In the center of the marble foyer, Mrs. Carmichael, the woman who had raised him like her own son, knelt on the floor scrubbing the tiles with a rag. Her gray hair was tied back hastily, clothes damp, hands raw and trembling.
A few feet away, in the living room, stood his fiancée—Isabella Carrington—arms crossed, eyes sharp, barking orders like she owned the place.
“No, no, no!” Isabella snapped. “Again! You missed a spot. Honestly, how hard is it to follow instructions?”
Mrs. Carmichael flinched but did not lift her head.
Lucas’s chest tightened. “What… is happening here?” he asked softly.
Isabella turned, annoyed. “Oh, Lucas. Finally noticing. Your housekeeper’s been slacking. Look at this mess! She thinks just because she raised you, she can ignore her duties.”
Mrs. Carmichael whispered, “Señor Lucas… I—I didn’t want to… she told me—”
Lucas stepped forward, and Isabella stumbled back.
“Stand up,” he said gently to Mrs. Carmichael. But humiliation rooted her to the spot.
Isabella sighed dramatically. “Really, Lucas. Don’t be so emotional. She works for us. I was just giving her a little… discipline.”
Lucas’s voice dropped to a cold, measured tone Isabella had never heard before.
“Discipline?”
Isabella waved a hand. “Don’t tell me you’re taking her side over me. I’m your fiancée! I have standards.”
“And I have boundaries,” Lucas replied, his eyes unwavering.
He crouched beside Mrs. Carmichael, lifting her chin with a trembling hand. Her eyes were red from years of devotion—years Isabella had trampled in minutes.
“You don’t answer to her,” Lucas whispered. “You never will.”
Tears spilled down Mrs. Carmichael’s face.
“You’re overreacting,” Isabella scoffed. “She’s just staff.”
“She’s family,” Lucas said simply.
The room fell silent. Isabella’s face paled.
“She raised me from the age of four. She held me when my father died. She kept this home running when we had nothing. And you—” he gestured toward the rag in her hand “—made her scrub my floors like a servant.”
“She’s a servant,” Isabella shot back.
Lucas’s expression froze.
Mrs. Carmichael murmured, “Lucas… I didn’t want trouble…”
“You didn’t,” he said softly. “She did.”
“Are we really arguing over a housekeeper?” Isabella demanded.
“No,” Lucas said firmly. “We’re talking about the woman who means more to me than anyone else. And you insulted her.”
“Important? She’s just—” Isabella began.
“Say ‘just’ again,” Lucas warned, voice icy.