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Chapter 2 – The Morning After
Amanda slept like a baby in the guest room. She didn't just sleep—she fell into a sort of oblivion, one that felt foreign and almost dangerous in its peace. The sheets were soft, almost impossibly so, and the bed beneath her cradled every curve of her body. She blinked against the morning light filtering through velvet curtains, the remnants of dreams fading like smoke. She couldn't believe it: a guest room, really? The furniture alone could buy what little she had in her bank account a hundred times over. Marble floors, polished wood, silk bedding, chandeliers that gleamed like captured sunlight. She scoffed softly to herself, a laugh tinged with disbelief. If only my life could always look like this, she thought, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. But no, this is temporary. It's fake, just for me to wake up and realize it's a trap. Isn't it?
Her fingers grazed the satin pillow as she stretched, her body awakening with a fluid, feline grace. Every curve, every muscle, responded to the sun warming the room through the windows. Her ass pressed into the mattress as she rolled onto her side, legs folding like soft clay. The nightgown she had worn—just a thin, delicate slip—clung to her body in a way that felt almost indecent. Her breasts pushed against the fabric, round and full, the material tightening over her curves in a way that accentuated everything. She traced her fingers lightly along her hip, a shiver crawling down her spine as her own body seemed to mock her. I look… royal? she mused. Royal, in a place I could never afford, in a world I've never known. And yet… I feel so small.
Amanda swung her legs off the bed and stood, heels barely touching the polished floor. She walked to the mirror, each step measured, the nightgown flowing around her thighs. She stared at her reflection, tilting her head as she took in the pale silk of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. I don't look like someone who belongs here, she thought, even as pride mixed with disbelief bubbled up in her chest. She ran her hands over her arms, over the length of her legs. But maybe… maybe I do. Just for a little while. Her lips parted, and she let out a soft sigh, the kind that spoke of a woman waking to the dangerous allure of her own body.
And then—her thoughts drifted to him. Authur.
That man. The way he had held her last night… possessive, precise, like he had claimed her body without needing to touch it again. Every memory of him stirred something low and shivering in her belly, something that frightened her just as much as it thrilled her. She bit her lip and shook her head. What am I thinking? she chastised herself, though the warmth pooling between her thighs argued against reason. He's dangerous. He owns me. And yet… I remember his hands, his lips, the way his eyes burned into me…
Amanda left the mirror and padded softly to the bathroom. The cold tile sent a shiver up her spine as she ran water over her hands and face, brushing her teeth and taming her wild hair into something resembling order. Each reflection, each movement, reminded her that she was still trapped in a world that was not hers, still at the mercy of a man who had already claimed her. By the time she returned to the bedroom, she had swapped the nightgown for a silk house robe, cinched at the waist. The soft fabric caressed her curves, yet she didn't leave the room. Fear gnawed at her, sharp and immediate. What now? she wondered. What does he want from me today? Am I expected to… perform? To obey?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, barely more than a whisper. She froze, her pulse spiking, then the door opened slowly. A maid stepped in, her expression demure, practiced.
"Good morning, madam," the woman said softly. "Eh… sir requests you join him for breakfast. Please hurry—he isn't the patient type."
Amanda's heart leapt, the words both comforting and terrifying. She swallowed hard, nodding silently. The maid offered a small smile. "You are… very beautiful, madam. Truly," she said, her voice tinged with genuine admiration.
Amanda felt heat rise to her cheeks, a flush she couldn't entirely hide. Of course I am… I'm his property now, she thought bitterly, even as her chest rose in nervous anticipation. She followed the maid, her silk robe brushing her thighs with every step, leaving a trace of movement that felt both graceful and provocative.
The dining room opened before her like a stage. Marble floors stretched beneath her feet, and sunlight streamed through enormous windows. There, at the table, stood Authur—hair tousled, pajamas loose yet somehow elegant, eyes sharp and assessing even in the calm morning light. Only his lips suggested he had just brushed his teeth, his movements casual yet deliberate.
Amanda stopped mid-step, taking in the scene. He was power embodied, even in sleepwear. Every inch of him radiated control, authority, and danger. And yet… he looked human, too, brushing his teeth and yawning like any ordinary man. The juxtaposition made her chest tighten. So this is how the rich live, she thought, bitterness and awe mingling in her stomach. Getting up at seven, having a full meal prepared, not working themselves to death… She remembered the early mornings of her life, the endless chores before the sun had even risen. I've spent my whole life serving others, and now… I'm just… here. Watching.
Her eyes were locked on him as she stepped closer.
"Good morning," he said, voice smooth, calm, yet slicing into her like a blade. "I believe you slept well?"
Amanda swallowed and nodded, her throat dry. "Good morning," she said, her voice stiff. She sat down, her movements measured, aware of the elegance surrounding her and the weight of his gaze on her every motion.
From the staircase, a third figure descended—Deborah Grayhound, Authur's sister. Her presence was sharp, precise, like a hawk surveying prey. She greeted her brother briefly and then allowed her gaze to settle on Amanda. The disdain was palpable, as if she could smell the audacity of someone daring to sit at the table with her family's man. Amanda felt her stomach twist under the weight of that judgment, but she sat tall, meeting Deborah's eyes with cold defiance. She refused to flinch, even though every instinct screamed at her to shrink.
Food was brought, laid out with meticulous care, and the meal commenced in heavy silence. Every movement of knife and fork, every sip of coffee, seemed amplified in the quiet room. Amanda's mind raced—calculating, observing, fearing. This was not just a house. This was a kingdom, and she was a trespasser, a pawn, a subject all at once.
After what felt like an eternity, the air shifted. Authur's eyes found hers across the table, those crimson orbs piercing through the haze of her thoughts. He inclined his head slightly. "I'm off to work. If you need anything, seek the maids. We'll talk when I return."
Amanda's chest constricted. The words were simple, but they carried command, an undeniable weight.
Then he rose. Pajamas rustled softly as he moved, hair falling into a wild frame around his face. And just like that, he left, leaving Amanda and Deborah alone at the table.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Amanda sat frozen, her fingers brushing against the smooth table. Deborah's gaze did not waver, though her lips curved in a subtle, unreadable smirk. Amanda could feel the woman's disdain like a blade against her skin.
"Enjoying breakfast?" Deborah asked, her voice honeyed but venomous. "Don't worry, brother's patience is limited, but it seems you have caught his attention."
Amanda's mind raced. Attention? From him? What does that even mean? She forced herself to keep calm, to project confidence she did not feel. "I… I'm just trying to adjust," she replied carefully, her eyes steady on Deborah's.
Deborah's smirk widened. "Adjusting is one thing, surviving is another," she said, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for her. "But don't misunderstand—I see why he… chose you. Not that it matters."
Amanda swallowed. There was an edge to Deborah's words, a quiet warning. Choose me? she repeated silently, a strange mixture of fear, confusion, and that low heat of curiosity igniting inside her. Does he even see me as a person, or just… his possession?
The rest of breakfast passed in tense silence. Amanda ate little, mostly observing—the way Deborah's sharp movements contrasted Authur's calm dominance, the faint hum of servants moving quietly in the background, the cold elegance that permeated every corner of the house. Every detail seemed a reminder: she did not belong here, yet she could not leave.
When the meal ended, Deborah stood, collecting her dishes with the precision of a soldier. Amanda remained seated for a heartbeat longer, absorbing the weight of the room, the magnitude of her new reality. She felt small, yet… awake in ways she hadn't been in years.
This is just the beginning, she thought. And I… have no idea what I'm truly in for.
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The end.....