Mr Hagrove's Wife

If my life were a movie, it would be one of those low-budget indie tragedies where the main character spends ninety minutes staring out a rainy window while depressing acoustic music plays in the background.

But it’s not a movie. It’s my actual, pathetic reality. And right now, my reality involves balancing a silver tray laden with crystal glasses of vintage Cabernet Sauvignon, trying not to trip over the elaborate Persian rugs in my stepfamily’s grand ballroom.

Around me, the cream of Seattle's high society chattered, laughed, and flashed teeth so white they practically glowed in the ambient light of the massive crystal chandeliers. They wore silk, diamonds, and smiles that cost more than my entire existence.

And then there was me.

I was dressed in a plain, stiff black server’s uniform that was two sizes too small, making it incredibly hard to breathe and my hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it felt as soon as I’d let it down, my hair would fall off.

I was nineteen, legally an adult, yet I was treated worse than the family’s dog. Actually, scratch that. The dog got premium organic steak. I got whatever leftovers Chloe didn’t throw on the floor for her own amusement.

“Hey. Orphan. Bring those over here.”

I didn't have to turn around to know who that screeching voice belonged to. Chloe Calloway, my stepsister. The golden child. The girl who had spent the last ten years making sure I knew exactly where I stood in the food chain: dead last.

I took a deep breath and turned around. “Of course, Chloe,” I said, keeping my voice sweet and entirely empty of emotion. It was a skill I’d spent a lifetime perfecting. Speak only when spoken to and never let anyone see the hurt and pain behind your eyes.

Chloe was standing with a group of her wealthy college friends, all of them looking at me like I was a particularly ugly bug they wanted to squish. She was wearing a sparkling silver dress that probably cost enough to pay my mother's hospital bills for a month.

“We're thirsty,” Chloe drawled, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair over her shoulder. “And you're moving like a snail. Honestly, does my father even pay you?”

No, he doesn't, I thought bitterly. I'm an unpaid slave.

“My apologies,” I said aloud. I stepped forward, carefully lowering the tray so she could take a glass.

But as I reached out, I saw the deliberate glint of malice in Chloe's blue eyes. Before I could react, she shifted her weight. Her designer silver heel shot out, hooking perfectly around my ankle.

My balance went instantly.

Time seemed to slow down. I tried to correct my footing, but the stiff shoes I was wearing had zero traction. The tray tilted and the heavy crystal glasses slid, colliding with a sickening clink, and then the entire tray flipped.

A dark, violent wave of red wine erupted through the air.

It didn't just spill. It launched itself. And unfortunately for me, its target was Mrs. Albright; the wife of Seattle’s most influential city councilman, and a woman known for having a temper that could rival a volcano.

The deep red Cabernet splashed directly across her pristine, cream-colored silk gown. It looked like a crime scene.

For a second, the entire ballroom went dead silent. The music seemed to stop. Every single pair of eyes in the room pivoted toward us.

“Oh my god!” Mrs. Albright shrieked, her voice reaching a pitch that could probably shatter all the windows within a three-mile radius. She looked down at her ruined dress, her face turning an angry, blotchy purple. “My dress! This is a custom Valentino! You clumsy, stupid little girl!”

“I am so sorry,” I began, dropping to my knees to pick up the shattered glass, my hands shaking. “It was an accident—”

“Get away from me!” Mrs. Albright hissed, kicking a piece of glass toward me. “Get this garbage out of my sight! Richard! Victoria! Is this the kind of staff you hire?!”

My stepmother, Victoria Calloway, materialized out of the crowd like a demon summoned from the depths of hell. Her face was a mask of horrified apology, but when her eyes locked onto me, I saw the raw, burning fury underneath.

“Oh, Eleanor, I am so, so incredibly sorry!” Victoria gasped, rushing over with silk napkins. “She is new... she is incredibly clumsy. I will have her dealt with immediately. Please, let me take you upstairs to change. I have a spare gown in my closet that would look divine on you.”

