CHAPTER 2: The Scapegoat

My feet barely touched the floor as I hurried toward Madam Santiago’s private quarters. My mind was still reeling from yesterday’s encounter—from the moment Nicholas opened his eyes, to the shock of slapping him, and the terrifying rage that burned in his gaze. That man was no human when awake; he was a beast trapped in a handsome shell. But as much as I feared him, I needed this job more.

My adoptive parents were gone, paid off and vanished. I had no home, no family, nowhere else to go. Every peso I earned here would be the foundation of my new life—my only chance to survive on my own. No matter how cruel or difficult this work became, I would endure.

I knocked softly on the heavy wooden door before stepping inside. Mrs. Santiago sat by the window, holding a porcelain cup of coffee, her posture elegant and unshakable as always.

“Mrs. Santiago, you called for me?” I asked, keeping my head slightly bowed, voice soft and respectful.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting toward the garden outside before she turned to me. “Yes. Come closer, Cristine.”

I obeyed, stopping a few steps away from her desk.

“Nicholas has regained consciousness, but his legs have been inactive for nearly a year. His muscles are weak, his mobility limited, and his recovery will take time and patience,” she said calmly, though I heard the firmness underneath her tone. “From now on, your duty changes. You are no longer just a cleaner. You will stay by his side at all times—attend to his needs, watch over him, and ensure he does not strain himself or fall into distress. Do you understand?”

My heart sank. Stay by his side? That beast? Just the memory of his cold, murderous stare sent shivers down my spine. But I swallowed my fear and nodded quickly.

“I understand, Ma’am. I will do exactly as you say.”

“Good. You will be well compensated. Just remember: obedience and silence are your best virtues here.”

I exited her room with a heavy heart. Great. Now I’m officially the beast’s full-time nanny. Damn this life and my bad luck.

I was heading toward the kitchen to prepare his things when Alleya, one of the senior maids, approached me carrying a silver food tray covered with a pristine white cloth. She smiled sweetly at me—too sweetly, in fact. There was a glint in her eyes that made my skin prickle, a hidden malice she thought she hid well.

“Cristine,” she said warmly, “this is Sir Nicholas’s lunch. It’s been prepared exactly to his liking. Please bring this to him right away. He must be hungry by now.”

“Thank you, Alleya,” I replied cautiously, taking the tray from her hands. Her smile widened, but she said nothing more before turning away.

I knocked three times on Nicholas’s door, waited for a moment, then pushed it open gently.

The room was quiet, but the atmosphere felt heavy, almost suffocating. Nicholas sat propped up against the pillows, his dark eyes fixed sharply on me the moment I entered. His gaze was cold, piercing, and filled with unmistakable loathing—like I was some kind of pest that had crawled under his feet.

I ignored his glare, keeping my head down as I walked toward his bedside. I placed the tray carefully on the small table beside him, arranging the plates neatly.

“Time for your lunch, Sir,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the nervousness twisting in my chest.

No answer. Not even a hum.

I stepped back immediately, moving to the farthest corner of the room, standing against the wall where I thought I’d be out of his way and out of his reach. I told myself to stay calm, stay invisible, and wait until he finished eating so I could clear the table.

Minutes dragged by like hours. He didn’t touch the food. He just stared at me, unblinking, his jaw clenched tight.

Then—CRASH!

The loud, violent sound of porcelain shattering echoed through the entire room. He had swept the whole tray off the table, sending bowls, plates, and soup splattering across the floor and walls.

His eyes burned with pure rage, his hands gripping the edge of the bed until his knuckles turned white. He bared his teeth at me like a wild animal ready to tear me apart.

My breath hitched. What did I do wrong? I just brought the food. I didn’t even speak to him.

I sighed inwardly, forcing myself to remain calm. I walked slowly toward the mess, bending down to pick up the broken pieces and wipe the spilled food from the floor. I was just doing my job—enduring his tantrums was part of the deal.

But the moment I reached the edge of his bed, his hand shot out faster than I could react. His fingers wrapped tight around my throat, squeezing hard, cutting off my breath instantly.

My eyes bulged. I clawed uselessly at his hand, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

“L—let… go…” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. Black spots danced in my vision. Is this how I die? Strangled by a man who can’t even walk properly?

“Who sent you here?” he snarled, his face inches from mine, eyes wild and furious. “Tell me! Who ordered you to do this?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My chest burned, my lungs screamed for air, and I felt my consciousness slipping away.

Just as I thought it was the end, the door burst open with force.

“Nicholas! Let her go this instant!” Mrs. Santiago’s voice rang out, sharp and terrified. Beside her stood a tall, distinguished man with graying hair and an imposing presence—Mr. Sullivan Santiago, Nicholas’s father.

Nicholas didn’t loosen his grip. He held on tighter, as if determined to crush the life out of me.

Then—SMACK!

A loud, sharp slap landed across Nicholas’s face. Mr. Santiago had struck him—hard.

The force made Nicholas’s head snap to the side, and his hand finally fell away from my neck.

I stumbled backward, coughing violently, gasping and choking as air rushed back into my lungs. My throat felt raw, bruised, and sore. Tears pricked my eyes, but I held them back. Is there really no good luck left for me in this world?

Mr. Santiago stood tall, his expression cold, unyielding, and severe as he looked at his son. “Is this how you repay kindness, Nicholas? She has done nothing but care for you, and you treat her like an enemy?”

Nicholas laughed bitterly, wiping the corner of his mouth where the slap had left a mark. “Kindness? You call this kindness? She brought food laced with poison! She tried to kill me—and you defend her?”

My blood ran cold. Poison?

Everything clicked into place. Alleya’s too-sweet smile. The way she handed me the tray and hurried away. The way Nicholas reacted the moment I entered.

“Cristine is not the one who poisoned you,” Mr. Santiago said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “She has no reason, no motive, and no way to get anything into your food. She is innocent.”

Nicholas fell silent, glaring at me but saying nothing more. It was clear his father was the only person in this world who could actually control him.

Now I know where he gets that coldness and cruelty from, I thought. It runs in the blood.

Mrs. Santiago rushed to my side, her face filled with guilt and worry. She touched my neck gently, wincing at the darkening bruises already forming there. “Cristine, I am so sorry. I never thought something like this would happen. Are you badly hurt?”

I forced a small, trembling smile, nodding slowly. “It’s fine, Mrs. Santiago. I understand… Sir Nicholas is still recovering, and perhaps confused. I don’t blame him.”

But inside, I was trembling—not just from fear, but from realization. I wasn’t just a maid or a nanny. I was a convenient scapegoat.

Just then, faint voices drifted from the hallway outside the open window—low, urgent, and panicked.

“You failed! I told you to make sure he ate it! Now everyone will suspect something!” A man’s voice hissed angrily.

Then a woman’s voice, trembling and tearful, replied, “I didn’t know that cripple would notice! I didn’t think he’d realize the food was poisoned… I thought they’d just blame the new maid and be done with it!”

My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. It was Alleya.

They had planned this. They wanted Nicholas dead, and they intended to pin it all on me—the new girl, the orphan with no family to defend her. I was never meant to be anything more than a sacrifice.

I took a step toward the window, wanting to follow, wanting to hear more and find out exactly who was behind this plot.

“Cristine!”

Mr. Santiago’s voice stopped me in my tracks. He and Mrs. Santiago were both looking at me—serious, grim, and already knowing far more than I realized.

“Come with us,” Mr. Sullivan said quietly. “We need to talk. There is much you do not know… and you are already in far deeper danger than you can imagine.”