Isabella’s POV

The bed Gloria led me to last night was narrow, the mattress thin, but it was better than the silk prison of Lorenzo’s room. I collapsed onto it, my body heavy with exhaustion, my mind a storm of anger and confusion. That man—Lorenzo—his touch, his kiss, the way he’d looked at me like I was both a prize and a threat, it all churned in my gut. I hated him, hated how he’d made my body betray me, how my skin still tingled where his fingers had lingered. Sleep came hard, but when it did, it was a mercy, pulling me under until the morning light crept through the small window of the maid quarters.

Gloria’s voice woke me, gentle but firm, her stout frame hovering over me with a pile of clothes in her arms. “Up, love,” she said, her gray eyes kind but unyielding. “You’re to serve the master today. His personal maid.” She set the clothes on the bed—a black dress, starched and simple, with a white apron that screamed servitude. My stomach twisted, but I bit back the protest clawing at my throat. Gloria didn’t make the rules; she just followed them, and her quiet kindness last night, handing me that glass of water had been the only soft thing in this nightmare.

I stood, my legs shaky, and pulled on the dress, the fabric stiff against my skin. It fit too well, hugging my frame, the hem brushing my knees. Gloria helped me tie the apron, her fingers quick and practiced, and I caught her glance, a flicker of something like worry. “Keep your head down,” she murmured, smoothing my hair. “He’s not patient with mistakes.” I wanted to ask what she meant, but the weight of her words settled like lead in my chest. I wasn’t here to play maid—I was a prisoner, and Lorenzo was the jailer who’d already gotten too close.

The maid quarters buzzed with whispers as I followed Gloria through the narrow hallway, the other women’s voices low but sharp, like knives being whetted. “The master’s woman,” one hissed, her eyes raking over me. “Think she’ll last?” another muttered, her smirk cruel. I kept my head high, my jaw tight, ignoring the sting of their words. They didn’t know me, didn’t know I’d survived worse than their gossip—my parents’ blood on my hands, nights spent running from shadows. But their stares burned, and I felt the weight of being an outsider in this cold, glittering world.

Gloria led me to a dining room, the table long and gleaming, set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery that looked like it cost more than my life. I stood by the wall, my hands clasped, trying to blend into the woodwork as she’d instructed. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and fresh bread, but my stomach churned, my nerves raw. Then the door slammed open, and a woman stormed in, her red hair a wild flame, her green eyes blazing with something venomous. She was tall, all curves and confidence, her silk dress clinging to her like a second skin. The maids fell silent, their eyes darting away, but I couldn’t look away from her—she was a predator, and I was in her sights.

“You,” she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, her heels clicking as she closed the distance between us. “You’re the little slut he’s keeping?” Before I could react, her hand cracked across my face, the slap sharp and stinging, my head snapping to the side. Pain bloomed hot on my cheek, and I stumbled, catching myself against the wall. My vision blurred, but I straightened, my hands curling into fists, my heart pounding with a mix of shock and fury.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice low but steady, my cheek throbbing. I stepped forward, ignoring the gasps from the maids, my hazel eyes locked on hers. “I don’t know who you are, but you don’t get to hit me.” My words were reckless, but I’d had enough—enough of being grabbed, caged, controlled. She sneered, her lips curling, revealing teeth that looked ready to bite.

“Jasmine,” a voice growled, low and dangerous, and the room seemed to shrink. Lorenzo stood in the doorway, his leather jacket creaking as he moved, his dark hair falling into his icy gray eyes. His presence was a storm, sucking the air out of the space, and the maids shrank back, their whispers dead. He didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the redheaded woman—Jasmine—his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Lorenzo,” she purred, her tone shifting, all honey and venom, as she sauntered toward him. “I heard about your new pet. Thought I’d see what’s so special.” Her hand reached for his arm, but he stepped back, his eyes cold, and I saw something flicker in her face—anger, maybe, or hurt.

“Get out,” he said, his voice a blade, each word precise. “You don’t come into my house and touch what’s mine.” His gaze flicked to me then, just for a second, and my breath caught, my cheek still burning from her slap. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t his, that I wasn’t anyone’s, but the look in his eyes—possessive, furious—kept me silent.

Jasmine’s smile faltered, her hands dropping to her sides. “You’re choosing her over me?” she asked, her voice rising, a crack in her confidence. “This… nothing? She’s a barmaid, Lorenzo. She’s beneath you.” Her words stung, but I kept my face blank, refusing to let her see me flinch. I’d been called worse, survived worse, but the way she looked at me—like I was dirt—made my skin crawl.

“She’s mine,” he repeated, slower this time, and the weight of his words hit me like a punch. Not because I wanted to be his, but because I saw the truth in his eyes—he meant it, and that terrified me more than Jasmine’s slap. “You’re done here, Jasmine. Don’t come back.” His tone left no room for argument, and the room felt colder, the air thick with his authority.

Jasmine’s face twisted, her red hair catching the light as she turned, her heels clicking furiously as she stormed out, the door slamming behind her. The maids whispered again, their eyes darting between me and Lorenzo, but I couldn’t hear them over the pounding in my ears. My cheek throbbed, my hands shaking, and I wanted to run, to scream, but I was rooted to the spot, his gaze pinning me like a butterfly to a board.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, but still rough, like he wasn’t used to caring. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing my cheek where Jasmine had hit me, and I flinched, not because it hurt but because his touch was too gentle, too wrong for the man who’d held a gun to my head. My skin warmed under his fingers, and I hated it, hated how my body responded to him, even now.

“I’m fine,” I lied, pulling back, my voice sharp. “I don’t need your pity.” I wanted to say more, to tell him I wasn’t his, that I’d fight tooth and nail to get out of this place, but his eyes held mine, and I saw something flicker—anger, maybe, or something deeper, something that made my stomach twist.

“Don’t test me, Isabella,” he said, his voice low again, his hand dropping. “You’re here because I want you here. Don’t make me regret it.” He turned away, his jacket creaking, and walked out, leaving me with the maids’ stares and Gloria’s quiet presence at my side.

Gloria touched my arm, her hand warm, steady. “Come, love,” she said, guiding me back toward the maid quarters. “Let’s get some ice for that cheek.” Her kindness was a lifeline, but as I followed her, my mind spun. Jasmine’s slap, Lorenzo’s words, the way he’d looked at me—they were pieces of a puzzle I didn’t understand. I was a captive, a maid, a thing he claimed as his, but the fire in me wasn’t gone. I’d survive this, just like I’d survived everything else. I just needed to figure out how to play his game without losing myself.