Chapter 2: The Price of Survival

The rooms were separated by nothing more than a thin wall and a flimsy curtain. The laughter between your boss and his new companion soon turned into hushed whispers, then soft gasps, and finally to words so obscene they made your cheeks burn.

You pressed the pillow over your ears, but every sound bled through—the fragile drywall might as well have been tissue paper. You watched the ceiling fan spin, counted the seconds between her giggles, and wished for thunder or traffic or anything to drown them out. But in the still, humid night, all you had was the soundtrack of your own heartbreak.

You heard every sound, powerless to stop it, unable even to leave. Sometimes you pictured yourself running out the back door, suitcase swinging, but you knew better. Out there, the world was no kinder. Here, at least, you had a roof, a paycheck, and some faint illusion of security.

This wasn’t your time. The boss was the boss, and what he wanted was beyond your control. In America, even in the richest houses, the pecking order is rigid as church pews. You’d seen enough workplace dramas to know—around here, the first to speak up was usually the first out the door. You learned to keep your head down, hands busy, mouth shut. It was survival, not submission. You repeated that to yourself as the night wore on.

You didn’t last long enough for a well-bred young woman to show up and compete for his affections, nor did you manage to run away with a secret pregnancy, forcing him to realize his feelings for you. You lost to another maid—just another live-in.

You half-expected some dramatic showdown—a doorstep confrontation, a teary monologue under the porch light. Instead, it was all so ordinary, so American: a rotation, a quiet shuffling of who did the laundry, who poured the coffee, who warmed the bed. There were no duels, no honor to defend, just another day on the clock.

You were delicate and refined; she was fair and curvy. Each of you had your own charms, but she won simply because she was new. Soon enough, someone newer would surpass her. You would never be the only one, never special, and as time passed and you aged, you’d have nothing left to bargain with.

You stood in the staff bathroom, tracing the lines of your face in the mirror, wondering when your shine would fade, how long until you were invisible even to yourself. You began to notice every wrinkle, every shadow beneath your eyes—a silent countdown to being replaced.

No matter the era, people always crave novelty, don’t they? Especially those like your boss, who have choices—so many choices. You thought of the dating apps you’d heard about, all those endless swipes for something better. The boss, for all his privilege, was no different than a guy at a bar scrolling through faces, always searching for the next thrill.

You stayed up all night, steeled yourself, and on the second and third days, continued to serve your boss as if nothing had changed. You practiced your smile in the silverware, poured his coffee with steady hands, and listened to his small talk about sports and school as if the world hadn’t shifted under your feet. In the servant’s quarters, you learned to swallow your pride with your morning cereal.

But when he occasionally reached for your hand, you no longer responded eagerly. You let his fingers brush yours and then busied yourself with folding towels or dusting picture frames. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, you found a bitter sort of comfort in withholding what little was yours.

After all, every beautiful maid in this house belonged to him. If you withheld yourself, he wouldn’t be angry—he’d simply choose someone else. It was like living on a reality show where the winner got a rose and everyone else went home. Only here, nobody left—you just faded to the background, another extra in the ongoing drama.

One day, he pulled another maid into his room in broad daylight. You found a legitimate excuse to visit Mrs. Caldwell, the lady of the house. You checked the flower arrangements and asked about the dinner menu—anything to be out of earshot. You made sure your absence was both noted and justifiable, never risking the wrath that came with neglecting your duties.

After finishing your business, you casually remarked that the boss had grown up and was now an adult, but seemed to lack self-control lately. You said it while stacking linens, tone light as if sharing gossip about someone else’s child. But you watched Mrs. Caldwell’s eyes narrow, her manicured fingers tightening around her tea cup. In this house, a whisper could tip the scales.

Mrs. Caldwell’s gaze sharpened. Her eyes narrowed, the diamond on her wedding ring flashing in the lamplight. You felt the chill in her stare, a warning as cold as an air-conditioned church basement in July. You braced for the fallout, knowing you’d crossed some invisible line.

You added, ever so thoughtfully, that perhaps this was just a phase, and after the novelty wore off, the boss would settle down and focus on his studies. You tried to backpedal, your voice softening, but the words hung heavy in the parlor—too late to take them back. You fiddled with your apron, wishing you’d kept your mouth shut.

But Mrs. Caldwell grew angry. Her voice cut sharp and clear, like a judge’s gavel. The genteel Southern drawl slipped, replaced by something steelier. You felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Boys who can’t keep themselves in check end up in trouble, you mark my words. That’s not something I’ll just let slide."

Her words had the weight of a family legacy. You pictured the portraits of ancestors lining the hall, all judging, all expecting better from their heirs.

She summoned Mrs. Walker, her trusted housekeeper from her own family, and ordered her to check the boss’s rooms to see which girls were leading him astray, making a good young man neglect his studies and spend his days tangled up with women.

The call went out fast, like a fire alarm. Within an hour, Mrs. Walker was inspecting rooms, her notebook snapping shut with every infraction. The staff buzzed with rumors—no one wanted to be the one called out, least of all you.

You knelt in terror, blaming your loose tongue, head bowed and apologizing over and over. Your knees ached against the hardwood, your heart hammering like a trapped bird. You spoke quickly, hoping your humility would buy forgiveness. The taste of regret was bitter on your tongue.

You didn’t dare look at Mrs. Caldwell’s face, but you knew: from this day on, all the attractive maids in the boss’s rooms would be let go. Those left would be either plain or worn out.

You heard the whispered verdict in the hallways before you saw it carried out. One by one, the pretty girls packed their bags, eyes downcast, no one daring to say goodbye. You felt the relief of survival and the guilt of betrayal, both weighing you down.

You, by comparison, looked almost ethereal. Mrs. Caldwell believed you were honest, so she allowed only you to serve the boss closely. Your good-girl routine had paid off, but now you were alone at the top. You felt the isolation of the favored, the way every other servant watched you with a mix of envy and suspicion. It was a lonely crown.

Now, the boss had only you. There was no one else to distract him, no other laughter bleeding through thin walls. You felt his gaze linger on you more often, the heat of his need and frustration barely contained.