# Chapter 35: The Hidden Gun and a Desperate Wife
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 35 of "The Housemaid's Secret." And oh, my dear friends, this is a chapter that will make your heart pound. We're standing on the edge of something dark and dangerous—a secret hidden inside a book, a desperate woman's last resort, and a maid who has to make some impossible choices. So settle in, because this is going to be intense.
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The evening had settled over the penthouse like a heavy blanket. I was in the kitchen, busy preparing dinner, when Wendy appeared in the doorway. Her bruised face had healed remarkably well—the angry purple fading into a sickly yellow—and she no longer flinched with every step. That gave me a small measure of hope. But the look in her eyes was anything but calm.
"Dinner is almost ready," I told her, trying to sound cheerful.
She lingered there for a moment, as if wrestling with words she was afraid to speak. Finally, she said, "I need to talk to you for a moment, Millie. Can you come into the living room?"
The food could wait a few minutes, so I followed her. There was a strange expression on her face—something between awe and despair—and I felt a flash of worry. A couple of days ago, I had promised her I would find a way out of her situation. I hadn't delivered on that promise yet. I was still trying to figure out how to do it without involving Enzo. But now, something had changed.
Wendy led me to a bookcase in the corner of the room, her limp more pronounced as she climbed the small set of stairs to a hallway bookcase. She pulled out what appeared to be an ordinary dictionary, heavy and unassuming. But when she flipped it open, my blood ran cold.
The dictionary had been hollowed out completely.
Inside was a gun.
I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth. "Oh my God. That belongs to Douglas?"
She nodded, her voice trembling. "I knew he had a gun somewhere in the house, but I never knew where he kept it."
"He doesn't even lock it up?" I couldn't believe it. Then again, Douglas Winslow was a man who believed he was untouchable.
"I guess he wants to be able to get to it quickly if he needs to." Wendy lifted the gun out of the hollow book. She held it awkwardly, like someone who had never touched a weapon in her life. But her intent was clear. "This is a way out."
My heart nearly stopped. "No. No. Trust me, no matter how desperate you are, you do not want to do this."
I know something about desperation. I've been to places so dark that I thought the only way out was to do something drastic. But I was never, ever going down that road again—and neither should Wendy. Yet she wasn't listening to me. She held the gun with both shaking hands and pointed it across the room. Her finger wasn't on the trigger, but her intention was written all over her face.
"Please don't do that," I begged.
"It's loaded too," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I looked up how to check. It's got five bullets in it."
I couldn't stop shaking my head. "Wendy, you don't want to do this. I promise you."
She turned to look at me, her left cheekbone still purple from her husband's fist. "What choice do I have?"
"Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?"
"I'm already there."
Those three words hit me like a brick. She was right. Douglas had made her life a living prison—isolated, controlled, and slowly starving her. But I couldn't let her do this. As gently as I could, I tugged the gun out of her hands and laid it back down on the desk.
"Listen to me. You don't want to do this. There's another way."
But she shook her head, her eyes empty. "I don't believe you anymore."
I imagined Wendy pointing that gun at Douglas's face. With the way she was trembling, she would probably miss even at close range. "Do you even have any idea how to fire this thing?"
She shrugged, a hollow mockery of indifference. "You point it at whoever you want to kill, then you pull the trigger. It's not rocket science."
"There's a little more to it than that."
Her eyes widened with sudden fascination. "Have you ever shot a gun before, Millie?"
I hesitated a beat too long. Yes, I had a little bit of experience. Enzo had insisted it was a good skill to know, so we'd gone to a firing range a few times, taken a safety course, gotten certificates. But I was hardly an expert. "Sort of."
She gave me a meaningful look, her voice low and desperate. "Millie..."
"No." I picked up the gun, placed it back in the fake dictionary, and snapped it shut. "That's not going to happen."
Whatever Wendy was about to say next was cut short by the grinding sound of the elevator doors opening. Panic shot through me. I shoved the dictionary back onto the shelf where I'd found it while Wendy dashed into the guest bedroom with shocking speed for someone so injured. I hurried down the stairs, hoping Douglas wouldn't realize what we'd been doing.
But of course, Douglas Winslow misses nothing.
He wandered into the living room and looked slightly taken aback to see me coming down the stairs. His thick black eyebrows crept up his forehead. "I thought you would be preparing dinner?"
"I am," I assured him, my voice surprisingly steady. "It's in the oven right now."
"I see..." His deep-set eyes studied my face carefully, long enough to make me squirm. "What's for dinner then?"
"Roasted chicken breast, potato purée, and glazed carrots," I replied, even though the menu had been meticulously planned by Douglas himself.
He thought it over for a moment, playing the role of the gracious host. "Don't put any potatoes on my wife's plate. They upset her stomach."
"Okay..."
"And just a half portion of chicken for her," he added. "She hasn't been well, and I doubt she'll be able to eat much."
I nodded and returned to the kitchen, my mind churning. As I drained the potatoes that Wendy would never get to taste, the truth finally hit me like a cold wave.
Douglas is the one who brings Wendy her food every night. He controls every bite that goes into her mouth. He decides what she eats, when she eats, and how much. That's why she was so painfully thin. That's why she was so weak. On top of everything else—the abuse, the isolation, the psychological torment—he was systematically starving her. It was just another way to control her, to keep her vulnerable, to kill her spirit.
Wendy was right. This needed to come to an end.
And on the plus side? Now I could safely spit in the potato purée.
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**Reader's Impressions & Star Rating:**
Oh, my heart is racing just thinking about this chapter! The tension was absolutely unbearable—from the moment Wendy revealed that hidden gun, I couldn't breathe. Freida McFadden has a gift for making you feel every ounce of the characters' desperation. I loved how Millie took charge in that moment, refusing to let Wendy make a catastrophic mistake, even while fully understanding her pain. And the ending—Douglas calmly dictating exactly what Wendy can't eat while Millie silently rebels by spitting in the potatoes—was such a perfect mix of dark humor and righteous fury. This chapter had me on the edge of my seat, and I just want to keep reading. For me, this chapter deserves a solid ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars.
**Next Chapter Prediction:**
Now that Millie has discovered both the gun hidden in the dictionary and the terrifying extent of Douglas's control over Wendy's every meal, I think she's going to make a choice. She can't delay any longer—she's going to call Enzo, even if it's late, because she knows this situation is about to explode. But Douglas is suspicious of Millie now. He saw her coming down those stairs. I predict the next chapter will bring a confrontation where Douglas confronts Millie about her snooping, and Wendy might just be pushed to the breaking point. Will Millie get to the gun before Wendy does? Or will Douglas's rage finally boil over in a way no one can stop?
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