The first test

“I thought you said the replacement for Clara is already on the way?”

Damien Kael’s voice cut through the silence of his room like a thunderstorm. Cold, sharp and Unforgiving.

On the other end of the call, the woman flinched so hard he could hear it through the line. “M-Mr. Kael, I was told she left the convent last night. They said she was the perfect choice. Quiet, obedient, untouched.”

“I don’t care what they said.” Damien’s voice dropped lower, darker. “You should have waited for my final decision. I did not ask for a child in a dress who can barely look me in the eye.”

“Mr. Clifford, she’s nineteen—”

“I said wait.”

With a hard swipe of his finger, the call ended. The screen went black. His room fell into silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fireplace.

Or so he thought.

But just beyond the the half-open door, hidden behind the in the shadow of an ornate column, stood Elara Vale.

~~~

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She had been wandering back from the kitchen, tray in her hands, still struggling to memorize the endless hallways of the mansion. But the moment she heard his voice—deep, angry, heavier than it had been that morning—she froze.

Her training told her it was wrong to listen. Wrong to stand there, holding her breath like a thief.

But what cut her deeper than guilt was the sting of his words.

A child in a dress.

Didn’t ask for her.

Should’ve waited.

The words sank like stones in her chest.

Was she not enough?

Her hands tightened on the tray. The porcelain rattled. She had been taught humility, told over and over that service was its own reward. But no prayer, no lesson, no scripture had prepared her for what it felt like to be unwanted. Not even one day in his house, and she was already a mistake.

She turned, hoping to slip away quietly.

But the old wood betrayed her. The door creaked.

“Come in.”

The voice was loud. Certain. Impossible to ignore.

Her body locked in place. Then, with the heavy steps of someone walking toward punishment, she obeyed.

Elara stepped into the doorway, her eyes lowered to the polished floor. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” Damien cut in, his tone cold. “I asked you to come in.”

Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She crossed the space slowly, the sound of her shoes was soft against the marble. The tray shook faintly in her grip, teacups rattling like nervous bones.

“Did you hear the call?” he asked.

Her lips parted. She wanted to lie, to protect herself. But her voice betrayed her honesty.

“…No, Damien.”

One brow lifted. “But enough to know I wasn’t pleased with your arrival?”

She swallowed hard. “…Yes.”

Damien pushed back from his desk and walked around it. Not in a hurry, just slowly walk. His steps were steady, deliberate. He stopped in front of her. Close enough that the air felt charged.

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked.

Her head lifted. For the first time, their eyes locked. His gaze was steady, merciless, searching. And in that moment the grand study, the fire, the walls—they all vanished.

“No,” she said softly.

Something flickered across his expression. A shadow. A question.

“Why?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She could have said she needed the money. She could have said she wanted to prove herself. But none of that felt true. What rose instead was something unusual. Something she couldn’t name.

“I want to stay,” she whispered again.

Damien watched her another moment. His eyes never left hers. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the tray. His fingers brushed hers—light, fleeting, but enough to set fire beneath her skin.

He lifted the cup, took a sip, and set it back down. His gaze was still on her when he spoke.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then don’t ever listen at my doors again.”

That afternoon, Elara returned to her room.

At first glance, everything looked the same. The bed neatly made. The curtains drawn against the pale afternoon light.

But something new sat waiting for her.

A black box, placed carefully in the center of her bed.

Her heart picked up speed as she crossed the room. She lifted the lid.

Inside lay a uniform.

Not like the plain one she wore earlier. This one was darker. Shorter. The fabric was silk, edged with lace so thin it could hardly be called modest. It was cut tight across the chest, tighter still at the hips. Stockings, sheer as glass, lay folded beside it. A pair of black heels added height she did not want.

And tucked into the corner, a note.

Wear this for evening service. I want to see how well you follow orders.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Evening service? Did he mean dinner? Or… something else?

By seven, she was dressed.

Her hands trembled as she smoothed the silk over her thighs. It felt too short, too revealing, too everything. The heels wobbled her balance. The stockings clung like a second skin.

She whispered one last prayer under her breath, then stepped out.

The dining room doors opened with a groan.

Damien Kael was already seated at the head of the long table, a glass of red wine in his hand. His eyes lifted as she entered. They moved from her shoes, up her legs, across her chest, and finally to the blush burning her skin.

“You read the note,” he said.

“Yes, Damien.”

“Spin.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

His expression didn’t change. “Turn. I want to see all of it.”

Shame twisted in her stomach. But she obeyed. Slowly. One turn in silence. Her hair brushed her shoulders as she faced him again.

His face was unreadable. But the way his hand tightened on the stem of the glass… that told her enough.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair beside him. Not across the table. Beside him.

Dinner began in silence. The clink of silver against porcelain. The faint sound of logs cracking in the fireplace.

But silence was an illusion.

His hand brushed hers once, light as an accident. Then again, lingering just a little longer when he reached for the bread. Her pulse jumped. She lifted her glass to hide it, but her fingers trembled.

Under the table, his knee brushed against hers. He didn’t move away.

Neither did she.

When dessert arrived—something sweet, red, and sticky—Damien dipped his spoon into it. He lifted it, held it out, his eyes locked on hers.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Elara hesitated, breath caught in her throat. Then, slowly, she leaned forward. Her lips parted. The cold sweetness touched her tongue, melting with a rush of sugar.

Damien’s eyes stayed on her the whole time.

A slow smile curved across his lips.

“I think you’ll do just fine here, Elara.”