Chapter 2
Elowen
Water pouring over me makes me wake up. I sit up straight, gasping for air. Some water enters my nose. I sneeze and glare at the man who just did this to me as I wipe the water away from my face.
What’s in front of me—and what happened before I lost consciousness—slams into my head all at once, making me dizzy.
I was in a dark room. Someone opened the door.
I fell down the stairs. My tailbone aches from the fall as I sit on the floor.
And a man with stormy gray eyes is sitting in front of me on a wooden chair, wearing a black shirt, black pants, and black gloves.
Not a single patch of his skin, apart from his neck and face, is visible. He watches me with eyes full of hatred.
There is another man standing beside him. He looks to be in his late fifties and seems less cold than the man with the gray eyes.
There is nothing else in this white room—no furniture other than the chair he sits on.
I’m no longer in a cold room. The wooden floor is warm, and now my shivering is solely from fear.
What do these people want to do to me? I don’t get to dwell on the whats and whys, because the man speaks.
“Avira Bennett,” he spits, his voice filled with venom.
My breath gets stuck in my throat. He thinks I’m Avi. This is bad. Very, very bad.
I nod. He can’t know I’m not her. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he finds out I’m not her, but that fear is nothing compared to the thought of what he would do to Avi if he finds out I’m not her.
Whatever he planned to do to my sister, he’ll have to do to me instead. No matter how horrific what he had in store for her was, I will face it. This is infinitely better than letting her go through it. I’m grateful to take her place. I can’t bear to see her get hurt.
“Why am I here?” I breathe out, trying to hold back the tremble in my voice, but it leaks through.
“To pay for your father’s sins.”
He holds a serious grudge against my uncle; that much is clear from the hatred written on his face.
I’m very good at judging people’s emotions from their expressions, and everything that his face is telling me is a matter of concern for me.
I’ve never seen hatred of this intensity in anyone’s eyes for anyone. And all of it is directed at me.
He looks away from me, as if my very sight disgusts him, and turns to the older man.
“Call everyone here.”
The older man leaves, leaving my kidnapper and me alone in the small room. His eyes fix on me again, but I avoid his gaze. It’s too intense to hold.
“Weakling,” he scoffs, which makes me look into his eyes again.
“I don’t get kidnapped every day.”
The words slip out unintentionally. I’m losing control over myself in this stressful situation.
He narrows his eyes. Nothing else on his face changes, yet it’s enough to make me sweat.
“This is the first and last time you talk back,” he vows, his tone utterly harsh. “Next time, I’ll cut out your tongue.”
I look down. No one has ever spoken to me like this, and the experience is degrading. I feel like crying, overwhelmed by the situation, but I won’t let any tears fall. My father has always said that vulnerability makes an enemy powerful.
When footsteps enter the room, I look up. More than ten men and just as many women stand before me. Their uniforms tell me they’re security and servants.
“What does your father call you?” my kidnapper drawls.
I look at him, away from the sea of people.
“Princess.”
My tongue slips again. Horror rushes through my mind. I’ve given the wrong answer. That’s not what Uncle calls Avi. And if he knows even the slightest bit about them, he knows it, because Uncle calls her Pumpkin in front of everyone.
“And Pum—” I try to add Pumpkin, but his words cut me off.
“Everyone will call her Princess,” he announces, glancing back at them.
I sigh a little, telling my racing heart that I didn’t fuck up.
His eyes return to me. “While using her as a slave.”
My eyes widen. He stares into them for a second, telling me without words how disgusted he is by me, before getting up from his chair and turning toward his people.
“Give her every job you don’t want. I don’t want to see her idle for a single minute.”
They all nod.
“I refuse to do that,” I protest.
He nods. “Alexie, send her back to the basement.”
My heart stills at the mention of that place. I’m not going to die there in the cold. My family would be devastated.
Dying with pride sounds noble, unless you have people who would be shattered by your death. I can’t be selfish enough to do that. I’ll only consider death as an option if—and only if—they try to assault me.
“Fine. I agree,” I grit out.
His face shows no hint of change, he doesn’t even glance at me.
“Nivi, give her your old uniforms.”
A woman of my height and size nods, glancing at me.
An unkind emotion lights her face—the same one that fills everyone in this room.
They all hate me for a reason I don’t even know.
What could Uncle have done for them to hate him and his daughter this much?
I’m not oblivious to what my family does.
I know every man in my family is a criminal, but I can’t think of a crime terrible enough to warrant this.
They all leave the room. Only the older man stays behind. His face holds none of the same hatred. He comes closer and stops in front of me.
“This is your room. There is no bathroom, but you may use the one down the hall.”
“What did my father do?” I ask as I get up.
My legs ache, making it difficult to stand—a lingering effect of the cold, I think.
“I can’t tell you that, signorina.”
“Are you Italian?” I noticed his accent the first time he spoke, and now this title.
My kidnapper has traces of the same accent. Are they all Italians?
“Am I in Italy?” I press.
He answers none of them.
“What can I call you?” I relent.
