Chapter 1
The sharp clap of skin echoed through the manor, face swelled. A young woman's voice ended the silence, with words so cruel like a gunshot,
"You don't have the right to clean your clothes, you are just a dirty bastard," followed by another slap, the sound of fabric ripping, and the silence of the girl on the floor. Knees were tinted red. Camille, her stepsister, spoke again.
"Remember your fucking place, filthy parasite." The sound of heels clapping faded into the long corridor.
The girl picked herself up, and the ripped piece of cloth, a hollowness in her eyes.
"ah, I didn't die this time either."
Her bare feet rang through the marble. Carrying her bare, humiliated appearance, she walked out the main door. She didn’t try to cover herself or soothe the burning on her cheeks; she just walked. The servants were all too familiar with this—they turned a blind eye to her. Outside, the cold air hit her skin like needles, the grass poking her feet. She walked inside a hut, walls cracked, cold air flowing in through it. Except for the cold floor and a few pieces of fabric, there was nothing else. She rummaged through the pile, pulling out a muddy white dress, half torn, half hanging for dear life, and wore it.
Then a voice called,
"Zheyna, come outside, we need extra hands for cleaning," a voice of a small girl, daughter of the head maid.
Zheyna went outside, hair tied like a knot, following the girl's steps and direction. Inside the manor, in the guest room, other people were already cleaning and dusting. The girl pointed at the mop and hinted for her to start working.
"Finish this soon, you guys have other work pending as well," the little girl said, already walking out of the room and disappearing into the corridor.
The maids whispered,
"Have you heard? Apparently it's an important guest arriving today," said one voice, followed by multiple others.
"I know right, I've heard the young miss say it's Duke Corvain."
"The same marquis rumoured to be involved in smuggling drugs?"
"Yea, it's like some kind of business."
Zheyna listened but paid it no mind, her hands busy mopping the floor with the wet fabric till it reflected like a mirror. After everyone was done, they all marched into the kitchen to prepare for the dinner. Zheyna was peeling the vegetables and washing them.
The sound of a carriage came loud, the fake giggles and bootlicking of the count and his wife. The servants ran around the place, rushing with tea, refreshments, etc.
Some panicked,
"ah shit! I forgot the sugar!!!" Now everyone was in panic.
They looked at Zheyna; she always got punished anyway—what mattered if she took the blame one more time?
"Zheyna dear, I will give you my portion of cookies, please take the sugar to them," one maid said, the others joining in.
"yeah, I have got an extra dress as well, I'll give it to you."
Zheyna nodded and took the sugar. Most of her actions were devoid of words. Her steps clapped against the marble. She walked into the living room. Her skin prickled, feeling the gaze of a few.
"Here's the sugar," her voice was low but clear, placing it on the table.
She didn’t look at anyone—not the count, nor his wife, nor the guest—just the floor and the plate of sugar. A burning sensation spread across her hands, hot tea turning her skin red.
"You useless thing, can't you do one thing right? Ungrateful wrench," the count's wife yelled.
The Count shot a glare at her, hinting at the guest present. Zheyna lowered her head and apologized. Her words—not quite having the tone—but they sufficed. She walked back to the kitchen only to reappear again, with a mop to clean the tea on the floor. She felt eyes on her, her own eyes focused on the tea-stained floor. She was used to stares, but something about this was different. The count and his wife were too busy to look at her, and the guards didn’t care. Like someone possessed by sudden curiosity, she turned her head back. The expensive fabric of the pants came into view. She moved her gaze up slowly, like time had paused, the noise of the background disappearing. The scent of wood and leather filled her nostrils. Her eyes met his jawline—relaxed, deliberate, perfect posture. Then lips, a smirk, so subtle it could have been imagined. Then eyes—the black piercing eyes—looking right into hers. It wasn’t a gaze she was familiar with. It looked at her the same, like she was a piece of dirt. But something about it made her heart race, blood rushing in her veins, a tiny spark of light in her eyes. She slowly got up, mop in her hand. The man's eyes followed her movement until she disappeared into the kitchen.
"You will not regret working with us, we can guarantee–" the count continued his blabbering.
“Empty words,” the man cut him off. His voice was silk stretched thin.
“I need a reason to trust you. Show me your sincerity.” The words flowed like a thread in the air, smooth but hanging.
"Of course, but how can we?" The count's wife smiled through the words, despite her growing frustration.
"your possessions," he spoke like a Siren luring in the sailors.
"I'm afraid I don't follow Duke Corvain," said the count.
"That maid just now, she looks familiar, doesn't she?" Rather than a question, it was more of an implication.
"Just like you. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd think she’s your child." He lit the fire. The Count's wife stabbed the count's thigh with her nails, showing her anger clearly.
"What are you trying to say, duke? That's a bold accusation. I feel very disrespected." The Count’s cup fell on the table—thankfully it was empty. A tremor in his voice gave away his anxiety.
"She will prove your sincerity, give her to me. Since she is just a maid. Right?" A smug grin spread across Corvain's face as he put his teacup on the table.
The Count's wife jumped in,
"yes absolutely, take that thing, she is useless anyways.” She said. Corvain raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, you can do whatever you want with her. She is just a maid," she added, glaring at the count, daring him to oppose. The Count, despite feeling anxious about this, agreed.
“Since you have taken an interest in her, we'll be sure to satisfy you. We will deliver her to your estate personally.” They both said, finishing each other's sentences.
“I look forward to working with you,” Corvain said, the corner of his lips slightly tilted.
Servants soon set the dining table, bringing in dish after dish. A lavish meal. Zheyna poured the wine, the chilled bottle tinting her hand slightly red. Corvain's eyes stalked her movements, sizing her up and down. She smelled the same woody scent; her eyes instinctively fell on him. Corvain kept his eye on her—the way the golden strands fell on her face, her dark blue eyes locked on him, even the red tint on her hands. After the servants brought the last dish, they were dismissed, only the head maid remaining there. Zheyna and the others began cleaning the kitchen.
The noise faded away. Zheyna, done with scraping the pots, left the kitchen. She walked through the grass field to her hut. The dark sky hung above her head, the moonlight fell on her silhouette, cold air hitting her skin, making the hair on her arms perk up. She saw the carriage ready to leave. Suddenly, she saw someone walking toward her. The air shifted; she knew that smell.
The face soon came into view—the same black eyes bore into hers.
His eyes looked her up and down. Her dress was all greasy and damp, drops of black oil on the ends of her blonde hair.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other.
“Can I help you?” The pounding of her heart filled the air. Sweat dropped down her neck, despite the cold temperature.
“you will come with me.” His voice was a low growl, much like a final verdict.
“I– but where–”
He grabbed her by the wrist and hoisted her onto his shoulder, carrying her like a sack of potatoes. His shoulder bones stabbed her stomach.
Zheyna, in surprise, gasped.
“Let me down, I can walk—” she whined.
Corvain paid her resistance no mind, tightening his grip on her hip—a warning to shut her up.
He threw her onto the carriage carpet.
“Tell the count, I took the insurance,” he ordered his men, getting into the carriage himself.
“Where are you taking me?” Zheyna asked, looking up at the man—it wasn’t a question in protest, but something else.
~To be continued
