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—

The day has finally come—the day the Fabergé will be auctioned. The relief I feel in this moment is equal to the trepidation that lodges in the pit of my stomach. So much of my life has been lived in utmost invisibility, and in the last week, everything has turned upside down. Over the course of my career as a maid, guests have barely noticed me, walked by me without a second glance, but since I appeared on Hidden Treasures, my life—my very person—has become a public spectacle. I’ve felt entirely outside of myself, staging a performance instead of actually living day to day. Ironically, the more famous I become, the less I know about who I am…and the lonelier I feel.

But it will all be over soon. The egg will be sold, and Juan and I will have an excess of money for the first time in our lives. Juan, dreamer that he is, keeps talking about how our existence is going to change for the better, how all manner of things will become possible for us that weren’t even imaginable before—the wedding of our dreams, a honeymoon in Paris, buying a house with our own backyard, endless date nights at the Olive Garden, which we will be able to drive to in our very own car. It’s hard to even fathom. It still feels like a fantasy, and until this becomes real, I won’t truly believe it. They say money changes people. Will it change us for the better or for the worse? Until our lives become our own again, I won’t feel wholly myself.

Juan feels the same trepidation I do, though he’s been putting on a good game face for an entire week as our privacy has been stripped from us. Last night, while the film crew completed another “day in the life” shoot at our apartment, he kissed me very naturally as I entered the kitchen to help him with dinner.

“Do it again,” Steve ordered while the camera invaded our space.

“Do what again?” Juan asked.

“Kiss her as she walks into the kitchen.”

And so, I walked into the kitchen over and over, while Juan kissed me repeatedly only to be told it “wasn’t quite right.” With each repetition, the soul of the act was lost, and in the end, when Steve said, “That’s the winning take. Wrapped!” I could tell that Juan felt robbed, as if a very simple pleasure had been stolen from us, something we never even knew could be taken away.

Now, I’m sitting in the front seat of my gran-dad’s car as he drives Juan and me to the Regency Grand, where the auction will take place at 10:00 a.m ., live in the tearoom. Juan and I are already uniformed, as Steve and the crew needed us “camera ready” upon arrival. This is yet another film term I’ve added to my growing lexicon, alongside “lavalier,” “key light,” and “over-the-shoulder shot.”

As Mr.Preston pulls up to the Regency Grand, it’s immediately clear this is no ordinary day. “Molly, are you ready?” he asks.

“To be honest, I have no idea,” I reply.

On the front steps, a crowd has gathered, many of them dressed in imitations of my uniform, several wearing black wigs cut into perfectly blunt bobs like mine. Some hold posters saying, WE YOU, MOLLY! while others are clearly Bee-lievers, eager to meet Brown and Beagle.

“We can do this,” Juan says as he puts a steadying hand on my arm. “A few autographs, a few photos, then we go inside, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Good luck,” Mr.Preston says. “I’ll be at the auction cheering you on.”

Juan and I step out of his car, and the second we do the crowd on the stairs races our way, proffering pens and snapping photos.

“Let them by!” Speedy orders as he cuts a path up the red-carpeted stairs. “You’ll both be ballin’ soon. Can’t say I’m not mad jelly,” Speedy says to Juan as we slip past him and through the gold revolving doors.

“What’s he blathering on about?” I ask Juan once we’re delivered into the lobby.

“Nothing important,” says Juan.

I’m relieved we’re now inside, where at least I can catch my breath. Mr.Snow has corralled guests behind a maroon cordon to await entry into the tearoom. The guests are wearing bright lanyards that say Bee & Bee VIP . Some sport Hidden Treasures buttons or have photos of the Bees in hand, ready for signing. But others don’t look like typical fans. They’re serious men and women in expensive dress suits, carrying sleek portfolios. One gentleman, who’s wearing loafers with no socks and glasses I can only describe as Picassoesque, paces back and forth as he speaks on his phone. “It’s looking high. Big bidders all over the place. I’ll give you fair warning before close of bid, but if you want it, act fast.”

“Her shoes,” Juan says as he eyes a willowy woman wearing a sack-like orange muumuu and impossibly high heels. “Why are the bottoms red?” Juan asks.

“I have no idea,” I say.

Soon enough, all eyes turn our way, and there’s an audible gasp as we’re recognized. Mr.Snow, who’s been attempting to maintain order, says, “If anybody steps one foot past this cordon, say goodbye to your coveted spot in the auction room. Is that clear?”

