Maid To The Three Mafia Kings

Chapter 18: Know Your Place

Dread, a familiar unwelcome guest, coiled in Millie's stomach as she neared Mr. Jameson's office – again. This time, the nervous flutters were less frantic, replaced by a sneaking suspicion. Unlike the first time, she had a hunch why Mr. Jameson wanted to see her. It had to be about this morning's... interesting outfit choice.

A fleeting image of Evan's teasing face and eyes flashed in her mind, and a different kind of flutter took hold. Butterflies, a thousand of them, erupted in her stomach.

Well, if Mr. Jameson dared to reprimand her, or worse, fire her, she had a scapegoat – the charming, privileged Evan Moretti. He could take the fall for this one.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Millie knocked. After an agonizing pause, Mr. Jameson's clipped voice said, "Enter."

Millie pushed open the door, steeling her nerves for the inevitable. Mr. Jameson sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, the very picture of stern disapproval. His gaze, sharp and critical, raked over her from head to toe, lingering a beat too long on the layers of gingham and the provocative dip of the neckline. He let out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with disappointment, and slowly shook his head as if her very presence offended him.

He let out a weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, then slowly shook his head, a silent judgment. Clearing his throat, the sound sharp in the tense quiet, he began. "Ms. Foster," he said, his voice clipped and official, "Andrea informed me about a package delivered to your quarters last night."

Andrea, I knew it! Millie thought to herself.

Clara's voice, a fresh echo in her mind, whispered a warning – "Don't trust Andrea."

Taking a deep breath, Millie met his gaze head-on, keeping her voice even. "Yes, Mr. Jameson," she replied, keeping her voice calm and even, "Alfie brought a box to the room."

Mr. Jameson leaned back in his chair, the movement stiff and formal. He steepled his fingers, his gaze turning into a laser focused on Millie. "Ms. Foster," he began, his voice low and measured, "before receiving this package, were you... in contact with anyone from outside the estate?"

Millie held his stare unflinchingly. "Absolutely not, sir," she replied firmly, her voice clear and steady. "As you know, I handed over my phone upon arrival."

A flicker of doubt danced across Mr. Jameson's face, but it was quickly replaced by a steely glint. "Of course, Ms. Foster," he said, his voice hardening. "However," he leaned forward, emphasis sharp in each word, "if you happen to be keeping another phone hidden away, perhaps a secret one, I strongly suggest you hand it over now. Disobeying a direct order like that will result in immediate termination of your employment and confiscation of all your belongings."

Millie's spine stiffened, but her tone was laced with quiet dignity when she responded, "With all due respect, Mr. Jameson, I would never do anything, knowingly, that could put my job here at risk."

A muscle ticked in Mr. Jameson's jaw. "Then tell me, Ms. Foster," he pressed. "Who was the package from? And who gave you that?" he took a deep breath, clearly annoyed more by the dress than Millie herself, "...that... thing you're wearing right now?"

Millie took a deep breath. She then met his gaze with a newfound resolve. "The dress," she began, "came in a box delivered by Alfie last night. And it's from Mr. Evan Moretti."

"Evan?" Mr. Jameson's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Are you absolutely certain about that, Ms. Foster?"

"Yes, Mr. Jameson," she replied firmly. "You can even ask Alfie himself. He's the one who delivered the package last night."