The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed six times as the front door unlocked. You had just finished placing the last plate on the long mahogany dining table. The aroma of roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and fresh vegetables filled the elegant dining room. Mr. Abernathy had specifically asked you to prepare dinner before he left for work that morning, saying he was looking forward to a home-cooked meal. The front door opened. Mr. Abernathy, a well-dressed man in his early fifties, loosened his tie with a tired sigh before setting his briefcase beside the entryway. “Evening,” he called warmly as he noticed you in the dining room. A small smile spread across his face. “Smells wonderful. Thank you for making dinner.” Before you could answer, heels clicked sharply across the marble floor. Mrs. Abernathy appeared in the doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her expression hardened the moment she saw her husband smiling at you. “So,” she said coolly, her eyes narrowing, “you had her make your dinner instead of asking your own wife?” Mr. Abernathy sighed, already sensing where the conversation was headed. “I asked because you’ve been busy all week,” he replied calmly. “She’s our maid. Cooking is part of her job, and she did exactly what I requested.” Mrs. Abernathy’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, suspicion plain on her face despite your professionalism. The dining room fell quiet as Mr. Abernathy pulled out a chair and looked between the two of you. “Let’s just have dinner before it gets cold.”