Page 67 of The Silent Princess

“Twenty-two.”

“See? Predator. Plus, he’s like bajillion rich and you’re, well, no shame in being one, but a maid.”

“No, no, it’s not like that. I know he’s really rich and all, but we barely kissed. It’s…” I stop typing, hand on my mouth. Have I shared too much?

“You guys kissed!”

“Anja, if you’re going to lose it, I’ll stop telling you.”

“No, no, no, sorry. I’m just shocked, hon, really. You’re all shy and discreet. I didn’t expect you to bag a CEO, that’s all. If you tell me it’s legit, I believe you. I’m just worried. If you were my daughter… I just wish I could protect you, that’s all.” I squeeze her hand, grateful to have someone in my corner, checking on me.

“He’s very caring and patient. I’m having a hard time realizing anyone could be that nice to me,” I write.

“Don’t. You’re the kindest person I know.” A genuine smile crosses her face. “You deserve to be cherished. Hell, even I do, and I’m not as sweet as you, but still. We’re good women, Ella. Good women deserve to be cherished. If I had a beer, I’d drink to that!” We exchange a sisterly look, both of us so different yet held to the same hopes of being loved for who we are by trusted men. The doors open to the 31st floor, and Anja steps out. “Bye, boo,” she chants, posing like a model at the front of the runway before the doors close again. I manage a small laugh, appreciating how Anja manages to dig rays of sunshine even in the dark night. Back against the metallic wall, I close my eyes shut. Inhale. Exhale. He will be here tonight, after my shift. Which means that as of this moment, he is already either sleeping or…waiting for me. Tristan Ashford, CEO of the huge company, is waiting for me to finish cleaning so he can enjoy my company.

Surely, I am going to wake up one day and realize it was a dream. I close and unclose my hands, ignoring the heat of my palms as I scratch my nape. It will be okay. He said it on the phone when he called me, and I almost lost the ability to breathe. His voice, deep and rough, yet directed at me, making me feel it all the way to the ends of my toes.

And even if this day has been a roller coaster, he did manage to appease me and make it all better. Tonight, we will plan mine and Dad’s escape from Mara’s grasp. We will find a way together. He promised.

Removing my jean jacket, I lay it properly on the arm of the leather sofa in the lounge area, the floor dark if not for the dim orange light of the hall, making the ads and lights of other buildings pop as if I were in a snow globe, watching the world from a tiny window. I press on with the audiobook I managed to find for free on the platform, a whodunit, which is a change from my usual English Lit. I am trying to change things up, here and everywhere. For the first time in months, I am not only looking forward to finishing a job well done, as in seeing the satisfying before and after of cleaning and vacuuming and tidying every space, but tonight, I am almost rushing it. As if it could change the clock. Who am I kidding? It is not like he is watching me and will see the exact moment I am done. I did say one o’clock, so no matter what, I will have to wait, even if I am done sooner. Starting from the left corner of the floor to the right, I visualize how I intend to work tonight. Start with the mini kitchen, then the offices to the left and the two meeting rooms, then the lounge space, then the executive offices to the right, and I will finish with his office.

Not as a reward. More as a… Yeah. Okay. A reward. Because first, I am sure it will almost already be clean, and because I will get to step into his territory, his place of predilection, and maybe if I am perceptive enough, I will understand more of his world. Dusting and tidying everything, I try to focus on doing every space from the left corner up to the bottom right corner. A weird habit I have to make sure I have covered all places.

Room after room, I dust, wipe, and empty bins of paperwork. A bouquet sits in one of them: deep red roses on a desk above a frame of a woman and a man holding a newborn. She is blonde, mid-thirties, and they seem to be in a garden. I notice one drawer open, with multiple plastic containers inside, along with a mini fridge powered on next to her desk on the window side, visible only to her. Does it mean that she pumps her milk here? Observing the display, I wonder. Is Tristan a good boss? Or a tyrant? Does she have to hide to do that, or is she offered the best conditions to breastfeed in peace?

I have never imagined being close to someone of that status, and there is no wonder Tristan and I have different views of the world, but still, if he is not kind to those in need, then perhaps, perhaps we are too different to understand each other. How convenient it would be to get cold feet, uh? No, Ella, you know this is not him. He is a good person, ruthless in business perhaps, but good. Hence why there is a woman breastfeeding on his floor, and he offered to care not only for me but for Dad too. A tangle of webs takes place in my mind. If he were a villain, it would be easier.

