CHAPTER FIFTEEN

~Riya~

The morning came with a cruel brightness. My eyes opened to my new little room, the folded uniform waiting on the chest.

For a moment, I laid still, clutching the blanket, willing myself to wake again in Nightfang lands. To smell pine, to hear my father’s laugh, to feel the warmth of my pack close by.

But the silence pressed cold against me. Could I ever erase the memory of all that had happened? What mattered the most were the remaining pack members. They were locked in prison, and I was here as a servant.

Knuckles rapped against the door. Then his voice followed, sharp and steady. “Riya.”

My throat tightened. I whispered, “Just a nightmare. Please, just a nightmare.” But the door rattled again.

“Riya.”

I forced my legs to move. “Yes, sir,” I called softly.

“Open.”

I got up and did. When the door swung open, his shadow stretched across the small room, swallowing the pale light.

“You greet me properly,” he said.

I bowed my head. “Good morning, sir.”

“Louder and with more strength.”

I raised my voice, though it shook. “Good morning, Mr. Steele.”

His eyes narrowed. “Better. Always remember: weakness breeds contempt.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Get ready. Your first day begins.”

I glanced once at the folded blanket and wished I could sink back into dreams of my father. But I stepped back in. “I’ll be ready.”

He stepped back. “Don’t be late.” He scanned the room. “I won’t always come to wake you or to walk you.”

At the door, he paused. “There are punishments for lateness, Miss Riya…”

“Miss Riya Wintle,” I corrected.

He gave a faint smile. “Yes, I could never forget. Be down soon.”

I washed quickly, pulled on the uniform, and hurried down to the restaurant’s heat and bustle.

Dorian stood with a few well-dressed men who radiated authority. Without pausing, he pointed. “To the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, veering away.

Inside, the clatter of pans and the sharp scent of spices filled the air. A knife was pressed into my hand, along with instructions to chop, wash, and keep busy.

“For now, do this,” a chef told me. “You’ll also take lessons from me as I cook.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And after breakfast, you’ll serve tables.”

“Yes,” I answered, ready to work.

After endless chopping and washing, the head chef finally gave me a chance to breathe. “Take five,” she said kindly. “Go have some breakfast.”

Gratefully, I made my way to the staff dining area, where a plate of Italian pasta with shrimp was set before me.

“New?” the chef at the counter asked, watching me curiously.

“Mmm… yeah,” I managed between bites, chewing as if I hadn’t eaten in days.

“Welcome, dear. Don’t be nervous. Dorian can be tough, but I promise he’s kind.”

I swallowed, managing a small smile. “Yes… he was a friend of my late father.”

“Ah, then that makes you very special staff,” he chuckled warmly.

My mind immediately went to when Dorian said I was like every other staff. But I had no words to say.

Breakfast ended quickly, and soon I was switching from kitchen duty to waiting tables. My fingers still smelled of onions and soap as I tied on a fresh apron, my nerves pricked at the thought of serving the wealthy people.

I collected orders and carried trays, trying to hold myself with grace.

“Bon appétit,” I said softly as I set a plate before an elderly woman draped in jewels and expensive silks.

“Thank you,” she replied with a polite nod.

By the end of the shift, I realized working at Dorian’s restaurant wasn’t bad at all. There was a bed to sleep in, good food to eat, and humble work to keep my hands busy, more than enough to keep my mind from drowning in sorrow.

After the long, exhausting day, I dragged myself back toward the staff quarters. I hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Dorian all day; he was occupied with his endless business meetings, surrounded by his circle of well-dressed elites.

As I entered the compound, a gentle glow met me. A group of ladies gathered around a small fire. I lowered my gaze, hoping to slip past quietly to my room, but then I heard my name, cutting clearly through the chatter.

“Riya!” one of them called, her voice bright and unrestrained.

“Yes, ma,” I replied instinctively, still carrying the day’s tone of respect.

Laughter rippled through the group. “Oh, cut the formalities,” the lady teased. “We’re all family here, sister. We are one.”

Another lady patted the ground beside her. “Come here. Sit with us.”

I hesitated, but the fire’s warmth and their smiles left little room for retreat. Slowly, I stepped closer, settling into the circle beside one of the younger women.

“Feel relaxed, girl,” she said softly with a smile as she held my hand to balance.

Another chimed in, her voice practical but kind. “We all need the money. Put behind whatever brought you here, whatever made you work for Dorian. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

A sharper voice interrupted. “Don’t see it as slavery, like some others say.”

“Oh, please,” another countered with a scoff. “What do you call walking around the clock for years, just to feed your family?”

“You could choose not to,” someone else said. “No one forced you. Or were you forced, Riya?”

Their eyes turned to me. I bent my head low, staring into the dust at my feet, unsure how to speak the truth.

“Come on, girl,” an older lady urged, her tone gentler than the rest. “Feel comfortable. We’ve all been through things.”

My chest tightened, but I forced the words out. “My father… he was a wealthy man once. But we needed to grow and invest as hard times came, and he… he took a loan, or so I heard… he didn’t even survive it.”

I lowered my voice, trembling with grief I had buried for so long. “He died, and my mother remarried. After that, Dorian took me in to work off the debts my father left behind.”

Gasps circled the fire. One of the ladies leaned forward, her face creased with sympathy. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry to hear that, love.”

Another lady’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that cruel? To make you pay for something that wasn’t even yours?”

But a voice rose in quiet defense. “How is that cruel? Think about it, he lost his money. He’s only trying to get it back. I’d do the same if I were in his shoes.”

“Maybe so,” another murmured, “but it wouldn’t be easy. Imagine giving up your own life to pay off a debt you never asked for. Right, Riya?”

I could only nod faintly. “Yeah,” I whispered. Tears slipped from my eyes, hot against my cheeks, falling into the dust where the firelight caught them.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around me from both sides. “Group hug!” one of the younger women shouted, and in a rush, the whole circle closed in. I was pressed in their embrace, surrounded by warmth and laughter, their hands patting my back, their voices lifting me from the weight of my sorrow.

“Don’t be sad, girl,” the oldest among them whispered, brushing a tear from my face. “You’re with us now.”

Then, as if on cue, one of them began to hum. The tune was soft, wordless at first, then it bloomed into a song. The others joined, their voices weaving together into something tender and whole.

Their song wrapped around me like a blanket, each note easing the sharpness of my grief. By the time the last verse faded into the crackling fire, I found myself smiling through th

e tears.

In that moment, surrounded by strangers who had become sisters, I felt something I had not known in a long time: belonging.