"Young mistress, you are back."
The housekeeper steps forward the moment the front door opens, his hands already reaching for the small suitcase in her grasp. His voice is respectful, practiced, but his eyes flicker—just for a second.
She smiles.
"Yes," she says softly. "The cruise party ended early. I took an earlier flight."
Her voice carries a lightness, the kind that comes from satisfaction. She celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday surrounded by laughter, sea breeze, and friends who toasted to her happiness. She feels tired, but content.
The housekeeper nods and takes the luggage from her hand. His movements are careful. Too careful.
She doesn't notice.
Without waiting, she turns and walks toward the staircase. Her heels echo lightly against the marble floor as she begins to climb.
"I'll freshen up first," she says casually, already halfway up.
The housekeeper stands still at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. His fingers tighten around the suitcase handle. He looks up at her back, hesitation written plainly on his face.
"Young mistress—"
The word never fully leaves his lips.
She continues upward.
She has lived in this house for seven years. Married at eighteen with her lover. She was in love with her husband since when she was fourteen years old. She once thought the world was generous to her—letting her marry the man she loved, letting her step into this house as its young mistress.
Lucky. That was the word she used often.
She reaches the first floor and turns left, toward the wing that belongs to her. The corridor is quiet, carpet soft beneath her feet. The familiar scent of flowers and wood polish greets her.
Her room is at the end.
She slows slightly as she approaches the door.
Laughter.
She stops.
The sound comes from inside her room.
A woman's voice—bright, amused. Familiar.
A man's voice—low, relaxed. Too familiar.
Her brows knit together faintly. Why is her elder sister here? And why are they inside her room instead of the hall?
She lifts her hand, fingers brushing the door handle.
Then she hears his voice clearly.
"Of course I love you more," her husband says, laughter still in his tone. "That's why you're my only lover. And now you're carrying my child too."
Her hand freezes.
Her sister laughs, soft and pleased. "Of course, darling. I know you love me. And you love our child even more."
The air feels suddenly thin.
Her husband speaks again, unhurried. "I do... Your sister is really irritating. If I hadn't needed to kick my rival back then, I wouldn't have married her... Living under the same roof for seven years—what a joke."
Her sister responds easily, as if this is an old conversation. "I know... But you still have to wait. Divorce her after she comes back from the trip."
He scoffs. "What trip? She's just wasting my money like a spoiled wife."
Her sister bursts into laughter. "You can't say that, darling. She always thinks she's the young mistress of this house. She doesn't even know how foolish she is. By the way, how impressive—you fooled her seven years ago so well. Saying you loved her, marrying her… when in reality, it was all to defeat your rival."
"Yes," he replies calmly. "It was part of my plan. You know how that man loved her. She was the only reason he stayed away from my business. Once I married her, everything fell into place. My company climbed to the top tier."
Her sister hums in agreement. "And she should be thankful. You gave her a good life. That man was terrifying. Because of him, my family disowned her. Mom and Dad haven't spoken to her since."
He laughs softly. "Who would want to talk to her? Don't you find it funny? She tried to commit suicide so many times just to escape that man. Only after I married her did her mental state improve. She should be grateful to me."
"Where is that man now?" her sister asks.
"Missing," he answers. "Seven years already."
"He was so crazy about my sister," she says lightly.
"Forget him," he says. "We should think about how to convince her to divorce. We can say we mistakenly slept together and you're pregnant."
Her sister's tone turns playful. "We can say anything. She's dumb. She believes us too much."
"Yes," he agrees. "I need the divorce quickly. Our child must be born legitimately."
Outside the door, she stands perfectly still.
She doesn't breathe.
Her fingers slip from the handle.
The laughter inside the room continues, but it sounds distant now, like it belongs to another world.
She turns.
Her steps are slow at first, then faster. She walks down the corridor, past the staircase, past the place she once called home.
She does not enter the room. She does not cry.
The housekeeper looks up sharply when he sees her descending.
"Young mistress—" he calls, stepping forward.
She doesn't stop.
She walks straight out of the house.
The night air hits her face. Cool. Sharp. Real.
She gets into the car, hands trembling as she grips the steering wheel. The engine starts. The headlights cut through the darkness.
The car pulls away at high speed, leaving the house behind—silent, brightly lit, and unchanged.
Inside her chest, something collapses without a sound.
---