Chapter 1: From Valedictorian to Maid

I, who used to be the valedictorian back home, somehow found myself working as a maid in a wealthy estate that looked like it was plucked straight out of the Gilded Age—think something between Downton Abbey and The Great Gatsby, all marble, velvet, and secrets.

In my old life, I was the classic overachiever: color-coded planner, memorized every standardized test hack, always with a highlighter in hand. Now? I was busy polishing silverware and scrubbing marble floors under the glittering chandeliers of a mansion so old it practically reeked of musty halls and old money. It was that kind of place. The kind where you half expect to find a secret passage behind the library shelves, and the family dog has its own monogrammed bowl.

Other maids spent their days scheming to sneak into the young heir’s bedroom, but me? I was obsessed with making sure the young master actually picked up a book for once.

While everyone else plotted for a shot at the Whitaker fortune, I was the only one in the servants’ quarters with a stack of SAT practice books tucked under my mattress. Was I the only one still cramming for a future that might never come? I’d watch the other girls powder their noses and practice batting their lashes, while I made mental notes on how to sneak flashcards into the young master’s lunch tray.

Seriously, after eighteen years of grinding through AP classes and SAT bootcamps, trust me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to ace a test.

If they gave out gold medals for filling in Scantrons and surviving sleep-deprived cram sessions, I’d have a trophy case to rival the Whitaker wine cellar. And honestly? Sometimes I’d pause and think—if only academic hustle could buy me a way out. There’s a kind of muscle memory to test-taking, and my brain is wired for it—like a homing pigeon, but for multiple-choice questions.

Five years of prep courses, three years of mock tests—when the young master finally gets that Ivy League letter, that’s when I’d finally be free. That’s when I’d walk away from this mansion and get on with my own life.

Sometimes, when I’m dusting the grand staircase or folding those monogrammed Whitaker towels, I daydream about the day I’ll hand in my resignation. Maybe I’ll even frame my own acceptance letter and tack it to the wall of my tiny apartment. That’s the finish line I’m running toward.

But then, just when I think I’ve got it all figured out, the young master corners me in the hallway, eyes bloodshot, the scent of coffee and frustration clinging to him:

“You’ve tormented me all these years, and now you want to go torture someone else?”

He looked at me like I was the villain in his coming-of-age movie, all wounded pride and late-night existential crisis. His voice cracked—just a little—the way it does when someone’s been up all night, eyes gritty, staring at a textbook or the ceiling, dreading another round with me.

After I woke up in this strange, old-money world, I pretended to be sick in bed for three days. Was this even real?

The sheets were impossibly soft, but I just stared at the ornate plaster ceiling, counting the cracks and wondering if I’d stumbled into a bad episode of Downton Abbey or some Netflix period drama gone wrong. The air always smelled faintly of lemon polish and old paper, and every time the clock chimed, I jumped, half-expecting my mom to barge in and ask why I wasn’t up studying.

I just couldn’t accept that I—a legit valedictorian—had become nothing more than a lowly cleaning maid in the Whitaker estate. It didn’t seem possible. Not for someone like me.

I kept replaying my graduation speech in my head—the applause, the flash of cameras. It all felt like a cruel joke now. Instead of a cap and gown, I was stuck in a starched uniform, blending into the wallpaper. What was the point of all that effort?

On the fourth day, I dragged myself up and went to work.

My legs felt like lead, but Molly—my roommate—was already bustling around, humming some old tune. She pressed a cup of weak coffee into my hands. It tasted like dishwater, but I drank it anyway. Her eyes were full of worry and a little impatience. “Come on, Annie. We’ve got chores to do. No one’s going to wait around for you to feel better.”

It wasn’t because I’d come to terms with it, but because Molly told me if I didn’t get better soon, they’d ship me off for being a health risk.

Molly had a way of making things sound urgent, her voice dropping to a whisper whenever she mentioned the Whitakers. “Trust me, Annie. You don’t want to end up on the wrong side of Mrs. Whitaker. She’s got eyes everywhere.”

I swept floors for six months, just trying to get used to this place. Six months. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by then.

My hands grew rougher, but my mind wandered back to quadratic equations and essay prompts. The mansion was a labyrinth, every hallway echoing with secrets. Sometimes I’d catch myself pausing by the grand staircase, wondering how many generations had walked those steps before me.

One day, as I passed by, Graham Whitaker spotted me and drawled:

“This girl sweeps the floor every day, but her hands are still so soft.”

He said it with a lazy drawl, not even bothering to look up from his phone. But his words landed like a pebble in a pond—everyone within earshot turned to stare. For a split second, I felt like the center of a spotlight I never wanted.

Because of that one comment, the head maid, Clarice, set her sights on me.

Clarice was the kind of woman who could spot a wrinkle in your apron from across the room. She had sharp eyes, sharper nails, and a mean streak a mile wide. After Graham’s offhand remark, she started treating me like I’d stolen her favorite lipstick. Typical.

She’d already managed to get into the young master’s bed and thought of herself as his favorite. Or at least, that’s what she liked to believe. I tried not to think about it.

She strutted around the servants’ quarters with a smug little smile, dropping hints about her late-night “duties.” The other maids watched her with a mix of envy and fear, but I mostly just kept my head down, pretending not to notice. Let her have her little victories.

Sometimes she just yelled at me; other times, she slapped me. Each time, I wondered how much more I could take.

Her voice could cut through the din of the kitchen like a knife. Once, she boxed my ears so hard I saw stars. Another time, she caught me daydreaming and sent me scrubbing the back steps until my knuckles were raw. The humiliation stung almost as much as the pain.

Once, she even accused me of stealing her bracelet and jabbed my hand with a brooch, making it bleed all over the kitchen floor. I watched the blood drip, stunned.

The brooch left a crescent-shaped scar—a little reminder that even in a mansion, there’s nowhere to hide from mean girls. The kitchen staff fell silent as blood dripped onto the tiles. No one daring to meet my eyes.

My roommate Molly helped me bandage it and whispered:

“Sis, with Clarice treating you like this, why don’t you just play along? Go beg the young master, try to win him over—he’ll definitely feel sorry for you.”

Molly’s hands were gentle, her words laced with concern. She pressed a cool cloth to my wound and looked at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re smart, Annie. You’re smarter than any of us. Why not use it?”

“Look at everyone working here. Who doesn’t want to get ahead by getting close to the young master?”

She gestured around the cramped servant’s quarters, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not like we’ve got a lot of options.” I felt her resignation, heavy as a wet blanket.

I looked at my hands—the same hands that once scribbled through endless Scantrons—and thought, Molly’s got a point. I smiled:

“Molly, you’re right. There really are prospects with the young master!”

I let the words hang in the air, my tone light and teasing. But inside, I was already hatching a plan that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with textbooks and test scores.

The opportunity came quickly. The young master spent all his time fooling around with maids, and when his tutor saw his grades, it was a train wreck.

Rumors buzzed through the halls like flies at a summer picnic. The tutor’s face was so red, you’d think he’d swallowed a chili pepper. Everyone braced for the fallout, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That night, the estate was lit up like a Christmas tree. Mrs. Whitaker gathered all the staff in the great hall to witness Clarice’s punishment.

The great hall felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones. The maids lined up, eyes wide with dread, as Mrs. Whitaker swept in with all the gravity of a judge in a courtroom drama. My stomach twisted. Was I next?

Her face was icy:

“Shameless girl, you’ve led the young men astray.”