Chapter 2: The Stepmother's Reign
The next morning, the mansion was cloaked in an uneasy silence. Daniel had called early, stating his meetings in New York were extended by another forty-eight hours. To the outside world, he was a captain of industry, a visionary billionaire. To his daughters, he was becoming a ghost who lived inside a telephone screen.
Victoria sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, sipping her black coffee. She wore a tailored cream-colored suit, not a single hair out of place. Her expression was a mask of aristocratic serenity. Lily and Rosie sat opposite each other, staring down at their bowls of plain oatmeal. Under Victoria's regime, sugar was strictly forbidden, deemed a "toxin that breeds undisciplined minds."
“Lily,” Victoria said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “You didn't finish your practicing yesterday. The piano instructor informed me that your scales were sloppy.”
“I was tired, Victoria,” Lily said quietly, keeping her eyes down. She had stopped calling her 'Mother' weeks ago, a small rebellion that Victoria punished with icy glares and extra chores.
“Tiredness is a luxury of the weak, Lily,” Victoria replied, setting her porcelain cup down with a soft clink. “In this family, we strive for excellence. Your father expects it. I expect it. And you, Rosie,” she turned her cold blue eyes onto the seven-year-old, who visibly flinched. “Margaret tells me you were out of bed after nine o'clock last night. Is this true?”
Rosie looked terrified, her eyes darting toward the kitchen door where Margaret was preparing the lunchboxes. “My… my tummy hurt,” she whispered.
Victoria sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. “A weak stomach comes from a weak mind. You are manipulating the staff for attention, Rosie. It’s an ugly trait. As a consequence for your rule-breaking, and for Lily's lack of focus, you both will assist Margaret with the deep cleaning of the estate storage after school today.”
Margaret stepped out of the kitchen, unable to stay silent. “Madam, with all due respect, the girls have a heavy load of homework today, and Rosie has been feeling unwell. The storage room is damp and—”
“Margaret,” Victoria interrupted, her voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously sharp. “Do not presume to dictate how I raise my stepdaughters. You are here to clean and cook, not to offer pedagogical advice. If you find your workload too heavy to supervise them, I can easily find an agency that provides more… compliant help.”
It was a veiled threat, one Victoria used frequently. She knew Margaret loved the girls like her own grandchildren, and she knew Margaret stayed only to protect them. If Margaret were fired, the girls would be entirely isolated.
Margaret swallowed her pride, bowing her head. “Yes, Madam.”
When the girls returned from school that afternoon, there was no time for play, no time for laughter. Victoria met them at the door, her face set in a stern expression. In her hand, she held a checklist.
“The copper and brass pots from the historical display kitchen,” Victoria announced, pointing toward the old, basement-level scullery that hadn't been used since the early 1900s. “There are fifty of them. They have accumulated tarnish. You two will scrub them by hand until they shine. No mechanical buffers. No shortcuts. Margaret will supervise, but she is not to lift a finger to help you. If they are not completed by tonight, there will be no weekend privileges.”
Lily’s jaw clenched. “Fifty pots? Victoria, that will take hours! Rosie is only seven!”
“Then I suggest you start immediately, rather than wasting your breath on complaints,” Victoria said coldly, turning on her heel and walking away, her high heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor.
The old scullery was cold, dark, and smelled of dust and old stone. Fifty heavy, tarnished copper pots sat on a long wooden table. They were blackened with age, thick with layers of grime. For a grown adult, scrubbing them would be backbreaking work. For two young girls, it was a cruel, grueling punishment designed to break their spirits.
“It’s okay, Lily,” Rosie said, a tear slipping down her cheek as she picked up a heavy sponge. “We can do it. I don’t want Victoria to get mad again.”
“Don't cry, Rosie,” Lily said, her voice suddenly fierce. She took a sponge and dipped it into the bucket of soapy water. “We don't cry in front of her. Ever.”
Margaret stood by the doorway, her heart breaking into pieces. She wanted to grab the sponges from their hands, to do the work for them, but she knew Victoria’s spies—the security cameras that had recently been installed in the hallways—were everywhere. If she was caught helping, Victoria would use it as an excuse to banish her from the property permanently.
Instead, Margaret did what she could. She brought them stools to sit on, snuck them pieces of apple and cheese when she was sure no one was looking, and sang old lullabies that Emily used to sing, trying to drown out the scraping sound of steel wool against copper.
As the hours dragged on, the girls’ hands grew red, raw, and cramped. Rosie’s small shoulders shook with exhaustion, but she kept scrubbing, terrified of the consequences of stopping. Lily’s hands were bleeding slightly from a harsh edge of a copper handle, but her eyes remained burning with a quiet, dangerous anger.
While the girls worked, Margaret’s mind raced. She kept thinking about the woman Lily had seen, and the figure she herself had witnessed stepping out of the SUV. There was a mystery unfolding in this house, a dark secret that Victoria was keeping.
Around eight in the evening, Victoria walked down into the scullery to inspect their progress. She wore a pristine white silk blouse, contrasting sharply with the grime and dirt that covered the girls. She looked over the thirty pots they had managed to clean. They were shiny, reflecting the harsh overhead light, but twenty pots still remained untouched.
“Incomplete,” Victoria declared, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “I told you, fifty pots. Clearly, you lack the work ethic required. You will finish these tomorrow night. And as for tonight, you will go to bed without dinner.”
“They haven’t eaten since noon!” Margaret snapped, finally losing her composure. “You cannot starve children, Victoria! This is abuse!”
Victoria turned on Margaret, her eyes flashing with malice. “Watch your tongue, old woman. Another word from you, and you will be packed and out on the street before midnight. As for the girls, they are learning accountability. A missed meal will remind them of the importance of efficiency.”
Lily stood up, stepping in front of her little sister. She looked Victoria dead in the eye. “You think you’re smart, Victoria. But we know. We know you’re hiding something. We know about the woman.”
Victoria’s face went completely pale. The arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness. For a fraction of a second, raw fear flashed in her eyes. “What nonsense are you talking about?”
“The woman in Dad’s office,” Lily said defiantly. “The one who smells like your perfume. She was here.”
Victoria lunged forward, grabbing Lily by the upper arm, her manicured nails digging into the girl's skin. “You are a liars! Both of you! You are trying to sabotage my marriage! If you ever speak a word of this fabrication to your father, I will make sure you are sent away to a boarding school in Europe where you will never see him again! Do you understand me?”
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“Let go of her!” Margaret cried, stepping between them and forcing Victoria to release her grip.
Victoria smoothed down her silk blouse, breathing heavily, though she quickly forced her aristocratic composure back into place. “Get them to bed,” she commanded coldly. “And remember what I said. One word to Daniel, and you are gone.”
