Delphina's POV
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was a ceiling I did not recognise.
For a moment, I did not move. I simply stared. Pale. Smooth. No crack. Nothing like the storage room I spent countless nights in. The fruit fragrance of the room hit me next. My heart jolted, and I pushed myself upright too quickly.
My body quickly recognised the softness of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath me. My balance faltered, and I scrambled backwards, tangling in unfamiliar sheets before tumbling off the bed entirely, and ending up on the floor.
The floor was smooth hardwood, cool against my palms.
I looked up.
The room was clean.
Very clean.
Cream walls. White sheets pulled tight and unwrinkled. My nose picked up the fruit scent, lemon and coconut, it lingered in the air, subtle but deliberate. Nothing like the damp storage room I had slept in for years, where mildew clung to the corners, and the only scent was dust and old wood.
My breathing grew shallow.
Is this Evander Thorne's house? Or did someone rescue me?
I stood to my feet and took a good look at the room. The bed stood neatly at the centre, dressed in white sheets, so crisp it almost glowed in the filtered daylight. A wardrobe stood against the far wall. Closed. Polished.
There were no bars on the windows, only a beautiful white and grey drape decorated them.
No visible restraints.
This did not look like a prison.
If it was, this was one hell of a comfortable prison.
The door opened before I could steady myself.
I froze.
An average-height man stepped inside. Dark hair, precisely groomed. Suit pressed without a crease. He carried himself with quiet authority, not hurried, not uncertain.
Is that him?
I stayed half-crouched beside the bed, painfully aware of the state of my clothes. Faded. Worn. I looked like dirt that had been dropped into a showroom.
"Delphina Moore," he said evenly. "Good. You are awake."
His voice was controlled, measured.
"Please," I blurted, scrambling to my feet. "I can't stay here. Please let me go."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible." He placed a file neatly on the bed. "I am here to assign your duties."
Duties. He can't be Evander Thorne.
"For your sake, I hope you can read," he added calmly. "Ensure you understand everything on the paper. Your work begins at six a.m. tomorrow."
"My work?" I echoed.
But he was already turning away.
The door shut with a soft mechanical click.
Locked.
The quiet that followed was heavier than the words.
The rumours about Evander Thorne echoed in my mind.
Ruthless. Untouchable. Dangerous. Hates women. A man who could erase a life without consequence.
I approached the bed slowly and picked up the file.
Household duties.
Every task listed with military precision. Start time. Finish time. Allocated minutes for each task, and each room meant to be cleaned.
Six a.m. to six p.m each day.
"I was brought here to be a housekeeper?" I whispered.
The word felt too simple for the transaction that had delivered me here.
I moved to the wardrobe and opened it.
Uniforms.
Black dresses with white collars. Crisp aprons. Identical. Lined up in silent expectation.
On the other side were five sets of pyjamas.
All my size.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
He knew.
My father had not spoken blindly. This had been arranged.
I shut the wardrobe and pushed open the inner door.
A bathroom.
My own.
White tiles. A glass shower. Clean towels folded with symmetry.
At home, I bathed outside behind the kitchen window, beneath the standing pipe. My parents had their bedroom with a bathroom. Ceilia had hers.
I was not permitted in the bathrooms designated for families.
And yet here, in the house of the most feared man in the country, I had a private one.
Mr Thorne might be a terrible man, but he provided well for his servants.
Servant.
The word settled in my chest.
I returned to the bedroom just as the door unlocked again.
The same man stepped inside.
"I require your thumbprint on several documents," he said, approaching.
I instinctively stepped back.
"Delphina," he said quietly, and there was warning beneath the calm. "Do not make this difficult."
He took my right hand firmly but not roughly, pressed my thumb onto an ink pad, then opened the file.
Oath of Secrecy.
The bold heading burned into my vision before he flipped to the final page.
He reached for my hand again. I pulled it back.
"Delphina."
My name in his mouth felt less like a call and more like a command. He took my thumb and pressed it onto the signature line.
"There," he said.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.
"It is an Oath of Secrecy," he replied. "This is Lord Evander Thorne's empire. Nothing you see or hear leaves this building."
He held my gaze.
"If information becomes public, the agreed punishment will be carried out."
He paused.
"Death."
The word did not rise in volume. It did not need to. Cold spread through my limbs. My breath shortened.
