Beatrice’s POV

The house slept in uneasy silence. Not the kind of silence that comes from peace, but the strained quiet of a place holding its breath. To the others, it was nothing. To me, it was a stage waiting for its cue.

I sat at the kitchen table, apron folded neatly across my lap, my hands clean. I had scrubbed the same pan twice already, not because it needed it, but because repetition steadied me.

People thought I was just the housekeeper, the young woman who clattered dishes and wiped fingerprints from polished wood. They never understood the patience it takes to keep a house. Or to dismantle one....