The Nanny's Pay Raise

At dinner, the crystal chandelier in the house was ablaze. The cold white light fell upon the bone china plates, casting a stark, rigid sheen. I held the silver chopsticks, about to lift a piece of asparagus, when Mike Gabriel suddenly set his down. His movement was subtle, yet it shattered the silence that had fallen over the table. I looked up at him and saw in his eyes a kind of pity I had never witnessed before. "Shirley," he began, his voice lower than usual, "don't you think Ruby is truly pitiful?" Following his gaze, I caught sight of Ruby Lewis. She wore a maid outfit with a plunging neckline, black stockings tightly embracing her legs; her bent-over posture, dragging along the floor, was blatantly provocative. That posture was far too deliberate, as if she meant to flaunt something before Mike Gabriel. Before I could speak, Mike Gabriel cleared his throat once more. He looked as though he had made a momentous decision. "I intend to give Ruby a raise," he declared, his tone firm and indisputable, "one hundred thousand per month, a year-end bonus equal to three months' salary, a four-days-on, three-days-off schedule, and full insurance coverage." I paused, the silver chopsticks suspended in midair. "That way, she can focus on supporting the family," he added, as if trying to convince me, and perhaps himself as well. I set down the silver chopsticks and reached for the silk handkerchief on the table. The handkerchief was pure silk, its touch against the corner of my mouth cool and delicate. "Just dismiss her," I said slowly, my gaze resting on Ruby Lewis's retreating figure. "Otherwise, if others see it, they might think you're keeping a mistress." "Why are you being so mean, Shirley Shawn?" Mike Gabriel suddenly slammed the table; the clash of fine bone china rang sharply. "You are both women; can you not show some empathy?" His voice rose slightly, tinged with a hint of grievance: "I am speaking of human compassion!" My fingertips traced the cold edge of the table; the touch steadied me somewhat. "You are the Vice President at my sister's company, managing hundreds of people—do their salaries compare to what you gave her?" I looked at him, my tone steady and unyielding: "I am no saint. Either you quit her, or we divorce. Your choice." He suddenly stood up, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. "You want a divorce just because of a raise?" He stared at me, disbelief flashing in his eyes. "You funded my university education, arranged for me to join Linda's company, and so you think you can do anything to me?" "I am your husband, and I cannot even decide the nanny's salary?" His voice trembled with suppressed rage, a sharp contrast to his usually steady demeanor. I remembered last year's company crisis, when shareholders stormed the office—he never once faltered. But now, his eyes brimmed with bitterness, as though a raw nerve had been struck—a nerve born of the deep inferiority he had harbored for years, rooted in his origins. At that moment, Ruby Lewis moved in front of me, her head bowed very low. Her low-cut neckline slipped down a little further, revealing a broad swath of skin. "Madam, please don't misunderstand," her voice was soft, quivering slightly, "I am divorced; which man would want me? What could they possibly want from me? I only seek a stable job to provide properly for my family." Suddenly, I recalled the pale pink throw pillow in Mike Gabriel's study. The throw pillow bore an image of a maid, her eyebrows and eyes identical to Ruby's. And for three years, his mobile phone wallpaper had been an anime maid. Now that I think back, it was unmistakably Ruby Lewis's image—he was drawn to this sort of 'delicate and flattering' type, a way to bridge the gap of his inability to hold his head high before the Shawn Family.