The door closed behind him. Silence filled the room. “You don’t look like a nice,” Michael said at last.
“I’m not,” Amora replied gently. I’m here to help with cleaning and cooking. He stutied her.
Are you afraid of me? She lifted her head. No, sir. He raised an eyebrow.
Everyone is. Amore gave a faint smile. I’ve seen pain, sir. I know what it looks like.
You’re not someone to be afraid of. For the first time in months, Michael chuckled.
Just a small one, but it was real. He looked at her closely. There was something honest about her, something different.
You’ll stay in the back quarters, he said. There’s a small room there. My meals must be served on time.
The house must stay clean. And don’t go around taking pictures or poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
I understand. So, if my wife gives you instructions, obey her. Amora nodded, though she noticed pain in his voice when he mentioned his wife.
He looked away. That will be all. Amara left quietly and was shown to her room behind the house.
It was small but clean. A bed, a fan, and a wardrobe. It was more than she had ever owned.
She dropped her bag and sat down, releasing a long breath. Later that evening, she went to the kitchen to cook dinner.
In the living room, she saw Ruth, Michael’s wife, scrolling through her phone. Ruth looked like a model.
Long nails, heavy makeup, designer clothes. But the look she gave Amara was full of disgust.
So you the maid? Ruth asked. Yes, ma. Clean the master bedroom twice a day, Ruth said sharply.
If I see dust, you out. Yes, ma. And don’t get comfortable, Ruth added. My husband is sick, not stupid.
I know how girls like you behave. Amara blinked. I’m just here to work. Ma Ruth didn’t reply.
She stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Amara swallowed her pride and continued cooking.
