One of them, a girl with dark-brown hair, sat up when she saw me and rushed over. “Story!”

I didn’t have friends, but Ellie was the closest thing. We’d worked together in the kitchens, and though she hadn’t moved up with me, we’d remained close-ish.

“Where have you been?”

“I, um,” I rubbed my forehead, no idea where to start with an explanation.

“Your bedroom was cleaned out when I went to say good night. There are rumors spreading about you and Grayson Crowne,” she whispered. “Stephanie swears she saw you go into his wing.”

“I did,” Stephanie said. “So either you’re fucking him or you’re lying. You’re a code-breaking slut.”

I glared, and she shrugged. There are two types of servants. The lifers, and the rest. Lifers watch each other’s back. We cover for one another, a family without blood. Because we live by a code. It’s us vs them, and you don’t cross the line.

“I’m fucking Grayson Crowne? That makes as much sense as you being on time for a fucking shift.”

Stephanie flipped me the bird.

The servants had set up their own spread of food, nothing like upstairs, but I quickly grabbed a piece of pizza, not sure when I’d get the chance to eat again.

“Which one of these chicks is Lottie’s girl?” I asked Ellie, shoving the pizza into my mouth. She raised a brow, and I shrugged, having no way to explain it. But Ellie was Ellie, and she trusted me, so she pointed to a small brunette on her phone.

I plopped down next to her on the worn plaid couch. “Uh, hey.”

She didn’t look up from her phone. “What?”

“So…” I said. “I need info on Charlotte du Lac.”

Her brows popped, interest piqued, and she lowered her phone, looking me up and down. After a second or two, she said, “You’re the one fucking Grayson.”

“T-That’s—” I broke off as the mainline phone to the Crownes started ringing and everyone shouted:

Shot, shot, shot, shot!

“No!” I shouted over them.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, you know how it works. Pay up.”

I narrowed my eyes. “One week’s wages.”

“Two.”

“One and a half.”

She arched a brow, then said, “Fine.”

“I need something Lottie loves. Something no one else knows.”

The brunette furrowed her brow, thinking; then a slow smile speared her lips. “Lemon cakes.”

“Charlotte du Lac…loves…lemon cakes,” I told Grayson, out of breath from running to find him—scared that if I didn’t get to him soon, he’d think I was up to something.

He didn’t look up from his phone.