The bathroom door handle jiggled.
Panic exploded in my chest. I snatched the mop from the floor, threw myself backward into the kitchen, and grabbed a dish towel, frantically pretending to wipe down the already spotless granite countertop. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Bruno walked out of the bathroom, casually adjusting his tie. He looked at me, his eyes sweeping over my stained t-shirt, my sweat-dampened hair, and the yellow rubber gloves still gripping the towel. A look of profound amusement and disgust flickered across his face.
“Wow, honey,” he said, walking over and kissing the top of my head—a gesture that now felt like the kiss of Judas. “The house looks incredible today. The ‘girl’ really outdid herself, didn’t she?”
I forced my facial muscles into a mask of compliant docility. I looked up, squeezing my eyes briefly to force back the tears, hoping he would mistake the redness for exhaustion.
