The ride from the old Kensington residence to the mansion of the so-called "Master" unfolded in tense silence. Veronika spent the trip staring out the window with an expression of offended boredom, convinced that nothing she saw would meet her standards. When the vehicle finally stopped, her inner sarcasm lit up at the sight of the exterior—or rather, the lack of decoration—of the estate.
She stepped out of the car with theatrical flair, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. Before her stood a building with clear brutalist architecture: a sober portico and discreet pillars. Hedges trimmed with almost geometric precision lined the path, more functional than aesthetic, and the afternoon light cast clean shadows across the walls. Nothing in that place resembled the kind of opulence Veronika considered natural.
The main door opened, revealing a stern-looking woman dressed in an unadorned grey suit. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun, and her serene, analytical expression showed neither submission nor reverence.
—You must be Veronika Kensington —the woman said in a neutral tone—. I'm Annna, the housekeeper. The Master is not home, so I'll be in charge of your adaptation for the time being.
Veronika inspected her coldly, expecting to find some sign of fear or servility—but there was none.
—In your charge? —she repeated with disdain—. I think you fail to grasp the category of the person standing before you.
—On the contrary —Annna replied, unfazed—. I was informed of your arrival: a young woman with a prestigious surname and a difficult temperament. That's all I need to know. —She stepped aside and gestured toward the interior—. Come in.
The redhead entered the foyer, its polished floors echoing her footsteps. The space was immaculate, almost clinical, and the absence of luxurious furnishings or striking decorations confirmed the austerity she had been warned about. Annna led her down a lit corridor, with closed doors on either side, until they stopped at the last one.
—This will be your room —she announced in a laconic voice, opening the door.
The room was narrow, with a single bed and a plain wardrobe. No vanity, no full-length mirror, no armchairs. A grey, empty environment, as functional as the rest of the house.
—You expect me to sleep in this crap? —Veronika snapped with a look of disgust—. My wardrobe alone could take up more space than this room.
Annna crossed her arms.
—For now, yes. Eventually, you'll have something better, but it's something you'll have to earn. The Master prefers that anyone who comes here understands the value of work, regardless of where they come from.
—Earn it? —Veronika scoffed, dropping her suitcase onto the bed—. I'm the daughter of a powerful businessman, not a maid who needs to "earn" favors.
—As I said, anyone who comes here must understand the value of work. That includes you. —Annna's eyes were as cold as the rest of the mansion—. I warn you, if you don't adapt to the rules, you'll have problems.
An awkward silence hung in the air. Veronika clenched her jaw, irritated that her attempts to command respect had no effect. She decided to end the scene:
—Fine then. I'll stay for a while —she said with biting disdain—, but only until my father finds out about these "conditions" you're trying to impose on me.
Annna gave her an enigmatic look and left, leaving Veronika alone. The young woman began rummaging through the room, opening drawers in search of something that might remind her of the comfort she was used to. Peeking into the bathroom, she found shelves full of detergent and cleaning products; not a single cream or quality shampoo.
—This is like a lab experiment —she muttered, feeling another wave of anger—. Not even a damn decent soap.
First Night: Unacceptable Space
The bed, just as hard as it looked, reminded her that comfort was not a priority in that house. Veronika, used to feather mattresses and soft sheets, spent the night with internal complaints and growing bad temper. Eventually, a restless sleep overtook her, full of confusing images where the mansion looked like a giant operating room and she was the only "patient" under constant inspection.
She woke up with a sharp pain in her back, grumbling under her breath. She headed to the bathroom hoping to find at least soft towels, but the ones she found were rough and smelled faintly of industrial soap. Seeing her red hair in the tiny mirror—rebellious and dull—she had to stifle a scream.
—So this is what you call "starting the day," father… —she whispered cynically—. You really made a big mistake.
She splashed cold water on her face, trying to calm the moral filth she felt from being treated like "just another girl."
Then, she heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. Opening the door, she found Annna, wearing the same authoritative demeanor as the day before.
—Good morning, Veronika. I expect you in the kitchen in five minutes.—For what? —Veronika's gaze was pure venom—. I'm not one of your maids.—Everyone works here. And yes, that includes you. —Annna held her gaze—. Don't expect any privileges until you prove what you're capable of.
Veronika clenched her fists, aware she had no options. She muttered under her breath and prepared to follow, reminding herself this was all just a temporary game. "I'll endure a bit until I find a way out of this prison."
