going after Ethan Thorne?"
I stared at her bright screen.
It was Yara’s social media profile. A blurry photo of me from yesterday afternoon filled the frame. I was kneeling in the dirt, gathering the shredded pages of my history book.
The caption read: *Watch out, Ethan. The maid is obsessed. Caught her following him to his car after school. So desperate.*
"I don't even know an Ethan Thorne," I said, pushing her phone away.
"He's the guy who stopped Yara from slapping you yesterday," the girl sneered. "Everyone knows who he is."
"Good for everyone."
I grabbed my backpack and pushed past her. The corridor buzzed with whispers. Eyes darted my way. Fingers pointed.
Yara stood near the cafeteria entrance, holding court with Blake and three other friends. She wore a smug grin, clearly soaking up the attention.
I marched straight toward her.
"Take the post down, Yara," I demanded, stopping two feet away.
She blinked, feigning shock. "What post, Sylvia? I just issued a public safety warning. Stalking is a serious offense."
"I am not stalking anyone."
"You were staring at him yesterday," Blake chimed in, crossing his thick arms. "We all saw it."
"He intervened because you two were acting like animals," I replied, keeping my volume loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. "I looked at him because he spoke."
"You followed him to the parking lot," Yara insisted.
"I ran home to scrub your guest bathrooms," I shot back. "I spend every free second of my life cleaning your messes. When exactly would I have the time to stalk a guy I don't even know?"
Laughter rippled through the onlookers. A few students exchanged amused glances, realizing the massive hole in her story.
Yara’s smile vanished. Her cheeks flushed dark red. "Shut your mouth."
"I'm clarifying this right now," I announced to the entire hallway, projecting my voice over the murmurs. "I have zero interest in Ethan Thorne. I have zero interest in Yara's manufactured drama. I just want to finish my senior year in peace."
I turned my back on her.
"You will regret embarrassing me!" Yara shrieked, her voice cracking.
I kept walking.
The consequences of my defiance arrived the second I pushed through the back door of the Hale estate that evening.
"Get in the living room. Now."
Gale’s voice boomed from the hallway.
I kicked off my scuffed sneakers and walked into the sprawling, dimly lit room. Gale stood by the fireplace, a heavy crystal glass in his hand. Mrs. Hale sat rigid on the leather sofa. Yara curled up next to her, dabbing her perfectly dry eyes with a tissue.
"What did you do to my daughter?" Gale demanded, his face tight with fury.
"I went to school," I answered evenly.
"Do not play games with me," Mrs. Hale snapped. She stood up, her posture stiff. "Yara called me in hysterics. You humiliated her in front of the entire student body."
"She posted a lie about me online," I explained.
"She expressed a valid concern!" Gale slammed his glass onto the mantle. The sharp sound echoed off the high ceilings. "You are harassing the Thorne boy."
"I do not know him."
"Liar," Yara whimpered, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. "She yelled at me, Dad. She said she is going to make my life miserable."
"I said I scrub your toilets," I corrected.
"Enough!" Mrs. Hale pointed a sharp, manicured finger at my chest. "We took you in. We feed you. We put clothes on your back."
"I wear hand-me-downs from a thrift store and eat your leftovers," I stated.
A strange sensation bubbled up in my chest. I didn't cry. I didn't shout.
I smiled.
Just a small, tired, empty upward curve of my lips.
Gale hated that. His eyes widened, and he crossed the room in two massive strides. He grabbed my upper arm, his thick fingers digging into my muscle.
"You think this is funny?" he growled.
"I think it is exhausting," I said, staring directly into his angry eyes. "She lies, you yell, I clean. Can we skip the lecture and just assign my extra chores?"
"You ungrateful wretch," Gale hissed.
"Release my arm," I said, my voice dropping to a low, steady pitch.
He shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching my balance against the heavy oak doorframe.
"You want chores?" Mrs. Hale asked, her tone dropping into a dangerous register. "Fine. The main kitchen is spotless, but the industrial prep kitchen in the back is a disaster. The fryers need to be drained, and the grease traps need to be emptied and scoured."
"The catering staff handles the industrial kitchen," I pointed out.
"You are the staff," Gale spat. "And you will not sleep until every inch of stainless steel shines. Maybe a night smelling like rancid oil will cure your obsession with the Thorne boy."
"I am not—"
"Get out of my sight," Gale interrupted, turning his back on me.
I didn't argue further. I walked down the long, carpeted corridor, pushing through the swinging doors into the back kitchen.
The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the smell of old cooking oil and burnt flour. The stainless steel counters were coated in a sticky yellow film from the weekend's gala.
I tied a heavy rubber apron around my waist. I grabbed a metal scraper and a wire brush.
For the next four hours, I worked in silence.
I drained the massive vats of oil into heavy plastic jugs. I hauled the jugs to the disposal bins outside. My shoulders ached. My back throbbed with every bend and twist.
I knelt on the hard tile, scraping a thick layer of black sludge from the bottom of the first fryer. The foul scent burned my nostrils. Sweat beaded on my forehead, stinging my eyes.
I wiped my face with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of dark grease across my cheek.
The wall clock ticked past midnight.
My knuckles bled from hitting the sharp metal edges of the grates. I dropped the wire brush into the sink. The metal clattered loudly in the empty room.
I gripped the edge of the counter, forcing my burning lungs to steady.
*Clack.*
A sharp noise echoed from the alleyway outside.
I froze.
*Clack. Clack.*
Someone was knocking on the heavy steel back door.
I stared at the deadbolt. The catering staff never came this late. Gale and Mrs. Hale never used the service entrance.
"Who is there?" I called out, my voice raspy from the chemical fumes.
Silence answered me.
I grabbed the heavy metal scraper from the counter, my fingers wrapping tightly around the handle. I walked slowly toward the door and peered through the small, reinforced glass window.
A tall figure stood in the shadows of the alley, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlamp.
He stepped forward, the light catching the silver crest on his dark jacket.
Ethan Thorne.
He knocked again, his eyes locking onto mine through the thick glass.
"Open the door, Sylvia," his voice carried through the heavy steel. "I hear I have a stalker."
