Chapter Twenty-Three

Ava’s POV

I went inside my room not happy that we didn’t say anything and also happy that I am resuming school tomorrow.

The door closed behind me with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. I stood still for a moment in the middle of the large bedroom, the silence of the west wing settling around me again. Dinner had ended without a single real exchange. Corren had eaten, stood, and left. No glance that lasted longer than a second. No instruction beyond the final one about school. The distance he had placed between us sat in my chest like something solid. I disliked it more than I wanted to admit.

At the same time, tomorrow was real. School. A driver. A schedule that would take me outside these walls for the first time since I had arrived. The thought sent a thin current of nervous energy through me. I didn’t know how the school would be in this place—whether the other students would look at me and see someone ordinary or someone who arrived each morning from a private estate with a black car waiting at the curb. I didn’t know if I still remembered how to exist in a classroom without the weight of Corren’s rules following me through the door.

I tried to breathe.

The air moved slowly into my lungs and out again. I walked to the mirror near the closet and looked at myself. The woman staring back still seemed slightly unfamiliar—older than the girl who had planned to give herself to Vance, softer in some ways and harder in others. I forced a small smile at the reflection. It looked uncertain, but it was there. Tomorrow would be a beginning, even if it was a controlled one. I held onto that.

I changed into a simple nightdress, washed my face, and lay down on the bed. The sheets were cool. For a while I stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house and the occasional distant sound of security moving through the grounds. Eventually the exhaustion of the day pulled me under. I slept without dreaming of anything I could remember.

The next morning I was the first to wake up before any person in the building.

The light in the room was still pale and early when my eyes opened. For a few seconds I remained still, listening. No footsteps in the corridor. No low voices. No movement from the staff areas that usually came alive around seven. The house felt suspended, as if it had not yet decided to begin the day. I sat up, pushed the covers aside, and crossed the room on bare feet.

I needed coffee.

The kitchen was on the ground floor, toward the back of the main house. I had only been inside it once, briefly, when a maid had been preparing a tray. It felt strange to walk there alone in the early quiet, wearing only a light robe over my nightdress, my hair still loose from sleep. The marble floors were cool under my feet. Every small sound I made seemed amplified by the emptiness of the halls.

The kitchen was large, modern, and immaculate. Stainless steel and pale stone. A professional coffee machine sat on the counter near the window. I found a cup without difficulty, fitted it under the spout, and started the machine. The low hum of it filling the cup was the only noise. I leaned against the counter while I waited, arms loosely folded, and let the early morning stillness settle around me. For a brief moment it almost felt normal—just a woman making coffee before the day began.

Then the door from the staff corridor opened.

The maid who managed the kitchen stepped in and stopped short the moment she saw me. Her eyes widened. The tray she was carrying dipped slightly in her hands before she recovered her grip. Panic moved openly across her face.

“Please, small madam,” she said quickly, voice low and urgent. “Leave here. If the boss sees you here, I will be fired.”

I stared at her, the cup of coffee still half-finished under the machine. “I only wanted coffee. I didn’t touch anything else.”

She set the tray down on the nearest surface and came closer, hands raised slightly as if she could physically guide me out of the room without touching me. Her voice dropped even further.

“It is not about the coffee. Boss has rules. Morning kitchen is staff only until he has left for the office or given other instruction. If he comes down and finds you here without permission, he will not ask who invited you. He will only ask who allowed it. That person loses their position.”

I tried to ask why the rule existed, why something as simple as making coffee required this level of fear, but she was already shaking her head and gesturing firmly for me to lower my voice. Her eyes flicked toward the doorway that led to the main hall, then back to me. Every line of her body communicated the same thing: this was not a discussion. This was damage control.

“Please,” she whispered. “Take the cup if you must, but go back upstairs. Quickly.”

The coffee machine clicked off. I reached for the cup out of pure reflex, the ceramic warm against my palms. The maid looked close to genuine distress now, her earlier professional composure completely gone. I nodded once, not trusting my voice, and moved past her toward the door. She followed a step behind until I was clear of the kitchen, then stopped, shoulders tight, listening for any sound from the rest of the house.

I walked back through the quiet corridors with the cup in both hands, the heat of it seeping into my fingers. The house still felt mostly asleep, but it no longer felt neutral. Every camera I had stopped noticing, every silent rule I had begun to accept without thinking, suddenly stood out in sharper relief. The maid’s fear had not been exaggerated. It had been practiced. She knew exactly how Corren’s household operated when he was not in the room.

I climbed the staircase slowly, careful not to spill the coffee, and returned to the west wing. Inside my bedroom I set the cup on the small table by the window and stood there for a long moment, looking out at the gardens without really seeing them. The early light had strengthened. Somewhere beyond the walls the day was beginning for other people in ordinary ways. Inside these walls, even the act of walking into the kitchen before sunrise carried consequences for someone else.

The realization settled over me with quiet force.

I now understand the man who said I should call him daddy was not just rich but also powerful enough that even without him being there, he can define his rules.