Chapter 4 - The Depths of Lake Moretti
The impact was not a splash; it was a violent collision.
The water of Lake Moretti in August was deceptively freezing beneath its sun-warmed surface layer. The cold hit Elena like a physical blow, driving every drop of air from her lungs in an involuntary gasp. Dark, murky green instantly replaced the fiery sky.
Down she went.
Her heavy pink uniform, designed with layers of thick cotton and starched aprons, acted like a sponge. It absorbed gallons of water in seconds, doubling in weight and pulling her down toward the muddy lakebed with terrifying speed. Her flat leather shoes felt like blocks of lead chained to her ankles. Her thick, dark hair whipped loose from its practical bun, swirling around her face like ink in water.
Kick, her brain screamed. Kick!
She kicked wildly, but the restrictive fabric of her heavy skirt bound her knees together. Darkness closed in around her vision. Her lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. Panic—pure, primal, frantic panic—seized her mind. She opened her eyes beneath the murky water, seeing only floating algae, dark silt, and the dim, receding amber light of the world above.
Above her, the surface broken by her fall began to settle.
On the dock, Bianca stood panting, her hair slightly disheveled. She looked down into the dark water. A few air bubbles rippled to the surface, followed by a floating paper napkin that had slipped from Elena’s apron pocket.
Bianca looked around frantically. The willow trees obscured the dock from the main house. Vance was gone. No one was watching.
A horrific, cold calculation took shape in Bianca’s mind. If she called for help, she would have to explain why the maid was on the private dock. She would have to explain what they were discussing. But if the maid simply... disappeared? It was a large party. People drank too much. Servants walked home late. Accidents happened.
Bianca smoothed her dark red dress, adjusted her diamond necklace, turned her back on the water, and walked calmly back up the stone steps toward the music.
Fifteen feet below the surface, Elena was drowning.
Her chest felt as though it were trapped in a vice. Her strength was fading. Her flailing limbs grew heavy, paralyzed by the icy temperature and lack of oxygen. The silt of the lake floor brushed against the backs of her legs.
This is it, a voice inside her whispered. You died as you lived. Invisible. Forgotten. Useful furniture thrown into the trash.
Something inside Elena Rossi snapped.
It was not fear. It was not panic. It was a wave of incandescent, scorching rage.
Why should she die here in the dark while Bianca Vitali drank champagne in her red dress? Why should her body rot at the bottom of Dante Moretti’s pristine lake while they laughed on the lawn? Why had she spent twenty-eight years shrinking herself, making herself quiet, taking up less space, accepting insults wrapped in advice, allowing herself to be treated like an obstacle or an eyesore?
No.
She refused to die for their comfort.
With a sudden, ferocious burst of strength born of pure survival instinct, Elena reached down. Her fingers, numb and stiff, found the heavy brass pins holding her starched apron to her waist. She tore at them, ripping the heavy cotton apron free and letting it sink into the mud. Next, she bent her knees against the dragging weight of the water, reached down, and shoved her waterlogged leather shoes off her feet.
Freed from the anchors, her arms cut through the water with violent, desperate strokes. Her legs, unburdened by the apron, kicked with powerful, rhythmic thrusts. Her thick, broad shoulders cut through the cold darkness. She was not fragile. She was not thin. She possessed strength, muscle, and a body built to endure labor—and now, that body was going to save her life.
The dark green turned to amber. The amber turned to gold.
PUNCH.
Elena broke the surface of Lake Moretti fifty feet down-current from the dock, concealed behind a thick cluster of wild reeds.
She gasped for air, a ragged, violent sound that tore through her throat. She coughed up lake water, clinging tightly to the muddy roots of the riverbank, her chest heaving as life flooded back into her nerve endings.
She lay in the shallow mud beneath the hanging willows, breathing in the cold air, her dark hair plastered to her shoulders, her uniform torn and soaking wet.
She looked up through the leaves toward the mansion. The jazz music was still playing. The crystal glasses were still clinking. No one had come to look for her. No alarm had been raised.
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Elena pulled herself up out of the mud, her bare feet gripping the cold stone. She stood tall in the shadowed brush, water dripping from her clothes, her dark eyes blazing with a dangerous, terrifying light.
Elena Rossi had drowned in that lake. The woman who climbed out was someone entirely different.
