Chapter 4 - The Boarding Order
The next morning, dawn broke over the estate in shades of pale, icy gray.
By 6:00 AM, the estate kitchen was already humming with quiet activity. Marco was preparing the morning coffee service, while two junior maids wiped down the silver trays.
I stood near the service entrance, holding Emma’s small hand. She was wearing a bright yellow sweater, her hair tied in two neat pigtails, holding her stuffed rabbit, Barnaby, under her arm.
My heart was in my throat.
After last night in the library, Lorenzo had taken the blue binder, locked it in his private desk safe, and told me to return to my quarters and act as though nothing had happened. He told me that at eight o'clock this morning, the monthly executive review meeting would take place in the main dining room.
At 7:45 AM, Vivien walked into the staff office adjoining the kitchen.
She was dressed in a sharp beige silk blouse and black tailored trousers, her hair perfectly styled, holding a thick black leather portfolio under her arm. She looked every bit the polished, irreplaceable estate manager she claimed to be.
"Sophia," Vivien said coldly, barely glancing at me as she checked her reflection in the wall mirror. "Make sure the executive dining room is set for four. Mr. Duca’s legal counsel, Mr. Marcus, has just arrived from Manhattan. I want the coffee served at exactly eight. Do not let Emma anywhere near the west wing."
"Yes, Vivien," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"And dress properly," she added, eyeing my simple black maid's dress. "Mr. Duca demands absolute perfection from the domestic team today. I am presenting the Q3 budget summary, and I will not have your messy appearance reflecting poorly on my leadership."
She turned and swept out of the room, her heels clicking purposefully toward the grand dining room.
I looked down at Emma. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes, squeezing my thumb.
"Is Mr. Lorenzo going to smile today, Mama?" she asked.
"I don't know, baby," I whispered. "I don't know."
At 8:00 AM, I pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors leading into the executive dining room, pushing a silver coffee service cart.
The dining room was vast and majestic, dominated by a twenty-foot polished cherrywood table under a crystal chandelier. Sitting at the head of the table was Lorenzo Duca, wearing a dark navy suit and a silver tie.
To his right sat Mr. Marcus, a sharp-eyed, gray-haired corporate attorney from Manhattan, holding a stack of legal documents.
To his left sat Vivien, her black portfolio open on the table in front of her, a confident, dazzling smile fixed on her face.
"As you can see from page twelve of the summary, Mr. Duca," Vivien was saying, her voice polished and articulate, "the domestic operational costs for Q3 have been streamlined by fourteen percent. We have reduced vendor redundancies in the linen and maintenance sectors, allowing us to allocate more capital toward estate security upgrades."
Lorenzo sat back in his chair, his hands folded loosely over his lap. He hadn't touched his breakfast plate.
"Streamlined," Lorenzo repeated softly.
"Yes, sir," Vivien smiled broadly, feeling the wind in her sails. "It was a complex audit, but I personally reviewed every invoice to ensure Duca Holdings was receiving maximum efficiency from our contractors."
I stepped forward, quietly lifting the silver coffee pot to pour fresh, steaming dark roast into Mr. Marcus’s porcelain cup. My hands were steady, but my mind was screaming.
Lorenzo’s amber eyes followed my movements as I poured his coffee next.
"Vivien," Lorenzo said, his voice quiet, almost lazy.
"Yes, Mr. Duca?"
"Tell me about Vendor B."
Vivien’s smile flickered for a fraction of a millisecond. "Vendor B, sir? Ah, yes. That is our specialized luxury linen contractor out of New Jersey. They provide the imported Egyptian cotton sheets for the guest wings."
"They operate out of a Post Office Box in Newark," Lorenzo noted, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee.
Vivien’s posture stiffened slightly, but she maintained her composure. "Yes, sir. Their distribution warehouse is in Newark. They use a PO Box for corporate billing to manage tax offsets. It's standard industry practice."
"Is it?" Lorenzo looked at Mr. Marcus.
The attorney pulled a thin, white folder from his briefcase and laid it on the polished cherrywood table.
"According to New Jersey state corporate registries," Mr. Marcus said in a dry, matter-of-fact tone, "Vendor B is a limited liability company registered six months ago. The sole officer and signatory for the account is Miss Vivien Romano."
The room went dead silent.
The sound of the rain outside seemed to amplify, beating against the tall glass windows.
Vivien’s face drained of every single drop of color. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands, resting on her black portfolio, began to visibly tremble.
