1

"Liora! If I catch you slacking off again, I will personally see to it that your wages are docked this month!"

Mrs. Gable’s voice cut through the damp basement air, rattling the iron pots hanging overhead and completely shattering my focus. I flinched, my fingers slipping against the silver teapot I was polishing.

I’m on my way, Mrs. Gable! Just finishing up the silver!" I called back quickly, my throat tight from swallowing the bitter reply I wanted to give. I wiped down the last velvet tray with furious, rapid strokes.

A sharp, defiant smile tugged at the corner of my lips the moment her heavy, rhythmic footsteps faded down the stone corridor. Dock my wages? Not a chance.

I pulled a crumpled piece of scrap paper from my apron pocket, admiring my careful scribbles with a fierce sense of pride. Three hundred dollars. That was the exact balance I needed. After today’s shift, I would finally have enough saved up to pay the non-refundable registration f*e for the Elite Style modeling audition that would happen in four months.

"Just temporary," I whispered to my distorted reflection in the polished silver teapot. I reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair back beneath my white maid's cap. "This uniform is just a costume. In a few months' time, you’ll be on a runway."

"Liora"

I shoved the paper back into my pocket as Mrs. Gable suddenly reappeared in the doorway, her towering silhouette blocking the light. Before I could stand, she thrust a small, heavy mahogany box into my palms. The dark wood was cold against my skin.

"Stop staring at your own face and make yourself useful," she snapped. "Take this up to the private guest wing immediately. Room 402. Deliver it directly to the occupant."

"Room 402? Yes, ma'am. Right away," I said, carefully cradling the box against my chest like a shield. A small chill pricked my neck; the private wing was reserved for the mansion's wealthiest, most reclusive guests.

"And do not loiter, do you hear me?" Mrs. Gable warned, leaning in close enough that I could smell her sharp peppermint lozenges. "The guests in that wing value absolute discretion."

"Of course, Mrs. Gable. Absolute discretion."

Leaving the basement kitchen, I ascended the grand spiral staircase to the upper floors of the Hawthorne mansion. The air turned warmer here, smelling of expensive cedar, beeswax, and history. The thick, plush carpets swallowed the sound of my shoes entirely. With every floor I climbed, my excitement grew, a nervous flutter waking up in my stomach.

I forced my shoulders back. I lifted my chin. I began humming a soft, rhythmic melody under my breath, practicing my posture against the quiet grandeur of the hallway. Shoulders back. Chin up. Walk like the world is watching you. I could already see the flashing camera lights, the sea of faces looking up at me. I was completely consumed by my dreams, entirely unaware that the life I had so carefully planned was about to vanish.

As I turned the corner into the dimly lit hallway of the west wing, the sconces were turned down to a low, amber glow, casting long shadows across the dark wallpaper. Suddenly, a shadow shifted from a recessed doorway.

Before I could even register the movement, a heavy, calloused hand clamped over my forearm.

"Ah!" I gasped, the sound choking in my throat. The mahogany box slipped from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a dull, hollow thud.

"Shh... don't speak, Rusali," a low, gravelly voice muttered. It was rough and ragged, scraping raw against my ear.

"Let go of me! What are you doing?" I cried, my heart leaping violently into my throat.

Before I could scream, I was violently yanked backward. The heavy door of an unlit room slammed shut behind us, the lock clicking into place with a terrifying, definitive snap.

Total, suffocating darkness engulfed me.

"Stop it! Who are you? Let me go right now!" I demanded, my voice shaking uncontrollably as I twisted frantically against a grip that felt like iron.

"You came back," the man whispered, his breath uneven and hot against my ear. He smelled heavily of expensive, smoky bourbon and something exotic, like sandalwood mixed with ash. "I knew you would. Rusali... my sweet Rusali..."

"What? No! You have the wrong person!" I yelled, pushing my hands flat against his broad chest. The fabric of his shirt under my fingertips felt like the finest silk, but the muscle beneath it was completely immovable. He didn't budge an inch. "My name is Liora! I’m not Rusali! Let me out!"

