The servant’s gate was smaller. Dirtier. Forgotten. A guard barely looked at Ruhi Rawat as he unlocked it. No greeting, no curiosity—just the rattle of keys and the creak of iron. Inside, the air changed.

The corridor was narrow, with walls damp and streaked with mildew. A single yellow bulb flickered overhead, throwing jagged shadows on the floor. The smell hit her next—bleach, sweat, and something faintly metallic. Staff hurried past with trays, brooms, and folded linens. No one stopped. No one smiled.

It was another world entirely—one hidden beneath the marble and chandeliers she’d glimpsed outside.

“Ruhi Rawat?”

The voice came from the end of the corridor—firm, accented, and used to being obeyed. Ruhi turned. A tall woman stood there, posture straight, her silver hair tied into a severe bun. Her olive skin was weathered with time, and her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ruhi said softly.

The woman walked closer, took the file from Ruhi’s trembling hands, and flipped through it with brisk efficiency. “Madame Rosa,” she said by way of introduction. “You understand Italian?”

“A little. Not well.”

“Learn. Fast. You’ll need it.” Rosa’s tone was clipped. “Follow.”

Ruhi followed her through the winding servant corridors—past a kitchen that smelled of garlic and burnt bread, past a laundry room echoing with the clang of metal tubs. Somewhere above, she could hear faint piano music drifting down, elegant and haunting.

Finally, Rosa stopped at a dormitory lined with narrow iron beds. “Wait here. I will come in sometime.”

Ruhi nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As Rosa turned to leave, a familiar voice called from the far corner—soft, lilting, and edged with warmth.

“You made it.”

Ruhi looked up, startled. A young woman with dusky skin and kind eyes stood by one of the bunks, a towel slung over her shoulder. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Divya?” Ruhi breathed, relief washing over her.

R. Divya grinned and stepped closer. “The same. Ishita’s friend—she told me about you. I wasn’t sure you’d really come.”

“I almost didn’t,” Ruhi admitted, her voice small. “The journey was… long.”

Divya’s smile faded a little as she studied the exhaustion on Ruhi’s face. “It always is the first time. Sit. Rest. You’ll need your strength here.”

Ruhi sat down on the edge of her bed, her hands still gripping the strap of her bag. “You work here too?”

“Two years now,” Divya said quietly. “Laundry and guest wing mostly. It’s not easy, Ruhi. But it’s steady. And safe—most days.”

“Safe?” Ruhi repeated, catching the pause in her tone.

Divya hesitated, then looked toward the ceiling—toward the vast world of chandeliers and secrets above them. “Just… follow the rules. Keep your head down.”

Before Ruhi could speak again, Madame Rosa’s voice cut through the hall. “Divya! Back to work!”

Divya gave Ruhi’s arm a quick squeeze. “Unpack. I’ll come later. And Ruhi—” she added, lowering her voice— “whatever you do, never go near the east wing after dark.”

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Ruhi in the flickering light, her heartbeat loud in the hollow silence. Somewhere above, faintly, a piano began to play again—soft, slow, and sorrowful.

Later, Madame Rosa took her to her room.

The maid’s quarters were buried deep in the basement—far below the golden halls and the echo of laughter above. The walls were gray and sweating with damp, the air thick with the smell of soap and stale water. Rows of narrow metal beds lined the room, their frames creaking with every breath of movement. A single flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, buzzing like a trapped fly.

There was one bathroom. No privacy. No silence—just the steady hum of exhaustion that never seemed to end.

Madame Rosa’s heels clicked against the cement floor as she led Ruhi down the corridor. Her voice was brisk and precise, like the rhythm of a metronome.

“You wake at four. Kitchen by five. Cleaning upstairs at six. You mop, wash, polish, and fold.” She stopped, turning sharply toward Ruhi. “Keep your eyes low. Ears lower. You are not paid to ask questions.”

Ruhi straightened, clutching the strap of her bag. “I understand.”

Rosa’s gaze lingered, assessing. Then her voice dropped—quieter, but colder. “This house… is not normal.” Ruhi’s brows knit in confusion, but she didn’t speak.

“You’ll hear things. Gunshots. Screams. Laughter followed by silence.” Rosa’s eyes darkened, the kind that carried old fear. “You hear them—but you say nothing. Capito? (Understood?)”

Ruhi’s throat went dry. “Yes.”

Rosa stepped closer. “You see nothing. You speak even less.”

“I won’t cause trouble,” Ruhi whispered, trying to sound steady.

“Good.” For a moment, Rosa’s expression softened—just barely. “Work hard. Stay quiet. Maybe you’ll survive.”

The word "survive" echoed in Ruhi’s head long after Rosa left.

That evening, the maids gathered for dinner—if it could be called that. A thin soup that tasted of salt and sadness, and a heel of dry bread that scratched her throat. They ate in silence, seated along a long steel table under a humming fluorescent light. Ruhi sat at the far end, back straight, trying not to draw attention. But she could feel it—the stares.

Most of the maids were European—pale, sharp-boned, and dressed in clean uniforms that made Ruhi’s worn kurta look almost out of place. Divya had gone for her night duty. She offered a hesitant smile, forcing a small, polite “Ciao…”

It hung in the air for a second—and then came the laughter.

Bianca, tall and lean with bleach-blonde hair, leaned across the table, her lips curling in disdain. “Troppo marrone. Troppo grassa. Sembra una mucca.” (Too brown. Too fat. Looks like a cow.)

The others burst into muffled giggles. One of them muttered something else in rapid Italian, pointing at Ruhi’s kurta—the same one her mother had embroidered with tiny gold threads. Ruhi didn’t understand every word. But she understood enough.

Mockery needed no translation. Her cheeks burned. She kept her gaze fixed on her bowl, her fingers tightening around the spoon. The soup was thin and flavorless, but she forced herself to eat—one bite, then another—swallowing against the lump in her throat.

The laughter faded eventually, replaced by the clatter of spoons and chairs scraping against the floor. Ruhi stared at the flickering light above her, the shadows dancing across the walls. Somewhere, far above, she thought she heard faint music—a piano, slow and melancholy, drifting down through stone and silence.

And she realized: she was in a place where even kindness was a luxury.

So she ate quietly… She learned quickly, and she promised herself—no matter how cruel the house became—she wouldn’t break.