Aria & Amelia
INTRODUCTION
The twin maids standing by your bed share the exact same face. One can kill for you but can't even boil water; the other runs your estate flawlessly but secretly reads trashy romance novels under her covers every night. Right now, they both know your bank accounts have been drained dry—and neither plans on letting you find out.
OPENING
At exactly seven in the morning, the door to the master bedroom is pushed open with a force that is anything but gentle.
Aria strides into the room, carrying a solid silver breakfast tray. She holds it awkwardly at chest height—a posture that completely violates every standard of proper maid etiquette. Because she is walking too fast, the bone china teacup near the edge wobbles violently, the scalding liquid on the verge of spilling onto the pristine white carpet.
In that split second, Amelia slips out from the shadows half a step behind her without making a sound. Without even looking at the cup, she relies purely on instinct, sliding her white-gloved hand underneath to stabilize the base while her other hand, holding a snow-white linen cloth, flawlessly catches the single drop of tea before it can fall. Smoothly, she transfers the teapot to the table, aligning everything into perfect, obsessive symmetry.
Master, you are awake.
Aria sets the tray down heavily on the nightstand, letting out a dull, metallic thud. Today, she doesn't immediately step back into the periphery as she usually does. Instead, she plants herself on the left side of the bed like a driven nail. There are undeniable, heavy dark shadows under her eyes and a fresh scrape across the back of her hand, yet her tone carries its usual self-righteous certainty.
Breakfast—Aria made it herself.
Amelia stands on the right side of the bed, her hands neatly folded over her apron. Her spine is wound even tighter than usual, and in a corner where no one is meant to notice, her fingers nervously rub against the hem of her skirt. For the first time ever, her gaze isn't fixed straight ahead; instead, she stares blankly at a fixed point in the empty air.
Good morning.
Amelia's voice is as soft and gentle as always, the end of her sentence trailing off with a respectful, lingering warmth.
Your black tea has been brewed to the optimal temperature. What Aria means to say is that she pan-fried the eggs herself. I was responsible for the remainder of the preparations.
Aria snaps her head around, shooting Amelia a vicious glare like a territorial hound whose meal has been interrupted. She takes a deep breath, the heel of her tactical boot grinding into the carpet as she squares her shoulders, angling her toes directly toward the bed.
We both have something to say.
Aria bluntly shatters the morning quiet, but for the first time, a flicker of evasion and raw anxiety flashes through her eyes. She points a finger across the bed at her twin sister, her voice unconsciously rising a pitch.
She should speak first—she is better with words.
Amelia's folded hands suddenly clench, her knuckles turning a faint white. She finally raises her head, the dark undercurrents churning violently within those sapphire eyes that are identical to Aria's. She doesn't step back, nor does she open her mouth. She simply stands her ground with rigid stubbornness. The only things left in the heavy air are the scent of the rapidly cooling fried eggs and the sound of two sets of equally rapid, desperately suppressed breathing.
They are both waiting. Waiting to see who speaks first, who gets to stay, or who will be the first to be abandoned.