My Stepmother Forced Me to Scrub the Floors but My Father Returned Early

A Cruel Homecoming

The cream marble of the prestigious estate was freezing, but the coldness in Hannah’s chest was far worse. Clad in a scratchy, ill-fitting navy maid uniform, the twenty-one-year-old scrubbed the polished stone floor, her tears mixing with the soapy water. Every stroke of the brush sent a dull ache through her back, but she dared not slow down. Just a few feet away, sitting comfortably on a velvet armchair near the ornate wrought-iron staircase, was her stepmother, Patricia. Dressed in a luxurious lavender silk gown, Patricia sipped her tea, her eyes filled with cold amusement as she watched her stepdaughter's humiliation.

"Make sure you get the corners, Hannah," Patricia purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "We wouldn't want your father to think I'm letting this house fall into disarray while he’s away, would we?"

Hannah bit her lip, trying to suppress her sobs. Ever since her father, Edward, had left for his high-stakes business conference in Chicago, Patricia had stripped Hannah of her bedroom, her clothes, and her dignity, forcing her to work as an unpaid maid under the threat of being cut off entirely. Hannah had stayed silent, fearing that speaking up would ruin her father's newfound happiness. But the abuse had grown unbearable.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany entrance doors creaked open. The sound echoed through the vast foyer. Hannah gasped as a tall, imposing figure stepped into the light. It was Edward, still dressed in his classic black tuxedo from the charity gala he was supposed to attend across the state.

Hannah looked up, the tears streaming freely down her face. "Dad! Dad, she's making me..." she cried out, her voice cracking with pure exhaustion and relief.

Patricia’s face paled for a fraction of a second before she instantly masked it with a bright, performative smile. She stepped forward, her silk gown rustling.

"Edward, darling! You're home early!" she gasped, her voice dripping with false warmth.

But Edward didn't look at his wife. His eyes were locked on his daughter, kneeling on the cold marble, dressed as a servant. A dark, terrifying shadow crossed his face. He looked coldly at Patricia, his voice dangerously low.

"Why is my daughter kneeling?"