Much to my relief, the crowd takes a step backward, and Juan and I are safe, at least for the moment. Mr.Snow dabs at his forehead with his pocket square as he walks our way.

“Mayhem,” he says by way of greeting. “Molly, I’m very happy you’re about to become a millionaire, but this event has proven extremely challenging, especially without your help.”

When plans for the auction were put in place, a week ago, Mr.Snow delegated Angela to be in charge, a decision that, I’ll admit, was a bitter pill to swallow.

“But I’m head of special events,” I said when he broke the news.

“You can’t be the star of the show and its organizer. Please, Molly. Just this once.”

I followed Mr.Snow’s logic, and as I stand in front of the “mayhem,” I realize I may have dodged a figurative bullet.

“They’re waiting for you in the tearoom,” Mr.Snow says. “The egg will be transported there shortly. It’ll be onstage during the auction.”

“We can grab it from your office,” I say. “You’re obviously busy.”

“Molly, it will be escorted by armed guards,” Mr.Snow explains.

“Oh,” I reply—yet another reality I had not considered.

Juan and I make our way to the tearoom in silence. At the entrance, I survey the room in all its glory. The layout is a bit different today, the tables clothed in white linens as usual but no tea service in sight. Instead, each place setting comprises a paddle, every one numbered uniquely. At the back of the room is a raised platform, on which three rows of desks are neatly set, each with a black rotary phone on top. The crew is setting up lights and cameras. At the front of the room, Brown’s and Beagle’s thrones are on stage right, along with an extra throne featuring a monogram I’ve not seen before—a curlicue M.

Angela appears in front of us, her fiery hair in a tizzy. For once, she’s not wearing her bartender’s apron. “Molly!” she says. “I’m gonna bust a gasket. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a bartender, not an events planner.”

“The room looks lovely,” I say.

“What’s with the desks and phones?” Juan asks, pointing to the rows at the back.

“Call-in bidders,” Angela explains. “That’s how dealers communicate with their buyers. I’m told we’ve got some heavy hitters tuning in. Do you know how long it took me to source twenty-five black rotary phones? I had Sunshine and Lily working overtime on eBay.”

The second she mentions the maids, I feel a pang of guilt. “Are they okay?” I ask. “I’ve left them short-staffed.”

“Molly,” Angela says as she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Stop worrying about everyone else for a second. Enjoy the moment.”

“She’s right, mi amor, ” says Juan. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Let’s savor it.”

Just then, Steve and the Bees emerge from the hidden paneled door to the greenroom. As usual, Steve’s irony is advertised on his baseball cap. Baxley Brown and Thomas Beagle are dressed in their debonair velvet jackets—scarlet and blue, respectively. More than a head taller than Beagle, Baxley bends to whisper something in his husband’s ear. Then both stars and the show producer make their way over to us.

“Welcome, Molly. Hello, Juan,” Beagle says.

“Nervous?” Brown asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I don’t know what to expect.”

“First off, this isn’t a regular art auction,” says Brown.

“Think of it as televised theater,” says Beagle as he waves jazz hands at me, his ringed fingers glinting under the lights.

“This is my first auction,” says Juan.

“You never forget your first, am I right?” Beagle quips as he pokes Juan in the ribs.

Juan doesn’t reply.

“Coming through!” we hear. We move out of the way as a glass display case containing the Fabergé egg is wheeled into the room by guards in bulletproof vests. “Where do you want it?” one of them asks Steve.

“In my bank account,” says Steve, and everyone but Juan and I laugh. “Put it on the spike marks onstage between the podium and the Bees’ thrones,” he instructs.

Once the display case is set, Steve calls out, “Lights!” and as if by magic, a spotlight illuminates the Fabergé as it sits on its golden pedestal, safe under glass.

“Are you going to miss it, the Fabergé?” Beagle asks me.

“My gran taught me not to covet material things,” I say. “ The only loss worth mourning is love. That’s what she used to say.”

“It’s a shame Granny’s dead—‘very dead,’ as I recall,” says Brown.

“I lost my grandfather a few months ago,” says Beagle. “It was hard.”

“He was a good man,” Brown adds as he puts a loving hand on his husband’s arm. “Dearly missed by us both.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I reply.

“We have just enough time for a quick run of show,” says Steve. “Juan, sit in that audience chair. If we cut to you, wave like crazy and jump around like you did last time, okay?”

“Okay,” says Juan as he sits in his spot.

