Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
The rich powerful men I work for never associate with the help, so I’m shocked when the latest resident of Myasnikov notices me, and even more astounded that he pays enough attention to decipher that my stutter is a fear-based reaction.
Arkadiy Orlov is the epitome of wealth and power. He’s politically successful, handsome, and has the funds to buy anything he wants.
Except the wife his campaign manager insists he needs to reach the top of the political ladder he’s been climbing for the past two decades.
I could have been the Cinderella of his story if our dark pasts hadn’t collided with dire consequences.
Our union could destroy Ark’s campaign for presidency before it even begins. But with our attraction hotter than the inferno we barely survived in our childhoods, will we risk everything for the chance of love?
Or are not all fairytales meant to have a happy ending?
Arkadiy
My life was meticulously planned. Individual success in the private sector, wealth beyond imagination, and then the ultimate power—domination of the political world.
Then I saw her, the maid with a stutter and a bucket load of secrets in her pretty eyes.
There was something about Mara that drew me to her. I feared it was because a victim knows a victim, but I could have never predicted the similarities of our childhoods.
We faced the same pain, endured the same heartache, but Mara’s life proves that not all secrets need to be shared.
Sometimes burying them is the only way you can move past them—both physically and mentally.
Please note: although this is book three in the marital privilege series, it can be read as a complete standalone.
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1
MARA
My fingers clutch stiff bedding when a door creaking open reaches my ears. I glance up as multiple footsteps clatter over expensive oak floorboards, catch a glimpse of a gold cufflink, and then shift my focus back to the task at hand.
My job isn’t to pry into the lives of the wealthy residents who call the Chrysler building home. I am here to wash the sheets, clean the toilets, and only be seen when summoned.
Rarely does the summoning come from the people wearing designer labels and tailored suits. They’d never associate with the “help.” They bark their orders at my supervisor, who then passes them on to me for far less than the exorbitant fee charged by the company responsible for maintaining and cleaning the apartments in the most sought-after building in Myasnikov.
A turndown service is the reason for two hours of overtime this evening. It doesn’t take two hours to turn down sheets and fluff pillows. The “help” hadn’t serviced this apartment in over three years, so the floors needed vacuuming, and the opulent, larger-than-my-apartment bathrooms required restocking.
I could have sworn I overheard Mrs. Whitten telling my supervisor that the building’s latest short-stay tenant wasn’t arriving until late this evening. It’s not even seven. Surely they’re not early. I’ve yet to meet a rich person who isn’t chasing their tail.
Curious, I take a second glance at the trio entering the suite from the far entrance. The apartments in the Chrysler building are large enough to require multiple entry points. Only owners and guests may use the main entrance. The rest use the servants’ entrances and corridors wedged between priceless paintings and opulence most can only dream of achieving.
Mrs. Whitten, the building supervisor, leads the procession with such animated gestures that she resembles a headless chicken moments from being dunked into a pot. She is slim and a few decades older than me and has a sharp wit and intelligence. I like her, though I doubt she knows who I am.
I am an expert at remaining hidden. No one pays attention to me, not even the stout man with a thick mustache who tosses his bag onto the bedding I recently straightened before he unbuttons his trousers like he is without an audience.
Mrs. Whitten dips her chin in appreciation when I silently move toward the servants’ entrance. She often says she wants her guests to feel at home while under her roof. The unnamed man looks ready to do just that.
Once I reach the safety of the alcove, I fumble for the EarPods in my pocket. They were a gift from Mr. Whitten. They were dusty enough to show they weren’t new, but they’ve made my commute home far less boring over the past month, and for that, I am forever grateful.
With my head down, I breeze into the employee locker room, grab my gym bag from its hiding spot, and make a beeline for the shower block. I don’t usually change out of my maid’s outfit at the end of my shift, but today is different because it’s Tillie’s tenth birthday.
I promised to meet her and Mrs. Lichard at the bowling alley at 7:30 p.m. sharp. The bus trip home will eat into time I don’t have. My schedule is always tight, but it’s even tighter this week.
The unisex bathroom is quiet. Only the chefs and lead housemaids remain on the premises at this hour. They’re allowed access to the upper levels after hours and take full advantage once their coworkers leave.
While the latest hit from Måneskin blasts my ears, I dump my bag onto an ancient bench inside a wall-less shower cubicle and strip.
Everything in this building is antique, including the radiators. It takes forever for the water to heat up. Since I’m in a hurry, I opt for a deodorant bath instead of drenching my hair as my pounding temples are begging.
In seconds, I smell like one of the women who stand on the corners in my half of Myasnikov late at night, hoping for their Pretty Woman moment. My hoop earrings are cheap, as is the comb I hurriedly rip through my hair, but they add a touch of sophistication to my outfit. They make it look more like a date ensemble than a mom hoping the blowout-budget present she bought will keep her off her daughter’s shitlist for being late to her first and likely last birthday party.
I’m not dressing up with the hope of securing a date. That ship sailed not long after I gave birth. Barely sixteen with a baby in tow doesn’t attract many suitors, and the rare few who assumed my child meant our date would end with more than a kiss never made it past the first course.
I am merely hoping a little glam and a flirty smile will lower the bill of a birthday party for ten of Tillie’s closest friends. I didn’t consider how inflated non-luxury items had become in the past few years. I wouldn’t have suggested a bowling party if I knew it would cost fifty dollars per guest to knock down some pins.