“Start upstairs,” she said crisply. “And don’t touch the jewelry box on my vanity. The last cleaner nearly got fired over that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I cleaned in silence, moving through rooms that gleamed like a showroom but felt as lifeless as a mausoleum. Every inch of Diane’s house screamed wealth, but it was the kind of wealth that covered rot.
Halfway through polishing a mirror, her voice carried down the hall. “Yes, Richard, of course the fundraiser is still on,” she said into the phone, her tone dripping with performative charm.
A pause. “Well, if we don’t host it, who will? Not everyone can afford to be generous.” Then came that laugh that made my stomach twist. Her reflection caught mine in the mirror for a moment. She smiled at herself, smoothing her blouse, then turned away.
The following Friday, I came back. Then the one after that. Week after week, I returned to the same pristine house. Diane never once said thank you. But she loved to talk. Most of it was about herself. She couldn’t stop talking about her charity work, her circle of “important” friends, and her flawless taste.
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