BEFORE I BREAK***
CHAPTER 1: THE INVISIBLE GIRL
Amara
The Thompson mansion swallowed me whole the moment I stepped through the back gate.
It wasn't a house. It was a monster made of marble and glass, with windows that stared down at me like cold, judging eyes. The driveway alone could fit my entire neighborhood—the one I'd left behind at 5 AM, walking three kilometers to the bus stop because I couldn't afford the fare.
I adjusted the collar of my uniform. White shirt. Black skirt. Apron. Name tag that said AMARA in tiny letters, like I was supposed to forget I had a last name.
You're not Amara anymore, I told myself. You're just the help.
The back door opened before I could knock. A woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones looked me up and down like I was dirt on her shoe.
"You're late."
I glanced at my phone. 6:47 AM. I was supposed to be here at 6:30.
"I'm sorry, ma. The bus—"
"I don't care about your bus." She stepped aside, holding the door open. "I'm Mrs. Adebayo, the head housekeeper. You'll follow my instructions without question. You'll speak when spoken to. You will not look at the family unless they address you first. Understood?"
I nodded.
She led me through a hallway so clean I could see my reflection in the floor. Paintings hung on every wall—expensive ones, the kind that probably cost more than my mother's entire hospital bill.
"Your room is at the end of this corridor," Mrs. Adebayo said. "It's small, but you'll be grateful. Some of the maids share rooms. You got lucky."
Lucky. I almost laughed.
She opened the door to a room no bigger than a closet. A narrow bed. A wooden chair. A tiny window that faced the garden. It was cold. Bare. But it had a lock on the door.
Safety.
I hadn't felt safe in months.
***
The kitchen was chaos. Pots clanged. Women shouted. The smell of frying plantain filled the air, and my stomach growled.
Mrs. Adebayo handed me a bucket and mop. "Start with the east wing. Every corner. Every shelf. If I find one speck of dust, you're out."
Out. I couldn't afford out.
My mother was lying in a hospital bed, fighting an infection that had already eaten through her savings, her hope, and her will to live. I was all she had left.
So I took the bucket. And I cleaned.
***
The east wing was eerily quiet.
I moved from room to room, dusting shelves, scrubbing floors, polishing mirrors that reflected a girl I barely recognized. Pale face. Dark circles. Hair tied back in a tight bun.
My mother's daughter. My mother's only hope.
I thought about her as I worked—the way her voice cracked when I visited last week. "I never wanted this for you. Scrubbing floors for people who don't see you."
"Mama, I just need you to get better."
She'd squeezed my fingers. Weakly. Like she didn't have the strength to hold on.
I blinked back tears. I couldn't cry here.
So I kept cleaning. But the tears didn't stop. They just moved from my eyes to my chest, heavy and suffocating.
***
It was midnight when I finished.
The mansion had gone quiet. But I couldn't sleep. The room was too small. The walls too close. My thoughts too loud.
So I slipped out.
I didn't know where I was going. My feet carried me through the hallway, past the paintings, out the back door, and into the garden.
It was beautiful. Flowers bloomed in every color—purple, pink, white, red. A fountain bubbled in the center. A stone bench sat beneath a massive mango tree.
I sank onto the bench and let out a breath I'd been holding for months.
How did I end up here?
One minute, I was a regular girl. Then my father vanished. Then my mother got sick. Then the money ran out. Then I dropped out of school. And now I was here, invisible, scrubbing toilets for a family that would never know my name.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears already spilling down my cheeks.
You don't cry. You don't...
"Servants don't cry in my garden."
I froze.
The voice was deep. Cold. Sharp as broken glass.
I turned around.
A man stood in the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His face was half-hidden, but I could see his eyes. Piercing. Filled with contempt.
He stepped forward, and moonlight fell across him.
Young. Early twenties. Handsome in a way that made my chest tighten—not because I liked him, but because he looked like everything I hated. Wealthy. Untouchable.
"Did you hear me?" he said. "Servants don't cry in my garden."
I should have looked down. I should have apologized and scurried back inside.
But I was tired. Tired of being invisible. Tired of being treated like I was less than human.
So I stood up. And I looked him straight in the eye.
"Rich people don't cry? Or just people like me?"
His eyes widened. Just a fraction.
He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne—expensive, sharp, intoxicating.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
"Does it matter?"
"It matters if you're crying on my property."
I laughed. A hollow, bitter sound.
"Your property," I repeated. "Right. Because that's what I am, isn't it? Property."
"You're twisting my words."
"No. I'm just finally saying the truth."
I walked past him. I didn't care if he told Mrs. Adebayo. I didn't care if I got fired.
But as I reached the back door, his voice stopped me.
"Wait."
I didn't turn around.
"What's your name?" he asked again. Softer this time.
I hesitated.
"Amara."
And then I walked inside.
I didn't see him turn away. I didn't see him look back twice at the garden bench where I'd sat. I didn't see the strange, unfamiliar expression that crossed his face...like he'd just seen something impossible.
He wasn't looking at the garden anymore.
He was looking at his hands.
And they were shaking.
***
To be continued...