“Molly, that’s your throne—with the monogrammed M. We had it specially made to commemorate our most popular guest ever,” Steve says.

“And our highest ratings to date,” Brown adds.

“Molly, you’ll join the Bees onstage for an intro, then we’ll cut to the sizzle reel,” says Steve. “After that, the auction begins. Baxley is our auctioneer, so he’ll take the podium. Expect lots of paddles in the air, Bax, and pay close attention to the dealers at the back. They’re on the line with art collectors all over the world. Got it?”

Steve looks from face to face, and I realize I’m the only one who still has questions.

“But how does it end?” I ask.

“Highest bidder wins. When that gavel comes down, Molly, it’s done. And you’re rich.” Steve claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s get everyone in here. Where’s the hotel manager? What’s his name? Mr.Sweaty?”

“Mr.Snow,” I say, my voice cutting over the crew’s guffaws.

“I’ll get him,” Angela volunteers, but before she leaves, she turns to me. “Don’t pass out this time, okay?”

“A live Fabergé faint!” says Steve. “Camera Two—zoom in close if it happens.”

Angela gives my hand a squeeze, then rushes off to find Mr.Snow.

“Let’s retire to the greenroom, Molly,” says Beagle as he takes my arm. “It’s almost showtime.”

—

“And three, two, one…and we’re live to air!”

“Hi, everyone. Welcome to this special edition of Hidden Treasures, where I, Baxley Brown…”

“…and I, Thomas Beagle, appraise your long-lost works of art, taking the mystery out of history!”

“We’re thrilled to have you here today for this rare live auction show, where we will change the life of one very special person. After last week’s episode, you’ve come to know her well and to love her, too. She’s trending, she’s an It Girl, she’s the woman of the week and maybe even the woman of the year! She’s entrusted us today with the sale of something almost as precious as she is—her priceless Fabergé egg. She’s Molly the Maid, but I know she’s so much more than that to all of you. Come on out here, Molly, and lap up the love!”

I push through the greenroom door and take the stairs to the stage. The lights blind me, and the tearoom audience is whooping so loudly it takes all my willpower not to stop my ears with my hands. Beagle guides me to my throne. I perch shakily on the edge.

“Give the audience a wave, Molly,” Beagle instructs, and I do.

“She waves just like a queen,” says Brown as the audience laughs.

“Molly, we’re thrilled to have you here today, and even more thrilled to be selling your egg on live TV!” Beagle says.

“In one week, as a result of Hidden Treasures, wouldn’t you say your life has completely changed?”

“If you mean it’s been turned upside down, absolutely,” I reply.

“Have you splurged? Have you gone out and bought something amazing to celebrate?” asks Brown.

“Some fancy tea towels. Very absorbent.”

The crowd laughs and laughs.

“Now before you ask, I’ll tell you plainly, Molly, that the whole wide world is laughing with you not at you. Over the past week, you’ve become a media darling, the world’s favorite girl next door…”

“So beyond buying tea towels,” says Beagle, “what else will you do when you get your millions?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I say. “I’m still thinking it through.”

“Surely there’s something exciting you’ll spend the money on. After all, wedding bells are in your future.”

“Yes,” I say. “Juan Manuel and I are getting married in just a few weeks.”

The camera cuts to Juan in his chef whites, grinning and waving in the front row, but his smile looks forced and strange. I’m reminded of how Gran once taught me that a smile does not always mean someone is happy. Juan’s face is living proof.

“We hear you’ve been making preparations for your special day. The Hidden Treasures film crew has been following you all week. What do you think, folks—would you like to see a day in the life of Molly the Maid?”

The crowd hoots and hollers as a screen drops behind us, and suddenly, the reel begins to sizzle. There I am, in a guest’s room at the hotel, vacuuming the carpet into Zen-garden lines. When I turn off the machine, someone off camera asks if I’d ever run for office. “I’m just a maid,” I reply. The live audience laughs and claps.

Next, I’m at home on the sofa squished between Juan and my gran-dad as we watch TV. The crowd giggles as we pass a bowl of popcorn between us. Cut to the bridal shop with Angela, where I’m emerging from the change room in a beautiful wedding gown. Women are suddenly jumping all around me, and while I know they’re strangers, everyone watching thinks they’re my bridesmaids.

Cut to Angela sitting on a white satin bench, tears in her eyes. “You’re beautiful,” Angela mouths. “You’re more than a maid!”

