Part 2Your Fake Angel Wears My Pearls

Three days later, I walked into the townhouse and found Faith on her knees in the living room, scrubbing the floor. She was using a white cashmere throw—the one I’d just brought back from Milan—as a rag.

"Ms. Blackwood!" she squeaked, jumping to her feet. She stood straight, clutching the soaked, ruined fabric. "You... you’re home early."

I looked at the throw. The cashmere was matted, dripping with floor cleaner.

"That throw," I said, my eyes meeting hers, "was five thousand Euros. I’ll be deducting that from your final paycheck."

Her face went pale, her lip trembling. "I didn't mean to... I just thought it looked soft, and I wanted the floors to be perfect for you..."

"Perfect?" I stepped into the room. "Faith, we have a closet full of professional cleaning supplies. You’ve been here three months. Don't tell me you haven't found them."

"I... I just want to be better..."

Her eyes started to well up, but there was a stubborn glint in them. "I know I’m not like you. I know I’m 'the help.' But you can't just use your luxury items to humiliate me because I’m poor!"

"Humiliate you?" I smiled. "Faith, if you break something, you pay for it. That’s a lesson they teach in kindergarten. Since when does being broke give you a license to be a thief?"

"I’m not a thief!"

She raised her voice, chin trembling like a cornered animal. "I’ll pay it back! I have a savings account. I have three thousand dollars... I’ve worked years for that."

She slammed a debit card onto the marble coffee table.

"I’ll pay you five hundred a month for the rest. I’ve calculated it. It’ll take me... thirteen years. But I’ll do it. I’ll work nights, I’ll take a second job—"

"Your math is off."

I picked up the card, spinning it between my fingers. "The McQueen dress is currently valued at nearly a million dollars. At five hundred a month, you’ll be paying me back for the next hundred and sixty years. And that’s before interest."

She froze.

"And this?" I tossed the card back onto the table. "Three thousand dollars? That wouldn't even cover the dry-cleaning bill for my rugs."

The tears finally fell, but she bit her lip, refusing to let out a sob. It was a masterclass in the "wronged-but-strong" archetype.

I was about to end the performance when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Greg rushed down, and the moment he saw Faith crying, his face twisted into a knot of fury.

"Evelyn! Again? You're still on this?"

"On this?" I gestured to the cashmere rag. "Greg, your 'loyal assistant' just used five-thousand-dollar cashmere to mop the floor. Asking for compensation isn't bullying—it’s basic accounting."

Greg looked at the ruined fabric, then at Faith’s neck. There was a faint, moon-shaped birthmark peeking out from her collar.

That birthmark was his twenty-year obsession.

When he was a kid, abandoned by his stepmother in a rough neighborhood for a few hours, a girl with that same mark had shared her sandwich with him. He’d convinced himself she was his "Guardian Angel." He’d only "found" Faith a few months ago.

"She doesn't know any better," Greg said, his voice softening as he looked at her. "You could just teach her instead of—"

"Why is it my job to raise your maid?" I snapped. "I pay her a salary to work, not to be my apprentice. This isn't a charity, Greg."

"You’re so cold," he hissed. "She’s had a hard life—"

"A hard life?" I laughed. "She’s making six figures to live in a mansion and ruin my clothes. That’s a dream life for most people."

I walked up to Faith, looking at her tear-stained face.

"Faith, if you want to be 'better,' stop talking and start paying. If you can't afford the lifestyle you’re destroying, stop touching things that don't belong to you."

She glared at me. The sadness was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated resentment.

"Ms. Blackwood," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I know you look down on me. You were born with everything. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for a scrap of dignity. But I’d rather die than beg for your mercy."

"Brava," I said, clapping slowly. "Then please, pack your bags and leave my house. As for the compensation... you’ll be hearing from my lawyers."

"Evelyn!" Greg pulled Faith behind him. "You’re really going to do this?"

I looked at them—the CEO and the 'Mistreated' Maid. A classic melodrama. "Greg, I’m giving you one last chance to be a businessman. Because if we go the legal route, intentional destruction of property at this value carries a prison sentence of three to seven years. Faith, do you want to see if the prison jumpsuits are made of cashmere?"

Faith turned ghost-white and grabbed Greg’s arm. "Sir... I don't want to go to jail..."

Greg stared at me, his eyes full of venom. "You’re a monster, Evelyn."

"And you’re a cliché." I checked my watch. "Five minutes. Both of you. Get out of my house."

I turned and walked upstairs, calling my estate manager to ensure they didn't "accidentally" pack any of my jewelry on their way out.