Catherine mockingly invited me to her own party, but when I appeared, the glass slipped from her hand and the guests fell silent

Catherine Prescott mockingly invited me to her own birthday party, and the next day her favorite golden heels stopped at the door of my room.

“You will not come downstairs on Saturday evening,” she told me. “You will first get ready.”

In her hand was a small white card with pearl-colored stripes along the edges. She extended the card toward me as if she were giving me not a gift, but an assignment.

“For what, Mrs. Prescott?”

“For my birthday charity evening. You will be a guest too.”

The manager standing behind her barely held back a laugh. I, however, stood in the basement room, where the smell of damp rose from the walls and the lamp hanging from the ceiling flickered when the heating was turned on.

“A guest or service personnel?”

Catherine tilted her head slightly.

“You will find out on Saturday. Just wear something that will make my guests understand what true charity means.”

Her words were a continuation of the joke she had made at breakfast that morning. Several hours earlier, at the glass table, she had told four wealthy women that bringing a “poor girl like Monica” to the party would be an unforgettable spectacle for everyone.

I had stood there with the silver coffee pot.

Catherine took an old kitchen cloth and threw it directly at my chest.

“Here, wear this.”

The women laughed. I caught the cloth in the air, carefully folded it, and put it into the pocket of my apron.

“I will come, Mrs. Prescott.”

At that moment I saw satisfaction in her eyes. She thought she had humiliated me. She did not realize that on that very day I already had the most important evidence against her.

For fifty-eight days I had been living beneath the enormous Prescott house, in a windowless room locked beside the stairs. The bed was so narrow that when I turned over at night, my elbow hit the wall. My only personal possession was a small copper key with a red wooden bead hanging from it. My mother had given me this key one day before her death and told me never to lose it.

Catherine thought it was the key to the pantry.

But I knew it was not.

Every morning I woke at half past four. Until five I cleaned the kitchen floor, then I ironed Catherine’s shirts. At eight, egg whites, half a grapefruit, and black coffee had to be waiting for her.

“The coffee is weak.”

“I will change it immediately.”

“There is a burnt mark on the toast.”

“I am sorry.”

“Sorry means nothing from you, Monica.”

She never shouted. She simply tapped her fingers on the table. One tap meant water, two meant taking away the plate, three meant coming immediately.

In this house, humiliation happened quietly.

On Saturday, at six in the evening, my phone lit up in my basement room. The number of attorney Elene Mari appeared on the screen.

“Is everything ready?” she asked me.

“Not yet. I have to take the last folder from her study.”

“Monica, if we cannot submit the documents tonight, the withdrawal of money from the foundation accounts will be completed.”

“I know.”

“And remember, you are not only a witness.”

The absence of a window made the room even darker. I enclosed the red wooden bead in my fingers.

“Tonight Catherine will have to hear everything in front of the guests in her own house.”

Three knocks sounded on the door.

It was Catherine.

“Come out. I want to see how you got ready.”

I opened the door. Her usual contempt was in her eyes, but when she saw the black fabric folded on the bed behind me, her eyebrows drew together.

“What is that?”

“My dress.”

“It looks too expensive for you.”

“Perhaps, Mrs. Prescott.”

Catherine extended her hand and touched the fabric. At once I felt my throat tighten. No one had bought the dress for me. It had been brought to me in a hotel room three days earlier, and only three people knew its price.

Catherine smiled at me again.

“On Saturday, walk through the main staircase door. I want everyone to see you.”

“Certainly.”

At fifteen minutes past nine in the evening, while the house was preparing for the guests, I stood before the mirror. I put the key with the red wooden bead into the inner pocket of the dress. Then I pressed my ear to the wall and heard Catherine’s voice from above.

“By ten o’clock everything will be finished,” she was saying. “No one knows what is in that folder.”

Another voice answered quietly:

“If Monica found it, we would have a problem.”

My hand grasped the handle.

Footsteps approached above. Someone closed the door. Then a key turned in the lock, and at the end of the corridor attorney Elene’s strict voice was heard:

“Mrs. Prescott, we cannot enter this room without the police. But if Monica is truly ready, she can open the folder now…”

I slowly extended my hand toward the black folder, and exactly then the door handle went down…

Elene stood behind the door, holding a small recorder. Beside her stood Catherine’s husband, Daniel, with a pale face.

“Monica, we have no time left,” Elene said.

