Don’t You Recognize Me?

Ava’s Perspective

The stem of the glass trembled slightly between my fingers as I placed it on the table. One down. Too many more to go. If I moved carefully—quietly—I could finish this unnoticed.

A servant brushed past, balancing a tray of delicate glassware. I reached for one, glad to see it matched the others. Maybe I wouldn’t mess this up.

Click. Click. Click.

Heels.

“Ava,” Julian’s voice rang out, too sweet, too loud—like a bell meant to summon attention, not soothe. “Oh dear, not those glasses.”

She sailed into view, graceful as always, holding a different tray in her manicured hands. The kind of entrance that made maids straighten and guests pretend they hadn’t been eavesdropping.

“These are for luncheons,” she announced, lifting one dainty crystal piece as if showcasing a rare gem. “The ones you’re using are dinnerware. Olivia would be horrified if the table was set wrong for brunch.”

A murmur passed through the nearby staff like a breeze. I froze, still holding the “wrong” glass.

Julian smiled like I’d made her day. “It’s an easy mistake, of course. You’ve probably never had to worry about these little things before.” Her tone dipped just enough to humiliate without sounding unkind.

She plucked the glass from my hand and replaced it with hers, tapping my fingers gently like she was teaching a toddler. “There. Much better.”

The maids didn’t laugh, but they didn’t have to. Their eyes said enough.

Julian tilted her head, voice carrying across the polished floors. “It takes a certain grace to manage these events. But don’t worry—you’ll learn. Eventually.”

She made herself the mentor, the flawless hostess. Me? Just the poor little outsider, fumbling my way into their world.

And Bill? He didn’t even look up.

I forced my face into stillness, setting the corrected glass with care. Don’t react. Don’t rise to it.

But Julian wasn’t done.

“Bill’s always been so patient with you,” she added, her gaze sliding toward him with syrupy fondness. “It’s admirable. Not every man would be so understanding when their… wife is still finding her footing.”

Understanding? Right.

My hand paused mid-reach.

I let the next glass clink softly onto the table and turned, my voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Funny. I wouldn’t have guessed patience was your favorite thing about him.”

Her smile twitched—just slightly—but she caught it fast. “Oh, sister-in-law,” she purred, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve, “one might almost think you’re being petty.”

“Of course not.” I returned her smile, sweet as poison. “That would be so… unbecoming of a Morgan.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Lucius’s cane echoed down the hall. Julian’s eyes flicked toward the sound. Bill shifted.

I added one more glass to the lineup, then leaned just slightly, making sure my words hit only the ears that needed to hear them.

Bill’s hand snapped around my wrist beneath the tablecloth, hard enough to bruise. His nails dug into my skin.

“You dare talk back?” he hissed low, venom coiled under each word.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked softly, blinking up at him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of Lucius’s cane drew nearer.

“You’ll regret that,” Bill spat, then released my wrist as the old man stepped into view.

The room fell silent as Lucius Clarke entered, each tap of his cane commanding submission. He moved slowly but carried a presence like a storm cloud. He approached the head of the table and settled into his chair without a word. Eyes sharp despite his years, he scanned the room.

“Where is Alexander?”

The name landed like a knife.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

Bill laughed—too loud, too forced. “Grandfather, you know Alexander won’t show up just because he’s expected. If you want him here, you’ll have to invite him yourself.”

Lucius’s cane cracked against the marble, sharp enough to make me flinch.

“That snake! That ungrateful disgrace of a boy!” His voice boomed. “How dare he disrespect my authority?!”

The doors opened as if on cue.

And in stepped Alexander Clarke, strolling in as if he owned the place. His tall frame filled the doorway, his presence pressing down like a storm cloud. No one spoke. Even Lucius’s fury stilled.

Alexander smirked faintly. “Ungrateful? Grandpa, you wound me. I should be thanking you for thinking of me so fondly.”

He moved to the table with slow, unhurried steps. With a flick of his hand, one of his men followed, carrying a long black box.

It landed with a dull thud in the center of the table.

With a soft click, the lid flipped open.

And there it was.

An arm. Severed clean at the elbow. Bone white against velvet. Fingers slightly curled, as if they were still trying to hold onto life.

The blood hadn’t dried yet.

Gasps erupted—sharp, panicked. One maid dropped her tray with a crash. I heard someone retch behind me.

My stomach rolled. My fingers clenched around the stem of the wineglass like it might anchor me.

Alexander sat there, casual as sin, legs crossed, glass in hand.

He looked at the limb like it bored him.

“You see this?” His voice was low, casual, like he was talking about the weather. “This limb belonged to some fool who thought he could pull a fast one on me.”

He sipped his wine, slow, unhurried. “Naturally, I cut off the parts that made his decision.”

A pause.

Then, with a lazy smile that never touched his eyes: “And then I killed him. Consider it a little gift for the family.”

The silence was a vacuum.

Beside me, Bill stiffened, his knuckles whitening against his lap. Watching him, I suddenly realized—the rumors weren’t rumors. Alexander really had crippled one of the brothers.

He looked around the table, caught the flicker of terror on our faces—and laughed. Low, amused.

“Oh? Did my little story scare you?” He waved a hand, casual, dismissive. “Don’t believe everything I say. It’s only lamb. Freshly slaughtered this morning.”

A few nervous laughs fluttered around the table, thin, brittle. Then nothing.

“Don’t worry,” he went on, raising his glass. “I’ll protect you all. After all… we’re family, aren’t we?”

Every word dripped venom and silk. No one moved. No one breathed. He chuckled, drank.

All I could think was how badly I wanted to vanish. To be anywhere but under this suffocating roof. But the heavens weren’t merciful. Because when I finally lifted my head, his eyes were waiting.

Our gazes locked.

And I saw it—the exact second the idea took hold of him. The conspiratorial smirk curving across his mouth, slow, deliberate, as he pinned me there.

I should’ve looked away. I knew I should. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. My body betrayed me, rooted to the spot, caught like prey under a predator’s stare.

“Ava.”

My name left his mouth too soft. Intimate. Dangerous.

My throat closed. My palms slicked against the glass.

Then he smiled—like a boy who’d stumbled on a long-lost toy—and tilted his head. His voice turned mock-hurt.

“…Don’t you recognize me?”

The world tilted. My pulse thundered in my ears.

No.

No, no, no.

I don’t recognize you — not at all. How could I possibly know such a ticking time bomb?