The fever came quietly, like a secret. It didn't roar in or crash like a storm it slithered beneath her skin, unnoticed at first, as if it had always been there. Aria mistook it for the cold from her bath the night before, the one Damien had left her in without explanation. But as night bled into dawn, the chill mutated into something crueler an internal fire that simmered just behind her eyes, burned under her skin, and curled through her veins like poison. By morning, her bones throbbed, muscles aching like invisible bruises carved from the inside out. Her breath felt too warm, her throat too tight, as if the air itself rebelled against her.
She hadn't left the bed since the night before. Her arms wrapped around her knees as if they could protect her from the fever or the silence. The sheets were soaked with sweat, her forehead damp, and her lips cracked from thirst. But she didn't cry. She couldn't. There were no tears left after last night. The silence of the room was thick, almost sentient, pressing against her like invisible hands. Not a single creak from the hallway. Not the faintest echo of footsteps. Not even the wind dared to intrude. It was as if the entire mansion was holding its breath, waiting to see if she would break.
She hadn't eaten. She wasn't sure if it was punishment or protocol or perhaps just indifference. She didn't ask. She didn't have the strength. Since Damien had locked her inside that porcelain prison of a bathroom and left her there to freeze, she hadn't seen a soul. No words. No explanation. No comfort. Only abandonment, as cold and pristine as the marble floors she'd knelt on. It wasn't just cruelty it was calculated withdrawal, dressed in luxury and silence.
Her stomach cramped violently, reminding her of its emptiness. Her throat burned for water. But the ache in her body was nothing compared to the ache in her mind. The echo of Damien's voice replayed over and over, like a broken record scratching her sanity.
> "You're not ready yet."
That phrase had stayed with her through the night like a ghost. Mocking. Dismissing. Final.
She wanted to scream. To tear at the walls. To throw something, anything. But even her fury felt muted here, swallowed by the walls that watched but never answered.
At exactly 10:00 AM, the silence fractured.
The door opened with a soft click, precise and punctual, as though her suffering had been scheduled. Mrs. Hollow entered like she always did flawless, pressed, untouched by human frailty. Her face betrayed nothing but a hint of icy disdain. In one hand, she held a clipboard. In the other, a neatly folded black cloth. Everything about her looked crisp, clinical, and painfully in control.
"You've missed your posture drills," she said without a flicker of sympathy. "And breakfast."
Aria didn't respond. She lay curled under the sheets, too weak to care. Too angry to pretend.
"You are to report to the dining hall immediately," Mrs. Hollow continued, her voice clipped like the edge of a blade. "Barefoot. Kneeling position. You will wait for further instruction."
"No," Aria rasped, her voice rough from disuse.
The silence that followed was razor-sharp.
Mrs. Hollow didn't blink. "Excuse me?"
Aria's voice wavered but held. "I said no. I'm not… doing that."
"You do not have the authority to refuse."
"I don't care."
It was such a small act. A single word. But in this house, where everything was governed by obedience and submission, that word was an earthquake. Her rebellion wasn't loud. It wasn't violent. But it was hers. And it echoed louder than any scream.
Mrs. Hollow stared at her, unblinking. Then, with a nod measured, impassive, deliberate she stepped back. Not in surrender. But in calculation.
"There is always a price for resistance," she said quietly, her voice wrapped in warning. "Today, someone else will pay it."
Before Aria could respond, two silent guards appeared in the doorway. They didn't speak. They didn't touch her. They simply waited until she dragged herself out of bed and followed them, every step making her head spin.
They didn't lead her to the dining hall.
Instead, they escorted her down a different hallway. One she had never seen before. It was older. Narrower. The wallpaper peeled in the corners, and the lights above flickered faintly, casting shadows that clung to the walls like secrets. Everything smelled faintly of dust and something darker something like fear. It felt like walking through a mausoleum of the forgotten.
They stopped in front of a black door. No handle. Just a scanner. Mrs. Hollow placed her hand on the panel, and with a hiss, the door slid open.
Inside was a small, windowless room lined with black screens. The air was cold, too cold, humming with the quiet buzz of electronics. Security footage flickered across the monitors silent images of the estate: hallways, kitchens, training rooms, bedrooms. Watching. Always watching.