"You always play these games," he murmured, his voice slurring heavily, his syllables dragging together in a slow, unnatural cadence. He stumbled slightly, his weight shifting suddenly and pulling me down with him against a velvet chaise lounge.

"Please, listen to me!" I begged, panic clouding my mind as my eyes strained against the pitch-black room, searching frantically for a sliver of light beneath the door or around the heavy curtains. "I don't know who Rusali is! I’m just a maid! I was sent up here to deliver a package! Open the door!"

"No... no more talking," he muttered. He didn't seem to hear a single word I was saying, operating entirely within his own mind. "You're here now. So please stay."

"Are you out of your mind? Let go!" I screamed, kicking out blindly. My foot struck something solid—a heavy table leg—causing a glass vase to shatter on the floor nearby, the shards raining down on the carpet. "You're hurt, or you're drunk, or—please! Just look at me! I am not her!"

"Rusali... please," he groaned, his voice suddenly cracking with a desperate, raw vulnerability that caught me completely off guard. The anger in his grip vanished. He leaned heavily into me, his forehead resting against the crook of my shoulder.

His breathing was rapid, shallow, and burning hot. Through the thin cotton of my uniform, his skin felt like a heated iron.

I froze, my mind racing through a maze of terror and confusion. Fever? Is he sick? High on something? His behavior was entirely erratic, completely detached from reality. He was operating in a total delirium, trapped in a world where I was someone else entirely.

"Sir, you're not well," I said, trying to soften my voice despite the frantic thumping of my ribs. "If you let me go to the door, I can call for help. I can get the house doctor. Just let me leave."

"No doctor," he growled softly, his grip suddenly tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his torso. "Just you. Only you."

"Please..." I whimpered, tears of sheer frustration and fear welling in my eyes. I was shivering from terror, cold as ice, and the sudden, violent contrast of his heat felt less like a touch and more like a brand. If anyone found me here, my life was over. My future...

"Your future is with me," he whispered thickly, his hand moving up to cradle the back of my neck, his fingers tangling into the loose hairs that had escaped my cap.

Before I could protest again, his lips found my cheek. They were searing hot, tracing a path of desperate, erratic kisses down to my jawline.

"Stop... please stop..." I breathed, but the protest died in my throat.

The terror that had paralyzed me began to morph into something else, something entirely terrifying in its own right. His touch was overwhelming. I opened my mouth to scream, but my throat locked. A sudden, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight down my spine—not a choice, but a sudden, terrifying glitch in my own nervous system.

What is happening to me? I thought wildly, my mind screaming at me to fight, to scream, to run. But my body refused to obey. The oppressive darkness, the intoxicating scent of his skin, and the raw, unadulterated passion of his delirium began to pull me under. My hands, flat against his chest, felt the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart. It matched my own. In the absolute blackness, stripped of my sight, my body mistook his desperate grip for an anchor.

"Rusali..." he whispered against my skin.

"I'm not..." I started, but as he shifted, his lips met mine.

The moment our mouths touched, any remaining logic vanished. The sheer intensity of the kiss swept away my defenses. I had never been kissed before; I had imagined it under bright lights, romantic and slow. This was a drowning wave of heat and teeth, a chaotic swirl of danger and forbidden desire. The raw desperation in his mouth didn't feel like an assault—it felt like a man begging for his life, and somehow, the sheer loneliness of it pulled me under.

Abandoning all reason, my hands stopped pushing him away. My fingers, stiff with panic, curled into his shirt and then drifted upward, tangling into his thick, soft hair. I pulled him closer, kissing him back with a fierce, sudden desperation that mirrored his own.

My heart wasn't just racing; it was fracturing. My mind went entirely, mercifully blank. I knew this was a terrible mistake, an act of madness that could destroy everything I had worked for, yet I couldn't stop. I clung to him because if I let go, the dark would swallow me whole. I surrendered entirely to the dark, intoxicating arms of this man whose face I could hardly see.