SACRIFICE WITHIN THE WARMTH
(Chiella Cruze's POV)
With my body still radiating pain, I forced myself to stand and navigate the long corridor toward the mansion's kitchen. Every step felt like a heavy chore; my joints were rigid, and the bruises beneath my skin seemed to scream in protest at every movement.
Madam lin hurried after me, her face a mask of worry. "Let me help you, miss . The Young Master will never know," she pleaded in a frantic whisper.
I shook my head slowly, the sharp ache in my cheek making me hesitant to speak aloud. "No, madam. Thank you. Brayen's command was explicit. I must be the one to prepare this lunch." I had to obey not merely out of fear, but because I understood this was a calculated test of his absolute power over me.
"As you wish. I'll attend to the other chores then," Madam Lin said, her voice heavy with resignation as she drifted away.
I stood alone in the center of the main kitchen. It was a vast, clinical space of stainless steel and cold marble that reflected the morning light. Rows of state-of-the-art appliances stood untouched, pristine and hollow. In this cavern of silent luxury, I felt infinitesimally small and profoundly alienated.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I gathered ingredients from the massive refrigerator. I pulled out fresh vegetables, rice, mackerel, and fruit. I didn't reach for anything extravagant; instead, I focused on the simplest home-cooked meal. I had no idea what Brayen's preferences were, nor did I care to ask. I would give him simplicity, regardless of whether it suited his refined palate.
I began to work. The rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board, the hiss of boiling water, and the aroma of grilled mackerel filled the void of the quiet morning. Each time I sliced, each time I leaned over the counter, the wounds on my body flared. I forced myself through it, numbing my mind to the physical toll.
Once finished, I carefully arranged the food into a specialized lunch box: warm rice, crisp vegetables, grilled mackerel, and a clear soup, finished with slices of fresh fruit. It was a perfect representation of the purity Brayen sought and the indignity he forced me to inhabit.
After securing the lunch box, I retreated to the upper floor. I needed to wash away the scent of the kitchen, conceal the evidence of his violence, and prepare myself for the lions' den: his office.
Stepping out of the bath, I stood before the mirror, tracing the blossoms of blue and purple bruises that marred my skin. I applied layers of powder and concealer with trembling fingers—a futile effort to mask the devastation of the previous night.
I turned to the wardrobe. The irony was suffocating; the vast closet held only a handful of items. Each one was a hand-me-down from my older sister. I had never been permitted to own anything new; my entire existence was comprised of the things she no longer wanted. It was a pathetic reality for the youngest daughter of the prestigious Cruze family
Despite the bitterness in my heart, I chose the finest pieces I owned. Regardless of my personal suffering, Brayen Mallen was the CEO of the Mallen Group; I was obligated to preserve his public image. I dressed in a cream A-line skirt and my neatest blouse. Yet, even my best looked tired and frayed—a painful contrast to the opulent mansion that now held me captive.
Ready, I gripped the lunch box that contained Brayen's latest decree. I was escorted out by the mansion's private chauffeur.
The luxury sedan glided through the high gates, merging into the pulse of the city. We moved slowly through the streets of Virelle, which were already shimmering under the scorching sun. The city was alive, teeming with ambition, while in the back seat, I carried nothing but pain, fear, and the burden of his mid-day meal.
This was my first foray into the world since the wedding—a journey that should have felt like a new beginning, but instead felt like a slow walk toward an executioner's block.
When we arrived at Mallen Tower, I stepped out of the car. The skyscraper loomed above me, cold and arrogant, a perfect architectural reflection of its master.
I entered the lobby. The space was dominated by gleaming black marble and dark wood paneling, radiating a suffocating aura of power. I approached the long reception desk, clutching the lunch box as if it were a shield.
I announced my arrival. "Good afternoon. I am Chiella Mallen, Mr. Brayen Mallen's wife. I am here to deliver his lunch."
The eyes of the receptionists lined up in their expensive uniforms immediately swept over me from head to toe. They didn't use words to insult me; their silence did the work. Their gaze was sharp, filled with doubt and a blatant, stinging disdain.
I understood the situation perfectly. They were looking at my clothes. This worn-out, second-hand blouse though the best I possessed was a glaring mismatch for the title of a Mallen Group CEO's wife, who was expected to be draped in nothing but the finest luxury.
One of the receptionists finally picked up the intercom, connecting to the executive floor. The exchange was brief, but I watched their expressions shift tightening into a formal, startled mask.
After hanging up, she gave a stiff, shallow bow. "My apologies, Madam. Mr. Mallen has requested that you return home immediately. We will take the lunch up to his office ourselves."
Those words, delivered with clinical professionalism, felt like a second slap to my face. Brayen had confirmed who I was, yet he still refused my presence. He didn't want me contaminating his pristine corporate world with my shabby existence.
I could only give a small, muted nod. A scorching wave of shame rose in my throat, choking me. I turned away instantly, desperate to vanish. I moved quickly toward the exit, carrying my physical pain and, now, this inescapable humiliation.
In my haste to flee Mallen Tower and the prying eyes within it, I collided with someone near a massive lobby pillar.
Thud—!
My balance snapped. The hot coffee the man was holding splashed across the air, drenching his expensive-looking suit and scalding my wrist. The heat stung, turning my skin a vivid red in an instant.
"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, Sir! I didn't see you!" I stammered, my panic and guilt momentarily drowning out the pain.
The man, who by all rights should have been furious about his ruined suit, reacted with a jarring kindness. Instead of an outburst, he instinctively reached out, catching my hand the one blooming with the burn of the coffee.
His face was strikingly handsome, composed of sharp, defined lines, yet his expression was etched with genuine concern. "Are you alright? Your hand is flushed... that must be incredibly painful. Here, let me clean this," he said, his voice dropping into a gentle, soothing register.
I froze. His touch was an anomaly so light, so careful. It was the antithesis of the brutal, crushing hands that had claimed me only hours before. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab away the dark liquid staining my skin.
However, as he held my wrist to steady me, his movements suddenly stilled. His eyes widened in a flash of shock, fixed upon the dark, purplish bruises that had peeked out from beneath my sleeve. The marks were impossible to ignore vivid stains against my pale skin.
"Miss... are you truly alright? This..."
His voice trailed off, thick with disbelief. His deep, searching gaze shifted from my wounded arm to my face, now heavy with a mixture of suspicion and silent questions.
A wave of sheer panic crashed over me. I couldn't let him look closer; I couldn't risk the questions I had no strength to answer. I wrenched my hand back with a sharp, desperate movement.
"It's nothing, Sir. Please... thank you. And I am so sorry, I truly didn't see you," I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I didn't give him the chance to utter another word. I turned and fled toward the waiting car, my breath coming in shallow gasps. As the sedan pulled away, I glanced back to see him still standing there a solitary, frozen figure by the pillar his sharp eyes following my departure with a look of profound, haunting realization.