The journey from the old Kensington residence to the mansion of the so-called "Master" unfolded in tense silence.
Veronika spent the ride staring out the window with an expression of offended boredom, convinced that nothing she saw would meet her standards. As soon as the vehicle stopped, her inner sarcasm ignited at the sight of the exterior ornamentation—or rather, the lack of it—on the mansion.
She stepped out of the car with theatrical flair, squaring her shoulders. Before her rose a building of clear brutalist architecture. Shrubs trimmed with near-geometric precision lined the path, more functional than aesthetic. Nothing about the place recalled the kind of opulence Veronika considered natural.
The front door opened, revealing a firm-looking woman in a dark suit with somber trimmings. Her hair was cut short and straight. Her expression was serene and analytical, showing neither submission nor reverence.
— You must be Veronika Kensington — the woman said in a neutral tone. — I am Anna, the housekeeper. The Master is not at the residence, so I'll be in charge of your adaptation in the meantime.
Veronika inspected her coldly, expecting to find some trace of fear or servility, but there was none.
— In your charge? — she repeated with disdain. — I don't think you grasp the category of the person standing before you.
— On the contrary — Anna replied, unshaken. — I was informed of your arrival: a young woman with an illustrious surname and a complicated temper. That's all I need to know. — She stepped aside and gestured toward the interior. — Come in.
The redhead entered the hall, where polished floors echoed beneath her steps. The space was immaculate, almost clinical, and the absence of furniture or ornate decorations confirmed the austerity she had sensed from outside. Anna led her down a bright corridor lined with closed doors until they stopped at the last one.
— This will be your room — she announced neutrally, opening the door.
The room was narrow, with a single bed lacking any luxuries and a plain wardrobe. No vanity, no full-length mirror, no armchairs. A gray, empty environment, as functional as the rest of the house.
— You expect me to sleep in this dump? — Veronika spat with a grimace of disgust. — My entire wardrobe could take up more space than this room.
Anna crossed her arms.
— For now, yes. Eventually you'll get something better, but it's something you'll have to earn. The Master prefers that anyone who comes here learns the value of work, no matter where they come from.
— Earn? — Veronika snorted, dropping her suitcase on the bed. — I'm Kensington's daughter, rightful heir to Kensington Company, not some maid who has to "earn" favors.
— I'll repeat myself: anyone who comes here must understand the value of work. That includes you, for now. — Anna'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 uncomfortable silence lingered in the air. Veronika clenched her jaw, irritated to find that her attempts to impose respect didn't work here, unlike what she was used to.
— Very well then. I'll stay for a while — she said irritably —, but only until my father hears about these "conditions" you're trying to impose on me.
Anna cast her an enigmatic look and left, leaving Veronika alone. The young woman began to explore the room, opening drawers in search of anything that might remind her of the comfort she was accustomed to. Looking into the bathroom, she saw shelves packed with detergent and cleaning products; not a single cream, not even a decent shampoo.
— This is like some kind of torture — she muttered, overcome by a new surge of anger. — Not even a proper bar of soap.
First Night: Unacceptable Space
The bed, as hard as it looked, quickly reminded her that comfort was not a priority in this mansion. Veronika, used to feather mattresses and soft linens, spent the night grumbling to herself, her foul mood only growing worse.
She awoke with a sharp pain in her back, grumbling under her breath. She headed to the bathroom hoping to at least find soft towels, but the ones she found were rough and smelled faintly of industrial soap. When she looked into the tiny mirror—the only one available—and saw her red hair wild and dull, she had to stifle a scream of frustration.
— You call this "education," Father… — she whispered with cynicism. — We're going to have a serious talk about this when I get back.
She splashed cold water on her face, trying to quell the sense of moral filth that came from being treated like "just another girl."
Just then, she heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. Opening the door, she found Anna, carrying the same air of authority as the day before.
— Good morning, Veronika. I'll see you in the kitchen in five minutes.— What for? — Veronika's gaze was pure venom. — I'm not one of your maids.— Everyone works here. And yes, that means you too. — Anna held her stare. — Don't expect privileges before proving what you're capable of.
Veronika clenched her fists, aware she had no choice. She grumbled under her breath and got ready to follow, reminding herself this was just a temporary game.
