CHAPTER THIRTEEN

~Riya~

The drive was silent. I didn’t ask questions, and the man who brought me here didn’t say a word, either. When we finally pulled into the estate, I thought we’d taken a wrong turn.

The place looked nothing like anything I’d ever seen before. Luxury stared at me from every corner. Even the smallest details, vases, curtains, the carved banister, screamed wealth.

Not the kind I’d grown up around.

This was luxury in its purest form: extravagant, shiny, and chic.

The man beside me stopped at a door and pushed it open. “Wait here,” he said, then turned and left.

The door closed behind me with a quiet click.

I looked around. The room was tidy, warm, and spacious enough to make me feel small. My fingers brushed over the velvet armrest of the chair by the window. Everything looked perfect, but somehow, it didn’t feel welcoming.

Minutes passed. My thoughts wandered back to the cell I’d been held in before this, back to the moment the guard said the Alpha wanted to see me. It was an event I couldn't erase.

Then the door opened, and Dorian stepped inside.

“Good evening, sir,” I said quickly, standing to greet him.

He didn’t respond. He just gave a small nod and studied me.

His presence filled the room effortlessly: tall, well-built, his sharp eyes scanning me like I was a report to be reviewed, not a person.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for your father’s loss,” he said finally. “He was a good man. A friend. I’m sure we’ve met a few times, business dinners, board meetings.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered softly. “I remember.”

“It’s a pity he had to die like that,” he continued, his eyes drifting away for a second. Then, without warning, his tone hardened. “Anyways. Follow me.”

I followed.

He led me through a long corridor, down polished stairs that opened into what looked like a restaurant. The lighting shifted from warm to low and ambient. A piano played faintly from hidden speakers. The smell of pastry and fine wine lingered in the air.

“This is where you’ll work,” Dorian said. “The restaurant. That’s where I make my money. I’m the CEO.”

He spoke as though I should’ve already known.

He moved briskly, and I followed him through every section. “That’s the kitchen,” he said, pushing open the swinging doors. “The bar’s over there. VIP lounge, regular dining, bathrooms, staff room.”

Every corner looked spotless, efficient and perfect.

Then we walked out of the restaurant and into another building, a tall one that stretched upward with countless windows glowing faintly against the night sky. He stopped at a corridor lined with numbered doors.

“Rooms one to a hundred,” he said, finally stopping at Room Seven. “That’s yours.”

He opened the door and stepped aside for me to enter.

The room was small but clean: white sheets, a small wardrobe, a vanity mirror, and two neatly folded uniforms at the foot of the bed.

I swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”

He didn’t respond. He just stepped inside. “There are rules here. Listen carefully.”

I nodded, clasping my hands in front of me.

“No lateness,” he began. “No excuses about being tired. No emotional breakdowns, especially not in front of guests. No eating unless it’s during staff breakfast, lunch, or dinner. No sleeping on duty. If you’re sick, you come directly to me. And under no circumstances do you act familiar or friendly with clients. Everything must remain professional. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.

He turned, motioning for me to follow him again. “Good. Come.”

We went back into the restaurant, up a narrow flight of stairs this time, until we reached an office door. A black plaque bore his name in silver letters: Dorian Steele, CEO.

He pushed the door open and walked in.

“This is my office,” he said simply. Then he sat behind a mahogany desk, gesturing for me to sit across from him.

I obeyed.

He pulled a folder from the drawer, opened it, and slid a contract across the table toward me.

“By signing,” he said, “you agree to be bound to me for life.”

My breath caught. “For life?”

“Or,” he added, leaning back casually in his chair, “until you’ve worked off your father’s debt.”

He spun slightly in his chair, as if amused by his own words.

I stared at the contract. “But… you were my father’s friend. Why would you…”

He slammed his hand on the table, making me flinch.

“You don’t tell me what to do here,” he snapped. “I make the rules.”

The room went silent. His eyes burned into mine.

“Never,” he said through clenched teeth, “mention my friendship with your father to me again. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re just like every other staff here,” he said, lowering his tone. “Nothing more. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

He straightened his tie and exhaled, as if regaining control. “Good.”

Then he stood, walked to the door, and gestured for me to follow.

I followed him down to the kitchen again. The chefs were busy plating dishes, moving precisely and quietly.

“Give her dinner,” Dorian told one of the chefs before turning to leave.

“Yes, sir,” the chef replied.

Dorian glanced at me one last time. “Eat. Then rest. Tomorrow, work starts at dawn, exactly at 6:00 a.m.”

I nodded, and he left.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving me standing there under the bright kitchen lights.

I turned to the chef, offering a small, awkward smile. “Good evening.”

He didn’t answer. He just slid a plate toward me.

The food looked elegant: grilled salmon with herbs, mashed potatoes shaped like clouds, and a drizzle of sauce I couldn’t name. I sat down, picked up the fork, and hesitated.

“Can I… have some water, please?” I asked carefully.

The chef didn’t respond. He just pointed at the tap without looking at me.

“Oh,” I murmured. “Thank you.”

I poured the water myself and returned to the table.

I turned again, trying to smile, trying to engage with the chef. Maybe this could be a new beginning. “It’s really nice,” I said softly.

He finally looked up, but his expression was unreadable. Then he gave a faint, polite grin and turned back to his work.

That was it. Nobody welcomed or approached me; everyone continued their business. No one even looked at me twice.

By the time I finished eating, my chest ached from the silence. No family, no friends, not even a familiar voice to remind me who I used to be.

When I stood to leave, the chef pointed toward the door that led back to the staff quarters.

“Room Seven,” I whispered to myself as I walked out.

The hallway felt longer this time, quieter. The lights buzzed faintly above me. I entered the room, shut the door, and leaned against it. The bed looked too clean, too untouched.

I sank down on it and stared at the cei

ling. And somewhere deep down, I couldn’t help but wonder… I had no purpose, no family to live for, no reason for my life. I was just there.