If anyone asks, blame the maid. No one will question it.
A sound escaped the crowd — not quite a gasp, not quite disbelief, but something uglier.
The woman in the emerald gown went white.
The maid stopped breathing for a second.
Because no matter what defense came next, no matter what excuse, no matter how loudly someone shouted about misunderstanding or betrayal or panic, the truth was already standing in the center of the room. She had not just been accused. She had been chosen.
The owner stepped aside then, as though even he understood the next moment no longer belonged to him.
The young maid, still shaking, still tear-streaked, slowly lifted her eyes to the woman who had dragged her by the wrist and torn apart her bag in front of strangers.
And in a voice so broken it made the whole marble lobby feel suddenly small, she asked:
“You didn’t think I was guilty… did you?”
She swallowed.
“You just thought no one would care what happened to me.”
