They Called Me Trash? Now I'll Hack Their World-Chapter 118: Agnes [2]

A maid moved through the manor’s eastern wing with mechanical efficiency, her hands working automatically while her mind wandered elsewhere.

She was polishing silverware in one of the smaller dining rooms. Tedious work, but quiet, which meant time to think without interruption. Each piece received the same careful attention.

Cloth wrapped around fingers, circular motions, checking for spots in the light streaming through the windows.

Three more weeks.

The thought repeated itself like a mantra.

Just three more weeks until Mother’s next treatment payment is due.

She could make it. She would make it. The physician said the treatment was working, that her mother’s condition had stabilized. Just needed to keep paying. Keep working. Keep her head down and survive until the next payment, and the one after that, and the one after that.

The rhythm was soothing. Polish, check, set aside. Polish, check, set aside.

Her reflection caught in a particularly clean fork. Distorted. Warped. Barely recognizable.

She looked away quickly.

Don’t think about it. Just work. Work is safe.

Then suddenly, footsteps approached from the corridor behind her.

"Agnes?"

She turned, straightening instinctively. Another maid stood in the doorway.

Clara, one of the senior staff, her expression neutral but her eyes holding something Agnes couldn’t quite read.

Curiosity, maybe. Or pity.

"The Duke has summoned you," Clara said. "There’s a guest in the east receiving room. The Duke wishes you to meet them."

Agnes felt the fork slip slightly in her fingers. She caught it before it fell.

Me?

"Did he say why?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt, which was something.

Clara shook her head. "Just that you’re to go immediately. Don’t keep him waiting."

Immediately.

Agnes nodded slowly, setting down the silverware with fingers that had started trembling. "Of course. Thank you, Clara."

Clara left without another word, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Agnes stood there alone in the dining room, staring at her distorted reflection in the silver she’d been polishing.

Why?

Guests didn’t meet with housemaids. Not unless something specific was needed. A personal attendant for their stay. Someone to run errands. Someone to—

Her stomach dropped, the bottom falling out of her world.

No.

She’d heard stories. Whispered conversations between the older servants late at night when they thought no one was listening.

About how some nobles offered their staff as hospitality to important visitors. A maid for the night. A servant to attend to "special needs." Entertainment for powerful men who expected certain luxuries when they traveled.

It happens in many noble households, they’d said. The great houses. The merchant lords. Places where servants were just another resource to be utilized.

But Duke Glimor was different, wasn’t he? Strict but fair. He’d stopped his own son from—

But she didn’t know that. Not really. She’d only been here recently. And the Duke who’d slapped Killian for cornering a servant might still offer that same servant to a guest if it meant securing a business deal or political alliance.

Powerful men did what they wanted. That was just how the world worked.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped bands around her ribs and was slowly tightening them. Her breathing came faster, shallower.

What if I refuse?

The thought came unbidden, desperate.

What if I just run? Leave the estate, disappear into the city, find work somewhere else?

But Killian’s threat echoed in her mind, clear and sharp: "I could tell Father you were stealing. He’d believe me."

They could ruin her. Blacklist her from other households. Have her arrested for theft she didn’t commit. And then what? No wages. No way to pay for Mother’s treatments. No way to—

Mother needs that medicine.

Her hands were shaking now as she started walking toward the guest wing. She pressed them against her dress, trying to stop the trembling, trying to smooth out the fabric and regain some semblance of composure.

Just breathe. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he needs someone to fetch something.

But her mind wouldn’t stop conjuring scenarios. A wealthy merchant who’d seen her in the corridors and asked specifically for her.

A visiting noble who expected certain services as part of his accommodations. Someone who’d heard she was new, vulnerable, easy to pressure.

Please. Please let it be something else. Anything else.

She climbed the stairs to the guest wing, each step feeling both too fast and too slow. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat. The familiar corridors suddenly felt foreign, threatening, like she was walking toward something she couldn’t come back from.

Other servants passed her in the hallways.

She reached the corridor leading to the receiving rooms. Her breathing had gone shallow again. There was sweat beading on her forehead now, cold and clammy.

A maid stood outside one of the doors. Young, maybe sixteen. She looked at Agnes with something like sympathy.

That made it worse somehow.

Agnes approached on legs that felt like they might give out at any moment. Each step required conscious effort.

Just survive whatever this is.

The young maid gave her a small, encouraging nod, then knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Male. Young.

Agnes’s vision seemed to narrow, tunneling. The door in front of her. The handle.

Then the young maid opened the door, stepping aside.

Agnes’s entire body felt like it might shatter. Her pulse hammered so hard in her throat she thought she might be sick. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, wouldn’t stop shaking.

Just go in. Just get it over with. Whatever it is, whatever he wants, just survive it. For Mother. You can survive anything for Mother.

She forced herself to step through the doorway.

The room was well-appointed. Expensive furniture arranged with careful precision, afternoon light streaming through tall windows that overlooked the gardens, a tea service sitting on the low table between two couches.

And sitting on one of those couches, looking directly at her with an expression she couldn’t immediately read was—

A young man.

Seventeen. Blonde hair that caught the sunlight. Blue eyes.

He was dressed simply but well. Handsome in an understated way that probably made noble girls look twice.

Her entire body tensed.

The young man stood.

Then he smiled.

"Been long, Agnes!"