The Woman on the Marble Floor

The ballroom was built to make people look smaller.
Crystal chandeliers hung over the Veyron Foundation gala, throwing white light across marble floors, champagne towers, and faces trained to hide every ugly thought behind a smile.
At the center of it all, Margaret Hale knelt beside a fallen tray.
Her gray service jacket was damp at the sleeve. One glass had shattered near her hand. She kept her head lowered, not because she was guilty, but because every guest in the room had been taught that a servant's shame was entertainment.
Celeste Veyron stood above her in a champagne satin gown, one hand wrapped around a crystal flute.
She did not look angry.
That made it worse.
She looked amused.
"Clean it properly," Celeste said, her voice soft enough for the guests to lean closer. "This is what happens when people forget where they belong."
A few people laughed.
Margaret reached for a cloth with trembling fingers.
Then the ballroom doors opened, and Julian Veyron walked in wearing a black tuxedo and the kind of silence that stopped music before anyone touched the piano.