For a single, fleeting moment, I feel almost… okay. The food is a warm ball in my stomach. His words, however twisted, felt like a momentary respite. A flicker of humanity in this abyss.
That flicker dies the second I step back into the corridor.
It’s a war zone.
I spent hours on my hands and knees scrubbing every bit of the floor clean but now there is a dark, sticky-looking liquid splashed all over it.
A pile of dust and crumbs has been deliberately scattered over the tops of antique furniture. It’s been utterly, completely, and obviously trashed.
And I know with a certainty that cracks that I’m going to be held responsible for this.
Ilet out a long, slow breath, the weight of the day sloughing from my shoulders like a heavy cloak as I walk into the room. The faint, lingering ache behind my eyes is a testament to the three new contracts secured, and our empire expanded by another fraction of an inch. It is a good ache. A productive one.
“Master.”
The voice is a soft melody, and I open my eyes to see my sanctuary come to life. Julie rises from the chaise lounge, her movements fluid and unhurried. She is a vision in deep emerald silk, her red hair cascading over her shoulders. Felice, a contrast in cream and gold, is already gliding toward the decanter, her smile knowing. Anya, quiet and watchful, is already arranging the cushions by my chair.
And then there is Grace.
She stands slightly apart, near the bookshelves, as if trying to blend into the spines of leather-bound books. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, her posture rigid. She wears a simple grey dress, a stark contrast to the opulence of the others. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I can feel the tension radiating from her across the room.
“Come,” I say, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room. It is not a request.
They move with the practiced ease of a well-rehearsed ballet. I sink into my high-backed armchair, the leather groaning softly in welcome. Anya is behind me before I’m fully settled, her cool fingers finding my temples, pressing into the knots of the day with unerring accuracy. A soft sigh escapes me. Her touchis expert, a perfect balance of pressure and gentleness learned over years of studying my moods, my needs.
Felice kneels at my feet, lifting one and then the other, removing my shoes with a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. She begins to work the soles, her strong thumbs digging into the arch, melting away the residual stress of a day spent pacing and standing. She hums a tuneless little melody, lost in the simple pleasure of her task.
Julie doesn’t ask. She simply lays her head in my lap, a cascade of fiery red hair spilling over my thighs. I let my hand rest on her head, my fingers automatically threading through the silken strands, stroking, petting. She lets out a contented murmur, nuzzling closer, a cat basking in the sun. Her entire being is an offering of tranquillity.
This is order, this is harmony. Each woman has her role, her place, her value. They compete for my attention, yes, but it is a healthy competition, a dance that reinforces the hierarchy I have built. They understand the economy of my affection. It must be earned through obedience, through usefulness, through beauty.
All except one.
My gaze, which had drifted closed in pleasure, finds Grace again. She is still standing there, a statue of unease. She is watching them, a faint, almost imperceptible line of disapproval between her brows. She thinks this is sinful. Weakness. She doesn’t understand that this—this total, willing submission—is the ultimate display of my strength.
A familiar, dark curl of obsession tightens in my gut. I have broken powerful men, I have seized fortunes and crushed rebellions. Yet this one girl, with her defiant silence remains a locked box to which I have not yet found the key. I want her compliance not just because I demand it, but because she chooses to give it.
Why does she resist? Why does she force me to play this tedious game? She is here. She has lost. Her family is ashes, their legacy mine. Her resistance is a fantasy, a ghost she clings to. She is as stubborn as her mother was. The thought is a brooding, bitter tonic. Elaine fought me to her last breath, too. She neverunderstood that some battles are lost the moment they are begun. Apparently, her daughter is determined to repeat her mistakes.
Only, I will not allow it.
“Dumpling,” I say, and my voice softer than I intend. The other three women still their movements almost imperceptibly, their attention sharpening. They sense a shift in the atmosphere, the introduction of a discordant note into their symphony.
She flinches, just slightly, then lifts her chin but not enough to look me in the face. “Ma, master.”
Even the way she says my name is a small rebellion.
“The others are attending to their duties,” I observe, my fingers never ceasing their rhythm in Julie’s hair. “You look idle.”
“I, I was awaiting instruction,” she replies, her broken voice tight with something so close to panic.
“Were you? Or were you judging theirs?” I let the question hang, watching the colour rise in her cheeks. She has no answer. She was judging, of course she was. “No matter. Idle hands are of no use to anyone. Felice, bring me that box.”
Felice looks up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but she recovers instantly. She reaches for the small, ornate wooden box on a side table and brings it to me. I take it, resting it on the arm of my chair. The others watch with keen interest. They know this box. It contains small, mundane tasks; polishing stones, sorting beads by colour, untangling fine chains. Beginner’s tasks. Tasks for a new girl learning her place, for someone who needs to be reminded of the patience and humility required to serve.
I open the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet is a simple silver chain, intricately and deliberately knotted into a hopeless snarl of metal.
“You will untangle this,” I say, holding the box out to her. “Use the tools provided. Do not rush. Precision is everything.”