"Mr... Mr. Duca..." Vivien stammered, her polished voice fragmenting into panic. "That... that is a misunderstanding! I created that LLC to act as an intermediary purchasing entity! It was to get a wholesale discount for the estate—"
"You stole eighty-four thousand dollars from my estate maintenance fund over four months," Lorenzo said flatly.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his hand on the table. The sheer, terrifying weight of his calm was far worse than any rage.
"And," Lorenzo continued, turning his gaze toward her like a heavy iron beam, "you systematically diverted twelve hundred dollars a month from your sister's earned wages into your personal account while filing false statements regarding her literacy and background."
Vivien whipped her head around, glaring at me with a mixture of shock and venomous rage.
"You!" Vivien shrieked, standing up so fast her chair scraped violently against the floor. "You told him! You ungrateful little bitch! I gave you a roof over your head! I saved you from starving in Jersey City after your useless husband died!"
"Sit down, Miss Romano," Mr. Marcus said coldly.
"No!" Vivien screamed, her composure completely disintegrating into hysterical panic. "Lorenzo, please! I did it for us! I did it to prove to you that I could manage your assets! I've given three years of my life to this house! You can't do this to me because of her! She's nothing! She's just a maid!"
Lorenzo stood up slowly.
Standing at his full height of six-foot-two, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the chandelier, he looked down at Vivien with an expression of absolute, terrifying contempt.
"You are mistaken, Miss Romano," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass cups on the table ring softly. "Sophia is not just a maid."
He looked at me.
"Sophia is the person who noticed what my entire accounting department missed. Sophia is a woman of honor who raised her child in this house while you bled her dry."
He raised his hand and gestured toward the double doors.
Two large men in dark charcoal suits—Lorenzo’s private security detail—stepped silently into the dining room.
"Mr. Vance," Lorenzo said to the senior security officer, "escort Miss Romano to her quarters. She has fifteen minutes to gather her personal clothing. Any item purchased with funds drawn from Vendor B will remain on the property. After fifteen minutes, escort her off the estate grounds. If she ever steps foot on Duca property again, file the grand larceny charges with the county prosecutor immediately."
"No! Lorenzo, please! Please!" Vivien sobbed hysterically as the two security officers grabbed her arms, dragging her backward out of the dining room. Her heels skidded uselessly against the polished floor, her cries echoing down the grand corridor until the heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind her.
BOOM.
The dining room returned to total, suffocating quiet.
Mr. Marcus neatly closed his white folder, placed it back in his briefcase, and stood up. "I will oversee the asset recovery from her Newark accounts, Mr. Duca. Good morning."
"Thank you, Marcus," Lorenzo nodded.
The attorney left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
I stood beside the coffee cart, my hands gripping the stainless steel handle so tightly my knuckles were white. Tears overflowed my eyes and ran down my face, not out of sadness for Vivien, but out of the sheer, overwhelming release of six months of hidden fear and exhaustion.
Lorenzo walked around the long cherrywood table.
He stopped two feet in front of me.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a clean, folded white linen handkerchief, and extended it toward me.
"Take it," he said softly.
I took the handkerchief, wiping my eyes and cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. Duca. I... I don't know what to say. I'll pack my things too. I know my sister's actions reflect on me—"
"Did I tell you to pack your things?" Lorenzo interrupted.
I looked up, startled. "No, sir, but... Vivien is gone. I don't have a sponsor here anymore."
Lorenzo looked at me for a long, quiet moment. The harsh, cold aura that had surrounded him during Vivien’s eviction melted away, revealing the warm, dark amber depth of his eyes.
"You don't need a sponsor, Sophia," Lorenzo said. "Effective immediately, you are appointed Household Manager of this estate."
My jaw dropped. "What?"
"The salary is one hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year," Lorenzo stated, as if discussing a routine shipping schedule. "It includes full medical benefits, private quarters in the east wing for you and Emma, and educational support. You will oversee all domestic staff, procurement, and estate logistics."
"Mr. Duca... I can't... I'm just a—"
"You are a woman who managed a construction business," Lorenzo cut her off gently. "You are a woman who reads invoices with absolute precision. And most importantly, you are a woman who tells me the truth."
May you like
He reached out, his broad, warm fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. The touch sent a strange, electric shiver straight down my spine.
"Besides," Lorenzo added, the corner of his mouth twitching into a tiny, almost invisible smile, "I need someone in charge who knows how to remove green crayon from my cheek."