Catherine appeared behind them.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“In the room where the documents issued in my name are kept,” I answered.

Her laughter disappeared at once.

“Who do you think you are?”

“The person who has gained your trust over the last fifty-eight days.”

Daniel took a step backward.

“Catherine, what documents is she talking about?”

“This girl is insane. Call security.”

Elene turned on the recorder. Catherine’s morning voice sounded in the room: “Monica will understand nothing. We will transfer the money tomorrow.”

Catherine lunged for the recorder, but I stepped in front of her.

“Do not touch it.”

For the first time I saw how her face changed. She was no longer looking at me as a servant.

The old clock hanging on the basement wall showed ten minutes to seven. Elene opened the folder, but stopped on the very first page.

“No,” she whispered.

“What did you see?” I asked.

Elene raised her head.

“Monica, this is not only about stealing money. It says here that there was one hidden heir from the founder of the foundation.”

Catherine looked at the paper and her lips turned pale.

“This is impossible.”

Elene turned the document toward me.

“It is your birth certificate. And this signature… is her father’s.”

Catherine suddenly said to me:

“Monica, you have no idea whose name you stand under.”

I touched the last page of the folder. My fingers met a small envelope hidden beneath it. Elene held her breath and said:

“Open it. The answer is there…”

I placed the envelope on the table. The paper was so thin that the edges of the sheet inside could be seen. The key with the red wooden bead hurt in the pocket of my dress, as if my mother’s hand were warning me again.

“Do not open it,” Catherine said.

For the first time there was no command in her voice. There was fear.

“Why?”

“Because this is not your life. This is my family’s business.”

“That is exactly why I will open it.”

Elene removed the seal from the envelope. Inside lay three sheets of paper, a copy of an old photograph, and the result of a genetic examination. The heating pipes rumbled in the room, but I heard only my own heartbeat.

Elene read the first sheet.

“I, Alistair Prescott, confirm that Monica Adams is the child of my daughter, Eliza Adams. Monica is my direct heir and the sole legal manager of the Prescott Charitable Foundation.”

Daniel put his hand against the wall.

“Did Father write this?”

“Twenty-two years ago,” I answered. “Mother told me that Alistair had been unable to protect her. Only after her death did I learn that Catherine had hidden the letter.”

Catherine came toward me.

“My father never said anything about you.”

“Because you would not have allowed him to say it.”

Elene raised the genetic result.

“The result of the examination confirms the relationship by ninety-nine point nine percent. Monica is Alistair Prescott’s granddaughter.”

The glass fell from Catherine’s hand onto the floor. Crystal fragments scattered at her feet.

“No,” she said. “You are simply a servant.”

“You yourself offered me this job,” I said. “And I accepted it because I knew you were taking money from the foundation accounts.”

Elene opened the second folder. Inside were bank statements, recordings from hidden cameras, and transfers signed by Catherine.

Daniel looked at one sheet and covered his face with his hand.

“That money was for the children’s clinic.”

“Catherine used it to pay for her house, jewelry, and private debt,” I said.

Catherine suddenly gave a short laugh.

“Do you think you will take everything with these papers? The foundation documents are already at another address. And tomorrow morning everything will be in my name.”

Elene looked at her phone. An unknown number was glowing on the screen.

“Who is calling?”

She answered and listened silently for several seconds. Then her expression changed.

“Monica, the police investigator says the main account has already been closed. But he also said that a witness from the basement is not enough against Catherine.”

“What else do they need?”

Elene looked toward me.

“Your mother’s old recording. The one Catherine declared missing.”

Catherine raised her head.

“That recording does not exist.”

But I remembered my mother’s words: “Use the key when they say that I was lying.”

I took the key with the red bead from the pocket of my dress.

I went to the basement wall, took down the old clock, and saw a small metal lock behind it. The key fit exactly.

The lock opened.

Inside lay a miniature recorder. Its red light was still blinking.

Catherine took one step backward.

My mother’s voice sounded from the recorder:

“If Monica ever finds this, tell her that her escape was never my choice. Catherine knew that Alistair would disinherit her. So that night she damaged the brakes of my car…”

Catherine rushed toward the door, but heavy footsteps sounded outside.

And then the telephone rang again. This time we clearly heard the investigator’s voice:

“Monica, we listened to the recording. However, there is one more person who knows what happened that night. He is coming to your house now…”