—The floor doesn’t matter, Maya.
Lucas didn’t stop in the foyer. He walked straight to the main kitchen. It was the warmest place in the house.
She entered the spacious, modern kitchen. It was empty. Elena was probably in her bedroom, basking in her victory, or perhaps in the TV room, unaware that her reign had just ended.
Lucas gently placed Maya on one of the high chairs on the central island.
“Stay here,” he ordered, but this time his tone wasn’t commanding, but concerned. “I’ll get towels and the first-aid kit. Don’t move.”
Maya sat there, wrapped in the boss’s enormous sack, looking around as if she’d landed on another planet. Her hand ached, her whole body ached, but for the first time in hours, she felt something more than just cold. She felt a tiny spark of hope.
Lucas returned in less than a minute with a bunch of fluffy white towels and a first aid kit.
“Give me your hand,” he said, pulling a stool to sit opposite her.
Maya extended her injured hand. Lucas took it with a gentleness that belied his large, strong hands. He cleaned the blood and mud with an antiseptic gauze. Maya winced in pain, but didn’t complain.
“It burns, I know,” Lucas said, gently blowing on the wound. “I’m sorry. It was my fault you fell. I was the one who scared you.”
—No, sir… I should have noticed…
“No.” Lucas looked up, meeting her gaze. Their faces were inches apart. “Don’t apologize for my stupidity. I yelled at you without knowing. I judged you without asking. My mother…”
His voice cracked slightly as he mentioned the woman whose vase had started all this. “…my mother always said you shouldn’t judge anyone without having walked in their shoes. And today, I failed you, and I failed her.”
Maya stared at him, stunned. Never, in the two years she’d worked there, had she heard Mr. Lucas apologize to anyone. Not to his business partners, not to his girlfriends, and certainly not to the staff.
Lucas finished bandaging his hand. The bandage was clean and professional.
-Better?
—Yes, sir. Thank you.
Lucas stood up and went to the stove. He turned on the kettle.
“You’re going to have some hot tea. And then you’re going to eat something decent, not that cold rice. And then…” Lucas turned, and his expression hardened again, but this time the anger wasn’t directed at her. “Then we’re going to have a talk with Elena.”
At that moment, footsteps were heard in the hallway. Firm, rhythmic footsteps.
The kitchen door opened.
Elena entered, impeccably dressed as always. She stopped short at the sight: the master, drenched, his shirt clinging to his body, preparing tea. And the “little brat,” the maid she had banished, sitting at the main island, wearing the master’s jacket and being treated like an honored guest.
Elena’s eyes shifted from Lucas to Maya, and for the first time in years, her mask of perfection cracked.