"I, I don't know how to clean properly," I managed, looking at how clean the environment was and recalling how my mum constantly tells me I suck at cleaning. "There must be someone better suited."
"Your father has already collected payment for your service."
Payment.
He left before I could speak again.
The door locked.
My knees gave way.
Payment.
Was I sold? Or I am working, and they are collecting the payment?
I pressed my hand against my mouth to stop the sound that threatened to escape.
My diary.
Ceilia was holding it. She told them about my plan to leave.
My father would rather sell me to the country's most feared man than allow me freedom.
I forced myself upright.
"No. I will get out of here," I whispered.
I just needed time. Study the environment, and I can plan my escape.
But then another thought struck.
If I leave, he will find me. If he cannot find me, he will find them.
I lowered my lashes in defeat. They may have treated me like an inconvenience, but they were still my family.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself.
Fine.
I will work. I will learn the terms. I will complete whatever period is required.
And then I will leave properly.
My father has said that this was to seal a deal. The man who just left said I was here to render service. It must be temporary.
The door unlocked again.
Another man entered with a tray and placed it silently on a desk near the window. Only then did I notice the subtle extension of the room, a small dining nook tucked behind heavy curtains.
He was dressed differently. Nothing like the man who had come in earlier.
"Thank you," I said instinctively.
He did not respond.
The bowl revealed a chicken Caesar salad. Fresh. Crisp. Real food.
I ate without hesitation.
Afterwards, I showered. The hot water stunned my skin. I stood beneath it longer than necessary, letting it wash years of cold baths from memory.
I changed into one of the pyjamas and slid into the bed.
The sheets were impossibly soft and comfortable.
I closed my eyes, and sleep took over.
When the shock of cold water hit my face, I gasped and shot upright. The same man stood over me, holding an empty glass.
"You were to be ready at five fifty," he said. "It is now six."
My heart pounded.
"You have five minutes."
He left.
I wiped water from my face, breathing unevenly.
Comfort had made me careless.
I dressed quickly, pulling on the uniform. The black dress fit perfectly. The white collar lay sharp against my throat. I tied my hair into a tight ponytail and approached the door.
Locked.
The moment I stepped back, it clicked open.
He was waiting.
"Follow me," he said.
We walked through a corridor lined with neutral walls. We entered a lift and ascended.
The third floor opened into something that felt less like a home and more like a luxury hotel lobby. Polished floors. Controlled lighting. Everything arranged with intention.
He knocked on the door before opening it.
"Wait."
He disappeared briefly and returned with cleaning supplies.
Broom. Mop. Cloths. Dusters. Bucket.
"I expect every room to be immaculate. You have thirty minutes."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Do not go to the top floor."
He did not explain, but I nodded.
I began cleaning.
The rooms were expansive, far larger than necessary. Bedrooms with private sitting areas. Bathrooms bigger than entire sections of my former home. I was able to enter all rooms except one. It was locked.
Half an hour was not enough. I worked quickly, pulse steadying as routine replaced panic.
Then I saw the staircase.
It curved upwards discreetly, almost hidden.
The top floor.
He had said not to go there.
I hesitated only a second before climbing out of curiosity.
The air felt cooler.
I reached the landing and stopped.
Through a glass partition, I saw a man.
Shirtless.
The waistband of dark training trousers rested low against his narrow waist. His skin was pale but defined, lean muscle etched with quiet precision.
He held a weighted bar attached to a chain, pulling it down towards his waist in controlled repetition.
The muscles in his back tightened and released with each measured pull.
There was nothing frantic in the movement.
No aggression.
No display.
He did not look like a man who needed to prove his strength.
He looked like one who measured it.
My breath caught, not from attraction, but from awareness.
Was that him?
I continued to stare.
This was a man of discipline.
Of calculation.
He paused mid-repetition, head tilting slightly.
As though he sensed something.
"Breaking rules on your first day?"
The voice came from behind me.
I jolted, spinning so quickly my shoulder struck the wall. My hand flew to my chest.
The man from earlier stood on the staircase, watching me.
"Marcus," he said evenly, as though offering a courtesy. "I suggest you remember that name."
I swallowed.
"I, I'm sorry."
When I glanced back through the glass, the room was empty.
He was gone.
And somehow that was worse.
