“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said softly, brushing a curl from her damp forehead. “You look beautiful. Your mom would’ve loved this dress.”
Her eyes filled instantly at the mention of her late mother, a grief still raw despite the years.
Before she could respond, heels clicked sharply against marble.
“Elena,” a voice snapped, crisp and venomously sweet. “What are you doing hiding like a sulky child?”
Natalie Cross emerged from the crowd like a perfectly curated magazine spread come to life, her blush-colored gown hugging her frame flawlessly, hair slicked back into a punishing bun, her smile thin and performative, eyes flicking briefly toward the guests before settling on Elena with open disdain.
“Don’t cling to staff,” Natalie continued coolly. “It’s embarrassing. You’re a Langford. Stand up straight.”
Elena shrank.
I felt something dark coil in my stomach.
I had worked in this house since the day Grant Langford returned from the hospital with a newborn and hollow eyes, a billionaire real estate mogul reduced to a widower who couldn’t bring himself to hold his daughter without fear of breaking her, and I had been the one who warmed bottles at dawn, soothed night terrors, learned every allergy, every fear, every tiny joy.
Natalie Cross, however, had arrived only nine months ago, carried in on glossy headlines and social media buzz, a “philanthropic lifestyle influencer” whose online persona was kindness itself, though behind closed doors she regarded Elena not as a child, but as a complication.
“Elena spilled juice on herself,” Natalie said quietly, lips barely moving as she leaned toward me. “She cried. She disrupted the atmosphere. Remove her.”