“She ruined my Valentino!” Mrs. Albright cried, but she let Victoria lead her away.

Before Victoria walked off, she grabbed my upper arm. Her fingernails dug so deeply into my skin I was sure they would leave crescent-shaped bruises. She hauled me to my feet with a strength that belied her fragile frame.

“Kitchen. Now,” she whispered, her voice like dry ice.

I didn't say a word. I kept my head down as she dragged me through the service doors, away from the whispering, judging crowd. The heavy doors swung shut behind us, cutting off the music.

The second we were inside the industrial kitchen, Victoria let go of my arm and spun around.

SLAP!

The force of her hand forced my head to the left. A sharp, burning heat exploded across my right cheek, and the metallic taste of blood quickly filled my mouth.

I didn't cry. I refused to give her the satisfaction. I just stood there, staring at the white tile floor, my cheek throbbing.

“You useless, pathetic whore’s brat,” Victoria hissed, her chest heaving. “You did that on purpose! You wanted to embarrass us! After everything we have done for you—letting you live under our roof, feeding you—you dare to ruin our most important night?!”

“Chloe tripped me,” I said quietly, my voice cracking slightly.

“Do not lie to me!” Victoria roared, raising her hand again. I didn't flinch. I just stared at her. She slowly lowered her hand, her eyes filled with pure disgust. “You are just like your mother. A cheap, home-wrecking parasite. You are an embarrassment to this family, Taylor. I wish Richard had left you in the gutter where you belong.”

Every word was a poisoned dart, but I had built a shield around my heart a long time ago. Before Victoria could say anything else, the kitchen doors pushed open. My father's personal assistant, Marcus, stepped in. He looked at me, then at Victoria, his face completely expressionless.

“Madam Calloway,” Marcus said smoothly. “Mr. Calloway requires Taylor's presence in the private parlor immediately.”

Victoria smoothed down her dress, her angry expression instantly vanishing behind her fake, high-society mask. “Of course. Take her. Wash her face first, Marcus. She looks like a monster.”

Marcus nodded and gestured for me to follow him. I walked over to the industrial sink, splashed cold water on my burning face, and wiped the blood from my lip with a paper towel. My right cheek was already turning a dark, puffy red.

I followed Marcus down the long, quiet hallway of the estate, away from the party where the air grew colder, more oppressive. We stopped in front of the double mahogany doors of the private parlor, which worked as my father’s personal sanctuary.

Marcus knocked once, then opened the door. “She's here, sir.”

I stepped into the room. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey. My father, Richard Calloway, was standing by the fireplace, looking incredibly stressed. Chloe was sitting on the leather sofa, a smug, triumphant smirk plastered across her face.

But my breath caught in my throat, and my entire body froze when I saw the man sitting in the large leather armchair in the corner of the room.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit. His dark hair was styled back, revealing a jawline so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. His pale blue eyes were fixed on a glass of whiskey in his hand, his long, elegant fingers wrapping around the expensive cup.

Liam Hargrove.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

No. No, no, no. Why was he here? Why was he in my father's parlor?

My mind flashed back to six months ago. The charity gala. The garden. The sweet taste of cheap wine, the gentle warmth of his hands, and the way he had looked at me like I was the only person in his world. I had spent one blurry, beautiful night in his bed, believing—foolishly—that maybe, just maybe, I had found a savior.

But he had never called. He had vanished, and I had returned to my prison soon after.

Slowly, as if sensing my gaze, Liam raised his head. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine.

There was no recognition in his gaze. No warmth. No memory of the girl he had held so closely that one night.

Instead, his eyes swept over my cheap, stained uniform, my swollen, red cheek, and my messy hair. His lips curled into a sneer of utter, absolute disgust. He looked at me as if I were a piece of trash that had drifted into his pristine world.

My pride, the only thing I had left, felt like it was being crushed beneath his very gaze.