I would not have to leave the house to believe in fairy tales. I would stay there, dusting, cleaning, trying to survive and make life more bearable for Dad. Mom used to say, when something is right, you can feel it. And I do. I really do. I deserve to be loved. Perhaps I didn't always think this way, but Tristan is opening possibilities for my heart to expand and beat loudly, unapologetically. Watching me like a woman, not some disabled girl who never left the state. When I am with him, I forget about my mutism, about my situation, and I can just close my eyes and…be. Isn’t it what I always read about in novels? The word is on the edge of my tongue, but I cannot say it, even in silence. Everything could change, but Tristan could also change his mind and leave me the way he found me. Alone and invisible. How can I trust him with my heart and dreams when no one has cared for me for so long?

Hours pass, and I do not even notice the stroke of midnight. Time really does fly, whether I am here or elsewhere. I step into the familiar scent of his office, the display less clinical and cold than I remember. As if knowing him has removed the wall between us. Perhaps he needs clarity because he spends his day sorting through business chaos and people pulling at him left and right. Perhaps this is how he needs things to be to get a clear mind. Once again, I try to spot places to clean, only to find that he, again, got someone else to do it so I would not have to clean his office. I am this close to striking the sole of my foot against the floor when I notice something on his desk. Did he leave a note for me? I move closer, darkness veiling it in shadow. A photograph. Why would it be there? Tristan is not one to forget something personal on his desk. I stop in my tracks. It’s…me. In black and white. Sitting on the bus with a red cross drawn in a sharpie over my face. My blood runs cold, and the cloth I had in my hand drops to the floor. What… How? The side of my forehead is resting against the glass as I look down, not seeing the person who captured me from the street while I was commuting to work or back home. I roll back my shoulders, then cross my arms, hugging myself.

Who would do that? We were so careful. One walk in the park when we did not know we could be more, and a few seconds on the street to enter the library. We were barely visible. Barely… Instinct kicks in, and I crouch down, roll back his chair, and hide under his desk, contorting myself like I do at home under my bed. The photo is still on the desk, clear as day. I’m a target. Someone is after me. Is it because of Mara? Or because Tristan and I appear to be close? Do I mean so much to him that targeting me could really hurt him?

Circling my knees with my arms, I rest the side of my face on top of them. If only I could disappear. Vanish. Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone? I could leave the bit of savings I have for Dad, and Tristan would… He would find someone else, richer, prettier, and I would perform the best service for everyone. Something from Dad’s drawer. Enough not to wake up again. That should do it, right? My hands shake, and I squeeze my eyes shut multiple times, praying for the universe to give me a sign. My existence hurts others, see? Someone is using it against Tristan. If that is not proof enough. I should just open a window, and everyone would thank me for it. No one would miss me. No one would even…

“Ella?”

Tristan’s voice pierce through my misery. Tears fall down my face as I try to steady my breathing, concealing the embarrassment of who I am, hiding under his desk. Steps come closer, fast at first, then slower once he reaches the desk. I hear him stop. A silence follows. He must have seen the photograph. Something rough leaves his throat, too low for me to understand.

“Ella? Where are you, sweetheart?” His voice carries a hint of fear, and because I cannot even whimper for him to hear, I grab his ankle, squeezing once, accepting the mortifying moment that is about to come. Please don’t laugh, Tristan. Please. Slowly, he kneels, taking in how I have managed to hide in here, sitting curled into a ball, surely with streams of mascara all around. “There you are,” he sighs, as if something had been choking him before finding me. “I thought…” He looks away. “Can I hold you?” he asks gently, yet his voice is dry as gravel. I nod, a single tear rolling down my cheek as he offers his arms, and I welcome them like the doors of heaven. Him. The sign sent from the universe, telling me to stay, silencing the broken record of my mind that keeps telling me to leave this world.

“I got you,” he murmurs against my ear, carrying me in his arms until he sits on the armchair by the chess set, me on his lap, hiding in the crook of his neck. “I got you,” he repeats again and again, and I wonder if he is trying to reassure me or himself.

