Seven O’clock

Praise Renard was awake long before dawn.

The digital clock on his bedside table glowed 5:12 A.M. He had barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the same memories resurfaced: cold gray eyes, an unreadable expression, and a calm voice that had dismantled his entire world with three devastating words.

“You’re fired.”

Praise stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly. Seven months had passed since Vanel Lense had been erased from existence. Yet those words still echoed as sharply as they had on that humiliating night under the bright lights.

He sat up and whispered to the empty room, “Not today.” Today was not about the past but rather marked the true beginning of his revenge.

By six-thirty, the mansion was already stirring with quiet efficiency. The aroma of fresh bread emerged from the oven, coffee beans were ground by hand, coupled by the rich aroma of butter and roasted coffee filled the air.

“You really are an early riser.” Nora looked up as Praise entered and smiled

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

She chuckled. “Most new staff can’t on their first night. Nerves get to everyone.”

“Mr. Loperse’s coffee. Black. No sugar. No milk. Exactly as instructed.” The head chef slid a porcelain cup onto the counter.

“Don’t spill it. And don’t let it cool.” Another cook leaned in and said, his voice lowered.

“And whatever you do, don’t forget the rules about knocking.” Nora sighed dramatically which made Praise frown. “Why? I thought he hated people entering without knocking.”

Leo, who had just wandered in carrying a basket of fresh herbs, laughed. “He does. But he also hates when you knock. Depends entirely on his mood that morning.”

The kitchen staff burst into laughter. Even Praise allowed a small, reluctant smile.

“You people are making this sound impossible,” he said.

“It is,” Claire cut in as she entered, arms folded across her chest. “The last butler lasted four days. Another resigned before lunch. One didn’t even make it to dinner.”

Praise calmly picked up the silver tray. “I’ll try to survive until dinner, then.”

“We’ll see about that.” Claire narrowed her eyes.

---

The grandfather clock in the main hallway chimed seven times.

7:00 A.M. Exactly.

Praise walked down the quiet corridor with measured steps, the silver tray perfectly steady in his hands. He stopped before a pair of dark walnut doors, It was Dylan Loperse’s private bedroom.

For a brief moment, his hand hovered. On the other side of that door was the man he had hated with every fiber of his being for seven long months. The man whose words had stripped him of his identity, his career, and nearly his life.

Praise closed his eyes, steadying himself. Then he knocked once, firm, but not too loud.

“Come in.” The voice was deep and calm.

Praise pushed the door open. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the vast estate. The bedroom was surprisingly restrained for a man of Dylan’s wealth: modern dark wood furniture, neatly arranged books on built-in shelves, and a laptop already open on the desk.

Dylan wasn’t in bed. He stood near the window in a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, reviewing documents while speaking into a wireless earpiece.

“Delay the meeting,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument. “No, I don’t care what excuse they gave. They’ll wait.”

He abruptly ended the call and turned. His grey eyes met Praise’s and for a split second, neither man spoke. The air felt heavier than it should.

Praise stepped forward and placed the coffee on the desk with careful precision. “Your coffee, sir.”

Dylan didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, he studied Praise with that same unnerving intensity from the night before, as if trying to place a half-remembered dream.

“Did you sleep well?” Dylan asked.

The question caught Praise off guard. “I did, sir.”

“A lie,” Dylan said quietly.

Praise blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There are dark circles under your eyes.”

“I was… nervous, sir. First day and all.”

Dylan hummed softly, almost thoughtfully. “So was my first butler.”

“What happened to him?”

“He quit.” Dylan’s expression remained serious. “The second and third did as well. The fourth lasted six days.”

Praise couldn’t help a small, wry smile. “I’m beginning to think the problem might not be the butlers, sir.”

For the first time, Dylan’s lips twitched not quite a smile, but close enough to surprise them both.

“So everyone tells me,” He replied. The silence that followed felt unexpectedly comfortable. Dylan finally picked up the cup and took a slow sip. Praise held his breath.

“Good.” Dylan lowered the cup. It was a simple word, yet it felt like a small victory.

“You may accompany me to the office today,” Dylan continued, reaching for his jacket.

Praise’s eyes widened slightly. “Sir?”

“My previous butler managed parts of my schedule. You’ll learn faster if you observe directly.”

“As you wish, sir.” Praise lowered his head respectfully.

As Dylan walked past him toward the door, their shoulders brushed lightly. It was a simple, accidental touch but they felt the urge.

Both men paused for the briefest moment. Praise felt an unexpected jolt run through him. But Dylan continued forward without comment, but his steps seemed fractionally slower.

“One more thing,” Dylan said without turning around.

“Yes, sir?”

“Make sure you are in your best outfit…” His voice was quieter than usual.

That took him by surprise. Praises fingers tightened around the now-empty tray. His carefully constructed walls trembled, but held.

“Noted, sir,” he replied evenly.

Dylan didn’t answer. He simply continued walking, leaving Praise standing alone in the bedroom. “Why I feel as though I’ve been waiting to meet you.” He thought to himself as he strolled off.

Praise released a slow, measured breath once the door clicked shut behind him.

“This is dangerous,” he murmured to the empty room. “The closer I get to him… the harder this revenge is going to become.”

Yet even as he spoke the words, a quiet resolve settled over him. He had survived the public humiliation. He had survived death itself. He would not fail now — no matter how familiar those gray eyes felt, or how dangerously easy it was to stand in his presence.

The game had barely begun.