Encounter with Luna: Courtesy and Contempt
The kitchen was a spacious room, with gleaming worktables and perfectly arranged utensils. A group of young women moved back and forth, chopping vegetables and stirring ingredients. One of them, with clear eyes and a gentle smile, greeted her:
—Hi, I'm Luna. Nice to meet you. —Her tone was surprisingly kind.—I'd appreciate it if you didn't fake friendliness —Veronika replied coldly—. I'm here by obligation, not because I enjoy your company.
Luna blinked, a little surprised, but kept her composure.
—Alright, as you wish. Either way, you'll have to help out. Maybe you could start by washing the dishes or cutting meat.
At the word "meat," Veronika tilted her head in disgust.
—Do you really think I'll touch raw food? —She raised her eyebrows, incredulous—. Not a chance.
Annna, who was supervising, stepped in:
—If you won't touch the meat, at least wash the dishes. It's a simple task, isn't it?
Veronika looked down at the sink, full of food scraps and unappealing soapy foam.
—Only if you give me gloves. —She pursed her lips—. I'm not exposing my hands to that filth.
Luna shook her head, trying not to laugh:
—We don't give gloves to newbies, sorry.
The redhead felt rage boil in her chest, but she held it back. She walked to the sink and picked up the sponge as carefully as if it were a delicate crystal. She narrowed her eyes as she scrubbed off the grease, never losing her expression of disgust.
When she finished, she sighed with feigned exhaustion:
—Done. —She looked around—. Now… who makes my breakfast?
A surprised silence fell over the kitchen. Luna let out an incredulous laugh:
—You expect to be served like at your mansion? Here, food is made by everyone. If you don't help, you don't eat.
Veronika sat on a stool, crossing her arms.
—Well, I refuse to cook anything. I've had enough contact with "unbearable substances" —she replied, stressing the last words with acid.
The others continued their work, not paying her much attention. In less than ten minutes, breakfast was ready: scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and fresh fruit. Then, Annna motioned for Veronika to sit at the table with the rest.
—Let's see if your refined palate can handle this —Annna said with a hint of irony.
—I doubt it —Veronika responded, rising arrogantly—. I'm used to real breakfasts, not this trash menu.
No one contradicted her or invited her again. The girls simply started eating in silence, as if she were invisible. Veronika swallowed hard, feeling a pang of hunger. She managed to keep her chin up, unwilling to give in even as her stomach protested.
—Your choice —Luna murmured—. But don't complain later if you're starving.
Veronika turned her face away, feigning indifference. When everyone finished, they stood up in unison, cleared the table, and left the kitchen spotless. She remained on her stool, not knowing quite what to do.
Return to the Room: A New Routine
After breakfast, Annna guided her through a maze of hallways and rooms, showing her the storage areas, the service quarters, and, to her surprise, a large indoor garden for growing vegetables.
—This place is maintained by the work of every staff member. So either you contribute, or you're not welcome.
—What a surprise —Veronika replied mockingly—. Are you going to make me plant carrots too? How poetic.
—Wouldn't surprise me if the Master assigned you something like that —Annna shrugged—. We don't distinguish bloodlines when there's work to do.
Veronika stayed silent, feeling the weight of reality pressing on the back of her neck. "Sooner or later, my father will come for me," she repeated to herself, trying to keep her dignity intact. "I'm not meant to stay here washing dishes and planting vegetables."
Finally, Annna led her back to her room. The clock read a little past ten, but for Veronika, it had felt like an eternity. Her arms were heavy and her pride increasingly battered.
—Read these rules —Annna handed her a sheet with schedules and responsibilities—. That way you avoid embarrassing yourself through ignorance.
Veronika gave it a quick glance, frowning: wake up at six, eat breakfast with the group, daily work assignments… A routine worthy of a disciplinary institution.
—This is offensive to my intelligence —she snapped, tossing the sheet onto the bed—. Absurd bureaucracy.
—If you refuse to follow it, don't expect any leniency. —Annna shrugged—. Your stay in this house depends on your willingness to obey.
She closed the door behind her, leaving Veronika with the sensation of being cornered in a test with no way out. She collapsed onto the bed, her stomach growling, reminding her of the breakfast she had scorned.She turned toward the wall, a knot of frustration tightening in her throat.
—This is a damn minimalist hell —she muttered.Her eyelids slowly closed, worn down by physical exhaustion and internal rage. In the middle of uneasy dreams, the image of the mansion rose again, white and sterile like a hospital, with her as the only patient forced into a constant test of discipline.
She didn't know how much more she could endure—but she refused to admit weakness. Or at least, refused to show it.