He loosened his tie and listened. Water was running somewhere down the hallway. A soft humming drifted back—a fragile little tune people use to keep themselves steady.
Ethan followed the sound to the kitchen. Steam curled up from the sink. A woman in a worn cleaning uniform scrubbed a pot. Ruth.
He didn’t step forward. He simply watched.
A bandage wrapped her left wrist. A dark bruise peeked out from beneath her collar. She shut off the water, wincing, and rubbed her hands together as if warmth might soothe the pain.
Then a voice cut through the air from the living room—sharp, commanding.
“Ruth. The floor. We have guests tomorrow. No streaks.”
Clare. His fiancée. She didn’t sound like a partner—she sounded like a supervisor.
Ruth whispered, “Yes,” gathered a bucket, and slid a towel beneath her knees. The handle clattered as she lowered herself to the ground.