=A Couple of Weeks Later=
The first few weeks were a whirlwind of cleaning, organizing, and trying not to mess up. Arlecchino kept an eagle eye on me, watching my every move. Every time I glanced her way, she was there with that look, making me wonder if she was plotting my downfall or just curious about how long I'd last.
Note to self: never assume you're out of her sight.
La Signora seemed always annoyed with me, finding fault in even the tiniest mistakes. If a single speck of dust escaped my duster, she'd catch it like a heat-seeking missile. She had this way of making me feel like a complete failure with just a raised eyebrow.
"Y/N, you've missed a spot," she'd say, snapping me out of my thoughts. I'd rush to fix whatever I'd done wrong, my face burning with embarrassment. It was like being in a constant state of "whoops, I'm sorry!"
Kafka, on the other hand, was a bit of a mystery. She was nice enough but kept to herself, often lost in her books or her writing. Sometimes I'd catch her watching me with a thoughtful look, like she was analyzing my every move for some kind of experiment. The only good thing was her occasional smile, a small reassurance that I wasn't entirely hopeless in her eyes.
I remember one morning vividly. I was polishing the grand staircase, my mind drifting to what life might be like if I ever got out of this mess.
Maybe I'd start a cat cafe or become a professional napper-anything seemed better than the stress of this job. Lost in my daydream, I didn't notice Arlecchino sneaking up on me.
"Dreaming of better days, Y/N?" she asked, her voice full of amusement.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, the cloth slipping from my fingers. "N-No, ma'am, just, uh, focused on the... task," I stammered, scrambling to retrieve the cloth.
Arlecchino's lips twitched into a smirk. "Just remember, daydreams don't pay the bills." With that parting shot, she glided away, leaving me to my blushing and frantic polishing.
The next day, I found myself in the dining room, setting the table for lunch. La Signora came in, her presence as overwhelming as ever.
She looked over my work, her critical eye catching every detail. "The napkins should be folded into swans, not triangles," she instructed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Swans? Seriously? I could barely manage triangles without messing up.
I glanced at her, hoping for some leniency.
She raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting me to comply. Sighing inwardly, I set to work, my attempts at napkin origami looking more like tortured pigeons than elegant swans.
Desperate, I discreetly pulled out my phone and searched for a napkin-folding tutorial on YouTube.
Trying to be stealthy, I positioned my phone behind a centerpiece and hit play on the first video I found. The cheerful voice of the tutorial host began explaining the steps, and I tried to follow along.
"First, fold the napkin in half diagonally," the video chirped.
"Fold the napkin in half diagonally," I muttered under my breath, mimicking the action. So far, so good.
"Next, fold the corners to the center," the video continued. I did the same, feeling a tiny spark of hope. Maybe I could pull this off.
But just as I was starting to feel confident, the video suddenly paused, replaced by an annoying buffering wheel.
No, no, no! I tapped the screen frantically, but my phone had decided that now was the perfect time to lose connection.
Great. Now what? I glanced around, making sure La Signora wasn't watching. She was busy inspecting the silverware, giving me a few precious seconds. With no other choice, I tried to wing it, recreating the steps from memory.
"Remember, the final step is to fold the bottom edge up to form the swan's base," I muttered, attempting to shape the napkin into something remotely swan-like. Instead, it looked more like a deranged duck.
Just then, La Signora turned her attention back to me. "Are you having trouble, Y/N?"
"No, ma'am! Just finishing up," I said, quickly placing my sad, slightly extra chromosome-y napkin swans on the table.
She approached, her gaze scrutinizing my work. I held my breath, waiting for her inevitable critique.
La Signora's eyebrow arched higher than I thought possible. "Interesting choice," she said, her tone dripping with disapproval. "Please redo them. Properly."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, defeated. As she moved on, I couldn't help but feel like I was living in a never-ending episode of some twisted reality show. Napkin folding: level impossible.
Just when I thought things couldn't get more stressful, Kafka decided it was time for a therapy session.
I was dusting the library, trying to avoid knocking over any of her precious books, when she appeared behind me. "How are you holding up, Y/N?" she asked, her voice gentle.
