The next morning, the schedule was still there.
Mocking me.
Its glossy lamination gleamed under the morning sun, untouched by time, immune to my quiet resentment. I stared at it as I lay motionless on the bed, wondering if that would be my life now—measured in hours I didn't choose, filled with duties I didn't ask for, dictated by a man who never even looked me in the eyes unless he wanted something.
"6AM – Wake up."
The clock read 6:02.
I didn't move.
Maybe if I stayed still long enough, they'd forget about me. Maybe Claiborne would barge in and find a lifeless doll instead of the puppet she wanted.
But life didn't offer such kindness in this house.
By 6:04, the door creaked open. No knock. No warning.
Diana.
Still too new to be cruel. Still too kind to last.
"Miss, I've drawn your bath."
Her voice was soft. Careful.
I sat up, wordless, and let her lead me through the routine. She didn't talk much—just helped me dress, pinned my hair, and gently handed me the same shoes that had skinned my heels the day before.
By 7:58AM, I was in the study again, waiting.
At 8:01, Claiborne arrived.
"Late," she clipped, her heels echoing like bullets on marble.
"I'm sorry."
She didn't reply—just handed me a thin book and commanded, "Read the passage aloud. Enunciate. Sit tall."
I did. My voice trembled over words I used to know, now foreign under pressure.
Slap.
The ruler landed on my palm before I even saw it coming.
"Sloppy."
Slap.
"Again."
Each correction came with pain. But I didn't cry. I didn't flinch.
That was what she wanted.
To see me break and crumble.
But I wouldn't give her the pleasure.
By noon, my throat was raw, my palms red, and my spine aching from hours of stiff posture.
Lunch was quiet.
Lonely.
Except for the ever-watching eyes behind the glass, the staff who moved like shadows, and Diana—who poured tea with silent concern.
She whispered as she set the cup down, "Cassie's coming today."
That name twisted something in me.
Cassie.
His girlfriend.
The one who didn't have a schedule on her wall. The one who didn't wear bruises under silk. The one he chose.
I didn't know if it was jealousy or shame that clawed through my chest, but I nodded.
"Thank you," I murmured.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a daze. I sat in the reading room, pretending to study a book while my mind drifted.
What did Cassie think of me?
Did she know what Damien had done—what he was still doing?
Was I just some sick part of his revenge game?
By six, the air shifted.
Damien's presence always made the walls colder somehow, like the house held its breath when he arrived.
Dinner was different tonight.
Formal.
Servants stood straighter. The plates were changed. Crystal glasses shimmered under the chandelier's glow.
And then she walked in.
Cassie.
Tall. Elegant. Golden hair cascading in waves. A smile that looked real, but eyes that said otherwise.
She leaned in to kiss Damien's cheek, and he allowed it—but his eyes flicked to me.
Just for a second.
Enough to make my blood freeze.
"I see you've trained her well," Cassie purred as she sat across from me.
I didn't look up. My gaze stayed fixed on the polished fork in my hand, though my knuckles whitened.
Damien didn't answer.
Dinner began.
Silence was the sauce they served everything with.
"Is she allowed to speak?" Cassie asked after a while, voice dripping amusement.
Still, I said nothing.
Damien finally glanced up from his glass. "Only when spoken to."
Cassie laughed.
I wanted to disappear.
But Cassie wasn't done.
She leaned slightly toward me, voice sweet but sharp. "You don't look like much of a threat, you know. If I were you, I'd stop hoping for a rescue. No one's coming, sweetheart. He keeps his toys locked up tight."
I looked up then.
Just once.
Our eyes met. Mine dull, hers alive with venom.
"I'm not a toy," I said quietly.
The silence that followed sliced through the room.
Damien's gaze cut to me, unreadable.
Cassie leaned back, surprised. Then she smiled.
"Oh? Then what are you?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know yet.
But I would.
That night, I wasn't allowed to cry in the bath.
Not because I didn't want to—but because Diana stayed, silently brushing my hair, pretending not to notice the tremble in my shoulders.
"Why does he keep you here?" she whispered.
I shook my head.
"I think he wants to make me forget who I was."
And maybe… he was succeeding.
But something inside me still burned.
Not hope.
Not love.
Just… anger.
And that was enough—for now.