Tristan

There is fear, and then there is terror. Those two, as similar as one could think they are, are not alike. Fear is looking over your shoulder when you walk into a luxurious hotel, having bodyguards at functions and a mechanic who checks your brakes every Monday sharp. Terror is being unable to see Ella on the cameras for more than two seconds after she approached my desk, as if she had vanished. The camera catches the chess set and the front half of the office, but my desk sits outside the clean angle, half swallowed by shadow. Once she moves behind it, the screen gives me nothing visible but a black rectangle mocking me on the surveillance screen.

Be patient, I told myself, as I watched her ever since she set foot in the main hall with her colleague, chuckling shyly in the elevator, then working tirelessly with, dare I say, dedication and perhaps a tiny portion of method that I would qualify as borderline perfectionist, but, well, on that end, I suppose we are not that different. I enjoyed watching her approach, moving from one corner to another as if the floor were lava and she had to spot every speck of dust until she was done with the room. She even spotted Alicia’s breastfeeding equipment, which I had replaced with the best on the market. I installed curtains and a Himalayan salt lamp too, which, according to my mother, was the best way to help her relax and pump for her baby whenever she pleased. When you have the best team, you treat them accordingly, and I will not have my people lacking anything. Especially not a mother. It is one of the things I insist on here. No matter their position, everyone should be able to go home at a decent hour and see their family. I don't need people sitting at their desks for appearances' sake, scrolling through social media while pretending to work. I need them sharp, efficient, and good at what they do. If they can deliver, I trust them to manage their time. Hence all the perks I allow my team. Gym. Free healthy food in the kitchen. No meetings past six. No work calls after working hours. The only exceptions are reserved for my closest collaborators, like Brenton, Matt, and Saoirse, who, I suspect, are far more nocturnal than the typical employee.

I have been watching Ella for two hours now from the IT floor, sitting in a not-so-comfortable squeaky chair, one I mentally note will need to be replaced. Midnight has come without a blink as I watch her, living effortlessly, like a ballerina, room to room, putting in the kind of effort only people who care would. Every movement of her waist, every time she runs a hand through her hair and puts it aside on her shoulder, catches me like lightning. My knees jump up and down as I fight myself not to disturb her peace. She asked me to wait for her, which is a first. I cannot remember the last time someone ever dared to do that. Only my Ella could. And I would wait no matter the length. Hungry and tired, I would wait nonetheless. Minutes pass, and I am more alert than after my first cup of coffee this morning. Something in the air is telling me to watch her, not to stalk, but to protect. As if she could disappear with a snap of my fingers. Just like that. My office, to my disappointment, is half-merged in the dark. My chess set is visible, yet my desk remains in shadow, and the camera can't capture anything past the middle of the room. Having hired someone else to clean it so she does not have to, I observe her as she inspects the obvious already-cleaned space. I hope it does not annoy her this time. But I will not have my…my… I will not have her do that.

She stands still, her back facing the camera. Is she holding something in her hand? The image isn't clear enough; all I can see is her taking one step and disappearing from the screen. Pulsing under my temples, I sense a shot of terror coursing through my shoulders. The same one I felt when I learned about my father’s death at juvie. I was not even there. Mother called, screaming for me to come home, and when I did, it was already too late. I could have almost mistaken it for sleep, if not for his lungs refusing to release air.

I was not there. Not for Nate. Not for our mother. I could not even hear, in his last breath, the things fathers are supposed to say to their eldest. Take care of this. Become that. An apology would have been unrealistic on his part, but despite the hatred and tangled admiration, I did not know what else to say but goodbye. But I am here now. To protect my family. To protect Ella. To be there and correct all that was wrong in the first place.

Closing the laptop, I rush out of the room, running to the stairs, taking them two by two. Thump. Thump. Thump. I catch the handle of the door opening to the thirty-second floor, almost slipping. Damn it, why are my palms so sweaty? It never happens, and I know what I’m talking about since I’m practically living in a constant state of stress. Maybe she is simply inspecting my bookshelves. She must be, right? Barging into my office, heaving, I go straight to the desk. A photograph is there. Ella, sitting on the bus, a red cross slashed over her face. For one brutal second, my body forgets how to breathe. Then I look around. Empty. Did she leave? Or did someone…

No.