In the vast halls of the Summers-Ford estate, tension hung thicker than Adelle's eyeliner on a bad day.
The maids had developed a complex system of hand signals—borrowed from military documentaries—to communicate whether it was safe to walk past Ava's wing. The butlers wore the expression of war veterans. Even the gardener had started trimming hedges into broken heart shapes without realizing it.
In the kitchen, Head Chef Pierre slammed a pan down. "Ze Lord did not eat 'is croissants again," he barked in despair. "He is spiraling! I baked zem fresh! Flaky! Golden like his ego!"
"The Lady requested her tea with extra honey," the tea maid whispered behind her palm. "Extra. Honey. She's coping with sweetness."
Meanwhile, the laundry room became a gossip bunker.
"I heard Lady Ava's going to meet Shen again," one maid whispered while folding Zach's shirts with theatrical sighs. "He probably starches them himself, that stiff man."
