The front heavy mahogany doors of the Harrington estate opened at precisely 4:30 PM. Ivy was in the grand foyer, balancing on a stepstool to polish the brass hardware on the primary chandelier

The basement staff quarters were cold and damp. The small window near the ceiling looked out onto the stone wall of the courtyard, letting in only a sliver of gray twilight.

Ivy sat on her narrow cot, her knees pulled up to her chest, wrapped in a thin wool blanket. The quiet was a luxury, but her mind was racing.

Daniel Harrington was dangerous. Not because he was cruel like his mother or petty like his sister, but because he saw her. In a house where survival meant being part of the wallpaper, being seen by the billionaire heir was a liability she couldn't afford.

A gentle knock sounded at her wooden door.

Ivy sat up, startled. "Who is it?"

The door pushed open slowly. Raymond Harrington, Daniel’s father, stepped inside. He looked weary, his tie loosened, holding a small brown paper bag.

"Mr. Harrington," Ivy said quickly, standing up. "Is something wrong upstairs?"

"No, Ivy. Sit down, please," Raymond said kindly. He set the paper bag on her bedside table. "Chef made turkey sandwiches for dinner. I noticed you didn't come up to the kitchen staff line."

Ivy swallowed hard. "I... Mr. Daniel told me to take the afternoon off."

Raymond sighed, a small, tired smile touching his lips. "Yes. My son has a way of throwing a wrench into his mother’s machinery the second he steps into a room. He always was like his grandfather—uninterested in snobbery."

Raymond pulled out the single wooden chair in the room and sat down heavily.

"Ivy," Raymond said gently, "I know my wife and daughter make your life difficult here."

"I'm grateful for the job, sir," Ivy said automatically. "It pays for my board."

"It's not enough," Raymond said softly. "I saw the deduction Stella made on your pay slip. It was wrong. My wife has grown... bitter over the years. She measures her worth by what she can control, because she knows she never controlled me, and she certainly doesn't control Daniel."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, setting it next to the sandwiches.

"This is the hundred dollars Stella took, plus a little extra for your travel expenses if you ever decide to look for work elsewhere," Raymond said. "I won't blame you if you leave."

Ivy looked at the envelope. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "Mr. Harrington, I can't take your money."

"It’s not my money, Ivy," Raymond said softly. "It’s what you earned. You're a good girl. You remind me of my sister before she passed—quiet, but with a spine made of forged iron."

Before Ivy could answer, footsteps clicked rapidly down the basement corridor.

Diane stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, a sneer plastered across her face. "Well, well. Look at this. The master of the house delivering secret envelopes to the pretty maid in her bedroom."

Raymond stood up instantly, his face darkening. "Watch your tongue, Diane."

"Does Mom know you're down here handing out cash to the help?" Diane taunted. "Or should I go upstairs and tell her?"

"I am giving Ivy her earned wages, which your mother illegally withheld," Raymond said coldly. "Go back upstairs, Diane."

Diane looked at Ivy with pure, unfiltered venom. "You think you're clever, don't you? First you charm Daniel in the street, now you have my father wrapping you in cotton wool. You won't last a month in this house, Carter. I'll make sure of it."

Diane spun on her heel and stormed back up the stairs.

Raymond closed his eyes, letting out a long, heavy breath. He looked at Ivy with deep apology. "I am so sorry, Ivy."

"It's okay, sir," Ivy whispered, though her stomach twisted into a hard knot.