Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 67: I’m Handling It

The afternoon sun was leaning heavy against the limestone walls of the De La Vega estate as the black SUV rolled up the gravel driveway. Inside, the vehicle smelled less like a high-security transport and more like a high-end pantry.

Eloise sat amidst bags of organic flour, gleaming copper whisks, crates of fresh raspberries, and jars of vanilla beans that had cost more than her previous month’s rent.

Leo and Marcos, two of the most feared tactical operatives in the tri-state area, were currently surrounded by fifty-pound sacks of high-gluten flour, crates of organic Madagascan vanilla beans, and enough fresh berries to supply a small grocery store.

​"I have blood on my hands from the Medellín cartel," Leo muttered, shifting a heavy crate of lemons off his lap as the car came to a halt. "And now I smell like a lemon tart. Luciano is going to smell me from the foyer and think I’ve defected to a French patisserie."

​Eloise felt a strange, buzzing energy under her skin. For the first time since she had been brought to this house, she felt she had a mission that wasn’t defined by survival or submission. She had a partnership. She had a purpose.

​"Leo, be careful with the eggs," she cautioned as the large man picked a crate. "If one breaks, you’re the one cleaning the interior of the car."

​Leo chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. "Yes, Boss. I’ve survived three assassination attempts, but I’m terrified of a cracked yolk. I hear you."

As they exited the vehicles, the contrast was staggering. The elite guards, still in their sharp black suits and holsters, began lugging the heavy baking utensils and sacks of grain toward the service entrance. Mary followed close behind Eloise, her face a mask of determination.

​They made their way toward the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen, their footsteps light. However, as they approached the swinging double doors, a sharp, nasal voice cut through the air, stopping them in their tracks.

​It was Maya.

​​"... treats this place like she’s the Queen of Spain," Maya’s voice rang out, loud and arrogant. "Did you see her yesterday evening? Walking around in his jacket like she’s already Mrs De La Vega. And wearing the red diamond ring like it belongs to her. She’s a nobody. A stray he picked up off the street to pass the time."

Eloise felt Mary stiffen beside her. Marcos’s hand instinctively went to the door, his knuckles whitening, but Eloise placed a hand on his arm, silently commanding him to wait. She wanted to hear the full extent of the rot.

​"She stole someone else’s life," Maya continued, the sound of a knife chopping aggressively against a board punctuating her words. "Marcia Davis is the real fiancée. Marcia is a lady. This... Eloise... is a harlot who thinks that because she makes a few pizzas, she can take over the house."

​"And now she wants our jobs too," Maya continued, her voice rising in pitch as she gained an audience of two other maids. "She’s in there cooking. Sautéing this, braising that. What’s next? Is she going to take over the dusting? Is she going to be out there in a bikini washing the cars? It’s pathetic. She’s trying so hard to be useful because she knows she doesn’t belong."

​"I don’t know, Maya," a softer voice chimed in—it was Sarah, a younger girl who had been at the movie night. "I don’t see anything wrong with it. She wanted to cook for her fiancé. Most women would. And besides, she’s the reason the Master made us permanent staff. Since she arrived, the house feels... different. It’s lovely. We actually had a movie night. I haven’t felt that relaxed in this house in years."

​​"Lovely?" Maya spat. "You’re as delusional as she is. She’s the reason the Starlings are circling this place like vultures. She’s a liability. And once Luciano realizes she’s just a shiny new toy that’s losing its luster, he’ll toss her back to the gutter where he found her."

​"Shut up, Maya," another maid added. "You’re just bitter because she actually talks to us. You’ve been here for a while and you still treat us like dirt because you think Marcia Davis is going to promote you to head housekeeper when she moves in."

​"Oh, shut up! Before I slap the insolence out of you!" Maya snapped, the sound of a hand hitting a marble counter echoing into the hall. "What do you two even know? You’re being bought by a few slices of pizza and a cartoon. You’re fools. Marcia Davis is the real fiancée. She has the pedigree, the money, and the power. Not that... that harlot. When Marcia takes her place, you’ll all be wishing you’d stayed on my good side."

​Inside the hallway, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

​Marcos’s hand didn’t go for his holster this time; it went for the door handle, his knuckles white. His face was a mask of cold, professional fury. To insult the woman of the house was to insult the house itself, and Marcos was a man of traditional loyalties.

Beside him, Mary looked ready to burst through the wood and tear Maya’s hair out. Her eyes were wide with a protective rage—she had seen the bruises Maya had left, and hearing this was the final straw.

​But Eloise stepped in front of them.

​She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t crying. She looked at the heavy oak doors and straightened her shoulders, a small, cold smile touching her lips.