— Oh, and the uniform is necessary. It should be in your wardrobe.
A Peculiar Encounter
The kitchen was a spacious hall, with spotless worktables and utensils arranged to the millimeter. 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:
— Hello, I'm Luna. Pleased to meet you. — Her tone was surprisingly kind.— I'd appreciate it if you didn't pretend to be friendly — Veronika replied coldly. — I'm here by obligation, not because I enjoy company.
Luna blinked, slightly taken aback, but kept her composure.
— Fine, as you wish. Either way, you'll have to help. 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'm going to handle raw food? — She raised her eyebrows, incredulous. — Not a chance.
Anna, supervising the activity, intervened:
— If you don't want to touch the meat, fine. At least wash the dishes. It's simple work, don't you think?
Veronika lowered her eyes to the sink, full of scraps and foamy water that looked anything but inviting.
— Only if you give me gloves. — She pursed her lips. — I'm not exposing my hands to that filth.
Luna shook her head, fighting back a laugh:
— We don't have gloves for novices, sorry.
The redhead felt rage boiling in her chest, but she restrained herself. She went to the sink and picked up the sponge with the same care she would use to hold a crystal vase. Narrowing her eyes, she scrubbed the grease off the dishes, her face locked in disgust.
When she finished, she sighed with exaggerated weariness:
— There. — She looked around. — Now… who's making me breakfast?
The kitchen fell silent with surprise. Luna let out a disbelieving laugh:
— You expect to be served like this is your mansion? Here we all cook together. If you don't help, you don't eat.
Veronika sat on a stool, crossing her arms.
— Then I refuse to cook anything. I've already had enough contact with "intolerable substances." — She stressed the last words with acrimony.
The others carried on with their work, unfazed. In less than ten minutes, breakfast was ready: scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and fresh fruit. Anna signaled Veronika to sit at the table with the rest.
— Let's see if your selective appetite allows you to eat this — Anna said with a hint of irony.
— I doubt it — Veronika replied, standing arrogantly. — I'm used to real breakfasts, not this sorry menu.
No one contradicted her or invited her again. The girls simply ate in silence, as if she were invisible. Veronika swallowed hard, a pang of hunger twisting her stomach. She forced herself to keep her chin high, unwilling to give in even as her body protested.
— Suit yourself — Luna muttered. — But don't complain later when you go hungry.
Veronika turned her head, feigning indifference. When the meal ended, all the girls rose in unison, cleared the table, and left the kitchen spotless. She remained in her seat, unsure of what to do.
Return to the Room: A New Routine
After breakfast, Anna guided her through a labyrinth of halls and rooms, showing her the pantries, the servants' quarters, and, to her surprise, a large indoor garden used for growing vegetables.
— This place is sustained by the work of every servant. So, either you contribute, or you won't be tolerated.
— What a revelation — Veronika replied mockingly. — Are they expecting me to plant carrots too? How primitive...
— I wouldn't be surprised if the Master assigns you something like that — Anna shrugged. — Here, lineage makes no difference when there's work to be done.
Veronika stayed silent, feeling the weight of reality press against her neck. "Sooner or later, my father will come for me," she repeated to herself, clinging to her dignity. "I'm not meant to stay here scrubbing and planting nonsense."
Finally, Anna led her back to the room. The clock showed a little past ten in the morning, but for Veronika it felt like an eternity. Her arms were heavy and her pride increasingly battered.
— Read these rules — Anna handed her a sheet with schedules and responsibilities. — That way you won't embarrass yourself out of ignorance.
Veronika skimmed it, frowning: wake up at six, breakfast with the others, daily labor assignments… A routine fit for a disciplinary institution.
— This is offensive to my intelligence — she snapped, tossing the sheet onto the bed. — Utter bureaucracy.
— If you refuse to follow it, don't expect any leniency. — Anna shrugged. — Your stay in this house depends entirely on your willingness to obey.
She closed the door behind her, leaving Veronika with the feeling of being cornered in an inescapable test. She collapsed onto the bed, her stomach growling, reminding her of the breakfast she had spurned.She turned toward the wall, a knot of frustration tightening in her throat.
— This is a damn minimalist hell — she muttered.Her eyelids grew heavy, worn down by physical exhaustion and simmering anger. She fell asleep.