"Sit," Mrs. Hollow commanded.
Aria sat, her knees weak, head spinning. The chair was metal. Cold. Unforgiving.
Mrs. Hollow pressed a button on the control panel.
One of the monitors glowed red.
It zoomed in.
The image on the screen made Aria's breath stop.
A girl. Young. Maybe nineteen. Thin, pale, wearing a maid uniform too large for her frame. She stood trembling in the corner of a sterile room tiles, glass walls, a single metal stool. Her eyes darted toward the camera, full of unspoken terror.
"Who is she?" Aria asked, her voice a whisper.
Mrs. Hollow's tone didn't change. "Your former bath attendant. The one responsible for regulating the water temperature."
"No," Aria breathed. "No, it wasn't her fault. I didn't—"
"She will be punished," the housekeeper interrupted, calm as ever. "Because you failed to obey."
The screen shifted.
The girl was now kneeling. The door behind her opened.
A man entered. He wore black. His face was hidden. Gloves on his hands. He moved with the confidence of someone used to being feared.
"No," Aria whispered again, panic rising in her chest. "Don't do this."
She turned to Mrs. Hollow, pleading. "Please. She didn't do anything wrong. It was me. I disobeyed. Not her."
"You're correct," the woman replied without emotion.
"Then punish me."
"You'll punish yourself in time," she said. "But first, you'll watch."
Aria lunged toward the screen, heart hammering. "Turn it off!"
Mrs. Hollow held her back with one cold, steady hand. "You wanted control," she murmured. "You wanted defiance. Now see what it buys you."
The man in black leaned down to the girl. He didn't hit her. He didn't touch her.
He whispered.
Just a few words.
That's all it took.
The girl collapsed. Folded in on herself like a puppet with its strings cut.
And that somehow was worse than any physical violence. It was deeper. More intimate. A shattering of spirit.
The screen went black.
Mrs. Hollow didn't look at Aria as she left.
Aria sat, frozen. Her breath came in shallow gasps, eyes wide and locked on the void where the girl had been. Her body refused to move, as if she were trapped in the chair, fused to its cold frame by the weight of guilt.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Maybe days.
Time didn't mean anything in that room.
The next time the door opened, she didn't look up.
But she felt him.
Damien.
His presence filled the room like a pressure. He didn't speak. He stood behind her, arms crossed.
Aria slowly turned. Her voice trembled. "Why did you do that to her?"
"She was the consequence," he replied coolly.
"She was innocent."
"No one is innocent here."
"You're a monster."
"Maybe," he said, stepping closer. "But I'm an honest one."
She pushed herself to her feet, legs shaking. "Then hurt me. Punish me. Stop punishing everyone else."
"You hurt them," he said. "I just made sure you saw the cost."
She slapped him.
Weak. Trembling. But it was the only strength she had left.
He didn't flinch. Didn't react. Just looked at her with that same unreadable calm.
"I see," he said.
Then he turned.
And walked out.
Didn't slam the door. Didn't speak again.
He just left.
Again.
When the lights came on again, it was night.
Aria hadn't moved from the corner. Her body curled in on itself, like she was trying to disappear. Her eyes burned. Her throat was raw from crying without sound. Her mind didn't feel like her own anymore.
The door opened.
Mrs. Hollow entered.
She didn't speak. She placed a tray on the floor. Real food. Warm. Fragrant. And a single folded note.
She left.
Aria crawled to the tray, knees weak. She picked up the note first. Black paper. White ink. Damien's handwriting.
> "Now you understand. —D"
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
The words didn't sting.
They sliced.
She ate in silence. Slowly. Not because she was hungry.
But because she understood now.
Obedience wasn't about rules.
It was about blood.
About making sure it wasn't someone else who bled for your choices.
When the tray was empty, she stood.
Walked barefoot to her room.
Her body moved without command.
She dropped to her knees before the door.
Head bowed.
No one told her to.
But she did it anyway.
Because the price of resistance was no longer just hers to pay.
It never had been.
And now… she would never forget that again.