She reached out and pushed the doors open slowly, not with a bang, but with a deliberate, haunting smoothness.

As she walked into the kitchen, the sound of the chopping knife stopped instantly. The air was sucked out of the room.

​She began humming a light, airy tune—a melody from her childhood—as she strolled toward the center island.

The maids scrambled, their faces turning various shades of ash and crimson. Maya looked as though she had been struck by lightning, her mouth hanging open, the bravado draining from her face as she tried to calculate how much Eloise had heard.

​They all bowed their heads, their voices trembling as they murmured, "Good afternoon, Miss Eloise." Their faces pale with terror, convinced they were about to be executed or, at the very least, cast out into the street.

​Eloise didn’t scold them. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even acknowledge the silence. She looked around the kitchen with an appreciative hum.

​​"Good," Eloise said, her voice light, almost cheerful. "You’re all here. That makes things much easier."

​The silence was deafening. The only sound was the heavy thud of Leo and Marcos setting the crates of flour and equipment down on the floor behind her. The presence of the two armed guards made the kitchen feel like a courtroom.

Sarah looked up, her lower lip trembling. "M-Miss Eloise... we were just... we didn’t mean..."

​Eloise turned to Sarah and smiled—a genuine, warm smile that didn’t reach the cold calculation in her eyes. "Don’t worry, Sarah. I know exactly what was being said. And I appreciate your honesty. It’s a rare quality in this house."

​Then, she finally turned her gaze to Maya.

​Eloise didn’t scold her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t mention the word "harlot." Instead, she looked at Maya as if she were a particularly interesting piece of mold on a piece of bread—something that needed to be studied before it was discarded.

Maya’s grip on the knife tightened, but Marcos stepped forward, his shadow falling over her. She dropped the knife as if it had turned into a snake.

​"Well," Eloise said, her voice dropping into a calm, authoritative silk. "Today is going to be a very busy day. I have a partnership to honor and a great deal of baking to do. I need this kitchen to be a well-oiled machine."

She gestured toward the crates on the floor.

​"Maya," Eloise said, her voice as smooth as glass. "Since you’re so concerned about who is ’taking over’ the roles in this house, why don’t you make yourself useful? Help Leo and the rest of the men unpack the ingredients from the car. The flour sacks are fifty pounds each. It’ll be good exercise for you. It might even help clear that... bitter taste in your mouth."

​Maya gaped at her. "You want me to carry flour? With the guards?"

​"I don’t recall making it a suggestion," Eloise replied, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. It was the same look Luciano gave when he was about to end a negotiation. "Leo, make sure she handles the heavy crates first. We wouldn’t want her to feel left out of the ’lovely’ new atmosphere of the home."

​Leo grinned, a predatory, toothy expression. "With pleasure, Miss."

​Eloise turned back to the other maids, who were watching in stunned silence. "The rest of you, help Mary organize the pantry. We’re going to need a lot of space for the fruit and the dairy."

​She smoothed down her shirt, her posture perfect. "I’m going to go upstairs and change into something more suitable for work. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I expect the flour to be in the bins by the time I return."

As Eloise walked out of the kitchen, she didn’t look back. She could feel Maya’s burning gaze on her, but she didn’t care. She had realized something important: you don’t fight a snake by screaming at it. You fight a snake by cutting off its air and making it move exactly where you want it to go.

Mary followed after her.

​"Miss Eloise! Why did you let her talk like that? You should have fired her on the spot! The things she said... the word she called you..."

​"Firing her is too easy, Mary," Eloise said, her voice dropping into a colder, more calculated tone. "If I fire her, she goes back to the Davises and tells them everything she saw. She becomes a martyr for them. But if she stays here, under my thumb, she becomes a tool. I want her to watch me succeed. I want her to be the one who has to carry the flour for the pastries that will eventually ruin her precious Marcia."

Mary stared at her. "You... you’re starting to sound a little like Mr. De La Vega."

​Eloise paused, a chill running down her spine. She thought of the way Luciano had bitten her lip. She thought of the dark world Ian had described—the logistics, the money, the power.

​"Maybe," Eloise whispered, walking towards the stairs. "But I’m doing it with flour on my hands, not blood. There’s a difference, Mary. I have to believe there’s a difference."

She went to the master suite and walked into the massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the silk dresses and the designer heels. Instead, she reached for a pair of high-waisted black work trousers and a crisp, white linen shirt. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and tied her hair back into a tight, practical knot.

​"Handling it," she whispered to her reflection. "I’m handling it, Luciano."

​Downstairs, the sound of a heavy crate hitting the floor and Maya’s muffled grunt of exertion echoed through the house.