Chapter 2 - The Whispers of Poison
The subtle change in the air did not go unnoticed by those who built their power on the estate's strict hierarchy.
On Friday afternoon, Marin was summoned directly to the estate manager’s grand office on the second floor.
Victoria Sloan was a woman made of sharp angles, expensive ice-grey suits, and aristocratic arrogance. She sat behind a pristine glass desk, her manicured fingers resting over a tall stack of staff performance reviews.
“Close the door, Miss Holloway,” Victoria said, her tone cold and smooth as polished marble.
Marin closed the heavy oak door, standing in her loose grey uniform sweater and dark apron. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, refusing to shrink under the woman's hostile stare.
“Is there an issue with my floor assignments, Mrs. Sloan?” Marin asked calmly.
Victoria leaned back, taking a slow sip from her china tea cup. “Men in Mr. Castellano’s position attract women who mistake attention for opportunity.”
Marin went completely still. The warm air in her chest turned to ice.
“You think I’m trying to get something from him,” Marin said flatly, stating the obvious truth behind the insult.
“I think you understand precisely what you’re doing,” Victoria replied, her eyes sweeping down Marin’s soft, generous curves with a look of quiet, deep-seated disgust. “A temporary maid from the outer districts... suddenly entertaining the Don with little jokes and casual insolence. It’s pathetic, Miss Holloway. And more importantly, it is an embarrassment to this household.”
Victoria leaned forward, placing her elbows on the desk.
“Know your place,” Victoria whispered coldly. “You are here to scrub floors, not to play the entertainer for a man who could buy your entire neighborhood with his pocket change. Step out of line again, and I will ensure you never work in this city again.”
By that evening, the poison had spread to every corner of the servant quarters.
Conversations abruptly stopped whenever Marin entered the staff kitchen.
A young footman named Marcus, who used to save a warm mug of dark roast coffee for her every morning, suddenly looked down at his boots and avoided her completely when she walked past.
Nobody openly mocked her to her face. Nobody shouted.
That almost hurt worse. The deliberate, icy isolation was a wall built around her overnight—a silent agreement among the staff that a woman who looked like her, built with soft curves and plush lines, had no right to earn the fond glances of a crime king.
So Marin did what she had always done when society decided a woman of her size and background should be grateful for mere scraps of respect.
May you like
She kept her chin up. She kept working.
And she stopped laughing.
