FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER TWO

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

The Al-Faye penthouse was a palace of glass, but even glass has cracks where secrets can hide.

I was in the master wing, meticulously steaming the heavy silk curtains in Layla’s suite. She had just turned eighteen a mere four months earlier; the Boss’s only daughter, and the apple of an eye that was usually too busy counting money. But today, Layla wasn't the poised debutante her lineageand status required her to be. She was hunched over her vanity, her hands shaking as she clutched a cheap, plastic burner phone.

"Mikael!" she gasped, nearly knocking over a bottle of Chanel No. 5 as I moved a chair. "I...I didn't hear you come in."

"I am a ghost, Miss Layla," I said, the steamer hissing in my hand. "Ghosts don't make much noise."

Her face went pale, her eyes darting to the phone, and said in shaky voice she clearly tried to make sound harsh with attitude, "You didn't see anything. If you tell my father, I'll tell him you were stealing from his safe. He’ll have you deported before the sun sets."

I looked at her—really looked at her. She wasn't just a spoiled girl; she was terrified. And I knew why. I had seen the name on the screen before it went dark. Mansour. Mansour was forty, a shipping magnate, and her father’s primary business associate. He was currently downstairs in the study, drinking scotch with her father and discussing "investments."

“Ti boyish'sya,” I murmured under my breath.

"What?" she whispered, her eyes widening.

"Nothing, Miss Layla."

At the open door, Julian stumbled in, looking less like a socialite and more like a man who had crawled out of a storm. He took one look at Layla’s panicked face and then at the burner phone.

"For God’s sake, Layla," Julian groaned, locking the door behind him. "I told you to stop. If my brother finds out you’re seeing Mansour behind his back, he won’t just kill him—he’ll lock you in this room until you’re thirty."

"He loves me, Uncle Julian!" she cried, her voice cracking. "And he’s the only one who doesn't treat me like a piece of furniture!"

"He's a shark, Layla! He’s using you for leverage against your father," Julian snapped. I tried moving quietly towards the door to give them some privacy, but Julian - only now noticing me turned - his eyes sharp and dangerous. He hadn't noticed me before, not really. Now, I was a witness.

"And you. Mikael, right? You’ve got a very convenient front-row seat to a tragedy."

He stepped into my space, his scent—expensive tobacco and salt—overwhelming the smell of the steam. "How much to keep your mouth shut? What’s the price for a worker who hears everything but says nothing?" he asked in a belittling voice.

I turned off the steamer. The silence that followed was heavy.

"I don't want your money, Mr. Julian," I said, my voice losing its subservient edge. "But if you want to keep her secret, you need to be smarter. Your brother has the WiFi monitored. That phone needs to be wiped and disposed of in the grease trap in the kitchen, not the trash. And you," I looked at Layla, "should stop using Cyrillic codes. Your father’s security team might not speak Russian, but they know how to use a translator."

The room went dead silent. Julian’s jaw actually dropped. He looked at my faded uniform, then at my eyes, searching for the "dropout" he thought I was.

"You... you speak Russian?" Julian whispered. "And you know about the WiFi encryption?"

"I read," I said simply, stepping past him to pick up my cleaning tray. "In many languages. And I know that in this house, the only thing more dangerous than a lie is the truth."

Julian watched me leave, a strange, reckless light dawning in his eyes. For the first time, he wasn't looking at "the help." He was looking at a lifeline.

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."