“Antonio,” he offers.
“What’s his name?” I push.
He knows exactly who I mean without my having to specify.
Antonio shakes his head. “It would be better if you stopped asking questions.”
“But how will I address people without knowing their names?”
His face softens slightly. “You’ll address everyone as Master and Madam.”
He pities me. My eyes burn. I’m literally a slave here. Self-pity floods my chest; tears spill down my cheeks.
The maid—Nivi—enters. Antonio turns toward her, nods, and leaves.
She dumps a heap of clothes on the floor.
“For you.”
Her accent is different from Antonio’s.
“Get dressed and come with me.”
I nod, wiping my face. I pick a dress from the heap. It doesn’t look worn, but there are deliberate cuts in it, clearly made by scissors.
I glance at Nivi. She’s watching me with a smirk.
“Wear it.” She gestures with her chin.
I nod. “Turn around or leave the room.”
I won’t change in front of her.
She lifts a brow. “No. You’ll change in front of me.”
I frown. She’s clearly bullying me. I swallow my rising frustration and start undressing.
There are only two paths forward. Either I ride the wave or let the ocean swallow me.
Either I tell myself I’ve stepped into a Cinderella story, or I curl up in a corner and weep because a princess is being treated like a slave.
The second option would break me before my family finds me.
I pull off my T-shirt and drop it, then shimmy out of my trousers and set them aside, standing before her in my bra and panties. Nivi stares, stunned. She didn’t expect me to comply.
I pull on the half-sleeved dark blue dress with its off-white trim.
The other maids wear matching off-white gloves, though I doubt I’ll get a pair.
The hem reaches my knees. The cuts are across my thigh and stomach, revealing my white bra and panties beneath.
It’s peak humiliation, but only if I let myself go there.
I’m just wearing a daring dress that happens to show off my pretty lingerie.
“Follow me,” she grits out.
I follow her out barefoot. Shoes, apparently, aren’t part of my uniform. Fantastic. A wonderful opportunity to roam barefoot. There are medicinal benefits, after all.
The first thing I notice outside my room is a sofa. So they do have furniture in this house. Just not for me.
I take in my surroundings. Three more rooms flank mine, and beyond them, a kitchen and sitting area.
It feels like its own wing. At the far end of the corridor, a staircase rises.
The front opens onto another hallway. To the left, a narrow passage leads to what looks like a room and another corridor beyond.
Nivi guides me to the right. We cross a long, open hallway and reach the stairs. She leads me down.
The stairs open onto a vast hallway that feels untouched by human presence—eerily empty. She turns left, leading me into a separate section.
The mansion is enormous—larger than my father’s, with a more labyrinthine layout. It looks like the owner of this place likes to live somewhere that feels like a horror movie set. Given how empty and dark some areas are, I’d wet myself if someone asked me to wander alone here.
Nivi leads me into a kitchen the size of a restaurant, where eight people work. Two seem to be chefs—a woman and a man—the rest are helpers, all women. They all pause when they spot me.
“She’s the new slave. Give her whatever work you like,” Nivi announces brightly.
They all look me over, then nod. The kitchen staff wear different uniforms; they have black dresses instead of blue. They weren’t present when my kidnapper introduced me to the others.
She leads me to another area where maids lounge. It seems to be their break room. They laugh at the sight of me, jeering in a language I don’t recognize.
One of them says something to Nivi, who translates for me. “Go clean that toilet.” She points to an open door.
I clench my jaw and walk where she pointed. I step inside, and the moment my eyes land on the toilet, bile fills my throat. There’s stool in the bowl. I vomit, eyes squeezed shut. Laughter echoes behind me. Vomit splashes my dress, my feet. Some hits the toilet.
I don’t wait another second and run. Shouts chase me as I flee the lounge.
I don’t know which way leads out of this hellhole, so I run back the way that bitch Nivi brought me. Tears stream down my face, blurring my vision. I race upstairs to that wing. Nivi follows, cursing and shouting, but she stops at the wing’s entrance.
Antonio said there’s a bathroom here. I try the closed doors, wiping my eyes to clear the blur. I force myself to stop crying. I can fall apart once I find the bathroom.
I try the first door. A bedroom. Another. A study. The next opens onto another bedroom. There’s no bathroom here. My suppressed sobs break free again as I take in the sight of myself—vomit-splattered, wrecked.
I stumble into the bedroom, sobbing. I don’t care if it’s someone’s private space. I need to clean myself up. I spot another door inside the room and rush toward it. I open it. It’s a bathroom.
I enter quietly, shut the door, and step straight into the shower. I stand under the warm water until the vomit washes away. Then I peel off the dress and sit beneath the stream, arms wrapped around myself.
No matter how hard I try to cling to optimism, I can’t survive this. This level of humiliation—I can’t handle it.
I could never do this to anyone.
Why are people so cruel?
I want to go home.
When will Dad find me?
My sobs grow louder. I bury my head in my knees, arms locked tight around them. My head burns from crying. Water streams over me, coursing from my hair down my body.