Chapter 3 - The Lady of the Mountain
Verónica Salazar del Monte did not look like a monster. As she stepped into the basement light, she looked like an angel from a high-fashion magazine. She wore a floor-length robe of emerald-green silk, her long dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders, her skin glowing from expensive overnight creams. But her eyes were dead—two disks of cold, calculating flint that swept over the dark corners of the cellar with absolute suspicion.
Clara stepped out from the shadow of the boiler room, holding her damp cloth and a bottle of industrial surface cleaner she had grabbed from the shelf. She kept her head low, her shoulders hunched in the submissive posture Verónica demanded from the staff.
"Madame," Clara said, her voice trembling slightly, though she forced herself to maintain a tone of nervous apology. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. The drainage in the kitchen was backing up, and the head butler told me the main valves were down here. I wanted to clean the residue before breakfast."
Verónica stopped three steps from the bottom, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Clara. She didn't look at the maid's face; she looked at her hands, checking for anything out of place.
"The valves are managed by the maintenance crew, not by a simple scrub girl," Verónica said, her voice dropping into that quiet, venomous tone that made the entire staff walk on eggshells. "You have been in this house for less than a week, Clara. Already, I find you wandering into restricted areas in the middle of the night. Do you have a problem following simple instructions?"
"No, madame," Clara whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on Verónica’s green silk slippers. "I only wanted to ensure the mansion was perfect for Mr. Ricardo’s return tomorrow."
At the mention of her husband’s name, a subtle, ugly twitch passed over Verónica’s beautiful lips. She stepped down onto the concrete floor, the scent of her expensive French perfume fighting against the smell of dampness and lime. She walked slowly toward Clara, each step deliberate, until she was standing so close Clara could hear the soft rustle of her silk robe.
"My husband’s comfort is my concern, not yours," Verónica whispered, her breath smelling faintly of mint and cigarettes. She reached out, her long, manicured nail catching Clara beneath the chin, forcing the young maid to look up into her cold eyes. "You are here to clean the floors, serve the tea, and remain invisible. If I catch you down here again, I won't just fire you. I will ensure the police find some of my diamond earrings in your small attic room. Do you understand what happens to girls like you in the state penitentiary, Clara?"
The threat was explicit, cold, and entirely real. Clara knew that a woman with Verónica’s wealth could destroy her life with a single phone call. Her mother would die in her hospital bed without Clara’s salary to pay for the treatments.
"I understand, madame," Clara choked out, the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. "It won't happen again."
"Good," Verónica said, dropping her hand and wiping her finger on a silk handkerchief as if she had touched something diseased. "Now get out of my sight. Go to your room and stay there until six o'clock."
Clara hurried past her, her heart pounding, her legs feeling like lead as she climbed the stone stairs. She didn't look back, but she could feel Verónica’s eyes burning into her spine.
Verónica remained in the basement for several minutes after Clara left. Once she was certain the maid was gone, she walked slowly toward the back of the cellar, her silk robe dragging through the dust. She stopped in front of the reinforced steel door, her face twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.
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She tapped her knuckles against the small viewing window. "Still alive, old woman?" she sneered into the darkness. "Don't worry. Your son calls tonight from New York. I’ll tell him you’re enjoying the mountain air in Zurich. He sent another half a million dollars to your 'medical account' today. You’re proving to be quite a valuable asset, even in your old age."
Inside the dark cell, Doña Leonor didn't answer. She lay on her thin mattress, her hand pressed against the cold concrete wall where Clara had stood, a tiny, fragile spark of hope igniting in her chest for the first time in two years.
