Should have stayed dead.

ELARA'S POV. 

When I got back to the motel, I went straight into the bathroom, turned the shower on as hot as it would go, and stood under it for a long time, mentally cursing every choice I had made since landing in this city.

I pulled myself together.

I had a job interview.

I was not going to let two arrogant French men ruin what I actually came here for. I dried off, got dressed, and gave myself one long look in the cracked mirror above the sink.

Get it together, Elara. They are bastards who got lucky to have a test for you. 

I kept saying that but I could only think of the two beds making me beg for more like a slut. 

I quickly shook my head. Applied some make-up and walked out of the room. 

Some couples almost bumped into me on the way down. They were all up into each other's business that I almost threw up on them. 

Everything about them reminded me of how I shamelessly let two guys destroy my dignity. 

I quickly walked past them. 

I took a cab to the address I was given. As we drove through the city, the streets got wider, the buildings got taller, and the gates got bigger. By the time we pulled up to the estate, I had genuinely forgotten how to breathe.

It was a mansion. A real mansion. Like the ones they used in the medieval times. 

A bodyguard met me at the gate. I quickly introduced myself and he led me inside to  a sitting room that probably cost more than everything I had ever owned combined.

I sat down carefully, like the chair might charge me for using it, and looked around. Taking in every form of luxury I could lay my eyes on. 

I was there for a while before a Lady came out. 

She was beautiful — bright-eyed, brunette hair — everything about her was… wealth.  

She walked straight to me with her arms already open. “Elara!” She pulled me into a hug like we were old friends. “I am so happy you are here. You have no idea.”

I smiled, still confused. “Thank you. I’m happy to be here.”

“I'm Amaya,” she introduced. “Your boss.”

I nodded. 

She walked me through everything personally — the layout, the kitchen, the routines. She told me about her fiancée’s

dietary needs, her own preferences, the bodyguards who apparently ate whatever was put in front of them without complaint.

“You must be available at all times,” she told me as we walked. “This is France, not America. We value dedication here. Punctuality. Presence. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now — cook for me. Something small. I want to see your hands.”

I went into the kitchen and made gougères. It was the simplest dish I could think of. And there was no way I could ruin it. 

Those French bastards were not going to ruin this for me. I swear I was going to kill them when I see them again. I hope I don't. 

When I brought them out and set them on the table, Amaya leaned in, inhaled slowly, and gave one quiet nod of approval.

“It smells good,” she muttered. 

My lips curled into a proud smile. 

“I noticed there weren't any drinks in the kitchen,” I pointed out. 

“Drinks,” she nodded. “Come.”

She took me to the wine cellar. It was rows and rows of very expensive and rare wine. Thanks to my wine classes, I was able to identify each of them. 

“These.” She pulled out a wine from the shelf. “Was the first gift my husband gave me. It's a family tradition that the husband must give his wife a bottle of wine before they get married. And that wine must be the first wine they drink after the wedding.”

“You just got married?” I asked.

She laughed, softly.  “Not yet. When we do, this is the first wine you should serve us.”

I forced an awkward smile. 

 She touched one of the bottles. “Isn't the tradition just beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said. 

“Here,” she picked another bottle. “We could use this.” 

I took the bottle from her. 

“The vault combination will be reset this morning. Only the present chef and the family members should know the combination. So when something bad happens we know who to blame.” She cocks her head, a huge smile playing on her face. 

It was a smile, alright, but it felt like the smile they give you before they drag you to hell. 

“Okay…” 

She shrugged and walked out. I followed. 

We went back to the dining room. I uncorked the wine and began arranging the glasses carefully on the table. 

Amaya suddenly gasped. “You’re here! Come, come — I want you to meet her —”

I turned around slowly.

“Elara,” she said happily, “this is my fiancé — Luc. And his stepson, Antoine.”

The wine bottle slipped right out of my hand.

It hit the floor and shattered, red wine spreading across the white marble like a wound, but I barely heard it. 

Standing in front of me were the two men I had sex with. Luc and Antoine.