What? I can’t believe what I’m watching. Those aren’t the words Angela said at all. And the tears she shed at that moment had nothing to do with joy.

The reel ends and silence descends upon the room. The audience is sniffing and sniveling. The Bees have removed their pocket squares from their jackets and are making a big show of dabbing their eyes.

“Does everyone in this room need a tissue for their issue?” I ask.

More laughter.

“We love you, Molly!” someone calls out from the crowd.

“I don’t know why,” I reply. “I’m not sure what you all see in me.”

“We see that you’re adorable,” Brown says as he crosses his long legs.

“Molly, how does it feel to watch your life on the big screen?” Beagle asks.

“Things didn’t happen quite like that,” I say. “In reality, it was different.”

“Reality is always different. And speaking of reality, the time has come, Molly, for us to address the reason we’re here: to auction your exquisite Fabergé,” says Brown.

“Are you ready?” Beagle asks.

“It’s been a fixture in my life for a long time. My gran and I used to have a savings account we called our Fabergé—a joke, since we had so little money in it.”

“I suspect your savings account will soon be worthy of the name,” says Beagle. “Bax, your gavel.”

Beagle passes his partner a small wooden hammer that fits in the palm of his hand.

Brown assumes his imposing height and strides across to the podium as the lights overhead shift, illuminating for the first time the glorious Fabergé in its protective glass case in the middle of the stage. The crowd gasps as it comes into view.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Brown as he gestures to the egg. “I’m thrilled to present an objet d’art unique in all the world, the likes of which has not been seen or catalogued in art literature for over a hundred years. Featuring gold trelliswork and a cabriolet base, encrusted in quatrefoils comprising ten rubies, twenty rose-cut diamonds, and over thirty Russian emeralds, this singular prototype egg is the original design upon which all the famous imperial Romanov Easter eggs were based. The house that created it is well known to art aficionados, jewel collectors, historians, academics, and Hidden Treasures fans the world over. That house is Fabergé.”

Quiet whispers travel around the room. The lights change again, plummeting the egg into darkness and illuminating Brown’s tall form at the podium. He squares his shoulders to match his jaw, speaking with grave authority. “We’ll begin today’s bidding at a cool five million dollars, offered from a call-in client at the back. Do I have five million five? Five point five million dollars?” Brown scans the paddles flinging up all over the room.

“No shy bidders today. We have five-five, going up to six, do we have six million—yes!” says Brown as he points to a caller at the back. “Six million to Madame Orange on the phone, welcome, madam. Do I have seven? Seven million? Seven million to Mr.Wigham at table five—nice to see you, sir. Eight, eight five from our bidder in black. Do we have nine, nine million dollars? Yes, we do at table two. Let’s jump to nine five, nine million five hundred thousand dollars…”

As Brown repeats his banter, the bidders at the back consult with the clients on the phone lines, covering their mouths as they talk so no one can read their lips.

Brown natters on as the active bidders thin to just three. The tension mounts, but Brown maintains composure, enticing the bids higher and higher until he says, “Nine million nine hundred thousand dollars to our audacious bidder in black. Thank you, sir.” He pauses, then places both hands on the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, as we approach a seven-zero bid, I want to remind you that not only is the work of art on auction today unique in all the world, but its current owner, Molly Gray, is a pop culture phenom and the maid of the moment. Do I have ten million dollars?”

The air in the room feels dense. The silence is deafening.

“Ten million! To Madame Orange, with her client on the line. Ten million one. Ten million, one hundred thousand dollars. Anyone?”

Brown eyes the crowd with his piercing blue stare. “This is fair warning,” he says as he holds his gavel high in the air.

“And sold!” he proclaims, pounding the gavel down, the sound ricocheting throughout the room. “Ten million dollars even. Thank you very much to your client, madam, and thanks to all of you who’ve joined us today.”

The lights go up and the Hidden Treasures theme music starts to play as polite applause issues from the crowd. Brown and Beagle unite at the front of the stage—one tall, one small—and both of them wave and shake hands with bidders as the cameras zoom in to close out the show.

It’s then I hear a shout from the crowd.

“Wait!”

There’s a cacophony of sound—music and chatter and gasps—but above it all, that voice again, so familiar.

“El huevo!”

In the front row, Juan is standing, waving his arms and pointing at the glass case at center stage.

It’s then that I realize why he’s clamoring for attention. The display case is still there, a spotlight now shining gently down on it, but the precious egg that was inside it when the auction began has vanished.