I paused, considering my response. "I'm surviving," I said finally, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
Kafka nodded, her gaze piercing yet kind. "Remember, everyone makes mistakes. It's how you learn from them that matters."
"Thanks," I mumbled, feeling a bit better. At least someone in this mansion didn't think I was a complete disaster.
Despite the challenges, I couldn't deny there was something oddly fascinating about working here. Each day brought new tasks and new interactions with these intriguing women.
And then there was the mansion itself, a labyrinth of opulent rooms and hidden corners that seemed to hold countless secrets.
Sometimes, when I was sure no one was watching, I'd explore a little, doing a little sneaky
As I lay in my bed at night, exhaustion pulling me toward sleep, I couldn't help but look back on the stupidity of it all.
Here I was, a simple maid, trying to navigate the demands of three powerful and enigmatic women. Part of me wanted to run away and never look back, but another part was strangely drawn to the challenge.
Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, or maybe, just maybe, I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle this.
Why did I think this would be easy? Why did I think I could handle this? I can't even handle my own life, let alone serve these three.
But then, as I drifted off to sleep, a small, defiant voice in my head whispered, "You can do this. You just have to survive one day at a time."
And so, with a mix of dread and determination, I faced each new day, ready to tackle whatever fresh challenge awaited me in the mansion. One day, I'd look back on this and laugh. Or cry. Probably both.
=The Next Day at Evening=
After a particularly tiring day of scrubbing floors and polishing silver, I overheard them talking about me. I had just finished cleaning the hallway and was about to head back to my room when I noticed the cracked door of the study slightly ajar.
"...not sure she's cut out for this," Arlecchino's voice was low and tinged with skepticism. Her words sent a shiver down my spine.
"She's trying her best," Kafka's gentle tone offered a slight defense. "We knew she was inexperienced when we hired her. Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves."
La Signora's voice cut through the air like a knife, cold and unyielding. "I don't care about her efforts. I care about results. If she can't handle the job, we'll find someone who can. Tomorrow is her last day before we decide what to do with her, and we need to make a decision soon."
There was a brief silence, and I could imagine Arlecchino leaning back in her chair, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "We could give her one final test, something that will truly measure her capabilities. If she succeeds, she stays. If not, we let her go."
Kafka sighed, and I could hear the faint rustle of her clothes as she shifted. "That seems fair. But we must also consider the environment we've created for her. Constant pressure and scrutiny can break even the strongest of individuals."
"Rosalyne," Arlecchino interjected, her tone softening slightly, "we must remember that none of us were perfect when we started. We all had our trials and errors."
La Signora huffed, clearly unimpressed. "This isn't about us. This is about maintaining the standards of this household. We cannot afford to have someone who is constantly making mistakes."
"But she has potential," Kafka insisted. "I've seen glimpses of it. With the right guidance, she could become a valuable asset."
Arlecchino let out a low chuckle. "Potential is only valuable if it translates into results, Kafka. You know that better than anyone."
The room fell silent again, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
My mind raced with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. They were discussing my fate, and I was powerless to do anything about it. I felt like an unwanted burden, a nuisance in their perfectly curated lives.
"I'll give her one more chance," La Signora finally said, her voice grudgingly conceding. "But it will be her final opportunity. She must prove herself tomorrow, or she is out."
"Agreed," Arlecchino said, her tone final. "We'll set the test for her in the morning."
Kafka's voice was softer, almost pitying. "Let's not make it too harsh. Remember, she's still learning."
"We'll see," La Signora replied curtly. "I want to be impressed. If she can rise to the occasion, she stays. If not, we move on."
My heart sank like a stone in my chest. They were talking about firing me. I felt like an unwanted burden, a nuisance in their perfectly curated lives.
With a heavy heart, I slunk back to my room, feeling utterly defeated.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of their words pressing down on me. The next day would determine my fate, and I couldn't afford to fail.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, determined not to give up without a fight. I had to prove myself, not just to them, but to myself as well.
Tomorrow, I would show them what I was truly capable of.
I am sooo fired.