Forbidden Desire | sunsun

1

New York City, 1928

"Your room will be on the second floor, across the hall from the young master's bedroom," the maid relays to Sunghoon in a bored manner. Her steps are heavy as she ascends the winding staircase that wraps around the room. Sunghoon takes in the walls plastered with art as they climb, cold, emotionless faces staring back at him through a sepia-stained glaze. The yellow tinge over the old paint makes the unsmiling faces look sickly.

"You are to sleep next to his room every night in case he needs you. If he wants your attention, he will ring the bell in his bedroom, and the one next to your bed will sound," the maid continues. They've reached the top of the stairs now, and she stops to catch her breath, her spine curving forward under her weight. Her knees wobble, but her iron grip on the railing keeps her from falling.

"I understand," Sunghoon says with a polite nod. His hands are starting to burn from carrying his suitcase for so long, but he knows better than to complain. He ignores the hot throbbing in his fingers and forces a smile. "I'll be sure to be alert."

The woman shoots him a withering glare, like she knows the emotion is forced. Her wrinkles are deep-set in her face like dry, cracked earth — her skin dark and spotted from years of hard labour. When she takes Sunghoon's hand in her own, the texture is rough and calloused. Sunghoon resists the urge to pull away.

"The young master does not like to be disturbed. When you go to sleep, tread quietly on the hardwood. The floor is known to creak."

She leads him to his sleeping quarters — a small, closet-sized space behind a wooden panel across from the glass double doors of the master bedroom. It strains her to open them, and the panel slides with a weary, aching groan as it drags across the floor. The maid points to a simple cot built into the wall, thin sheets lining the surface, her short, thick arm slashed with scars.

"You will sleep here. Place your things under the bed. Whatever you don't have space for — throw out. Mr. Kim will take to replacing it himself. He doesn't like clutter."

"I understand."

The maid looks at him expectantly, and Sunghoon takes that as a cue to rest down his baggage. The closet space is cramped — only enough for a handful of clothing and a pair of shoes. He is careful not to let his disdain show on his face.

The old woman reaches over his shoulder, startling him, and tugs on a long, thick rope that hangs above his bed. The loud bell chimes, shrilly ringing through his ears. Sunghoon can feel her oversized breasts press against his back and the heat of her breath against his neck, and it makes him stiffen.

"When you hear this sound, you are to go into the young master's room. None of the other maids will be awake at that hour, so only you will be there to take care of him."

Sunghoon nods to show his understanding, squeezing his fists to ease some of the stiffness in them from carrying his luggage. Angry red lines cut across his palm like gashes, bleeding out pink around the edges into the soft skin. He looks across the hall to the doors that lead to the son's bedroom. The other side of the door is quiet, and no light leaks through the glass.

"Mr. Kim will meet with you now. You arrived after lunch, so there's no time for you to eat first, but there is nothing you can do about that now. Follow me."

"There was traffic," Sunghoon says simply.

The woman ignores him. They begin the slow descent down the stairs again. It is day, but the only source of light comes from the old woman's lantern, which she clutches tightly in her hand. The windows are obscured behind thick, dark curtains that blend into the walls, drowning out the spidery strands of light that manage to creep through the cracks. Their shadows move on the walls with them, entranced by the flickering flame of the lantern. When they turn around a corner, the tips of the maid's hands distort and look like claws.