Torture

Isabella

It was a maid's dress.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst part.

I wiped my tears, swallowed my sobs, and forced myself into it. Then I walked downstairs.

The estate wasn't empty—not at all. It was massive. Grand. Alive with people hired to keep it running smoothly, efficiently. A world operating perfectly... while mine had just ended.

One of the staff showed me the way to the main hall.

That was where I saw him.

Asher sat on the couch, casually flipping through a newspaper—as if he hadn't threatened to turn my life into hell less than an hour ago.

I stepped down the stairs.

He noticed.

His eyes lifted slowly, tracking me as I descended.

The dress clung where it shouldn't have. Short. Tight. The shoes pinched my feet, unfamiliar and cruel. I stopped at the foot of the stairs.

Asher leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes dark and assessing.

"What are you waiting for, little one?" he asked lazily. "Come here."

His tongue slid briefly over his lower lip.

That look—

It wasn't hatred.

It wasn't the look of a step brother.

It was something else entirely.

I swallowed hard and walked toward him, stopping just in front of where he sat.

I was terrified. Anyone who said otherwise would be lying.

I was trapped in my stepbrother's estate—my legal guardian's palace. If he decided to erase me, no one would question it. No one would look too closely.

And worse—

No one would care.

"I see," he murmured, eyes flicking over me. "You wear a maid's outfit well." Then, almost amused, "Daddy dearest never saw your true potential, did he?"

I nearly laughed.

My father saw my potential just fine.

He used belts to shape it.

Fists to discipline it.

Shoes to remind me of it.

"What do I need to do?" I asked quietly, clearing my throat.

His smirk widened.

"Serve me."

The word landed heavy.

Menacing.

"W–what?"

He chuckled and raised his voice. "Rolly."

A middle-aged maid hurried over. "Yes, sir?"

"Give her the cleaning supplies," he said calmly. "Miss Isabella will start her duties today."

Rolly hesitated, sympathy flickering in her eyes before she disappeared and returned with a bucket and brush. I took them carefully—my injured hand protested, twisting slightly.

A small gasp escaped me.

Asher noticed.

His gaze snapped to my hand, the fading mark still visible.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked sharply, his eyes fixated on the mark strangely.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "I'll start cleaning."

I turned—

"Wait."

My body froze instantly at his voice.

Before anything else could happen, the sharp click of heels echoed through the hall.

I looked up.

A tall woman walked in—white skin, brown hair perfectly styled, hazel eyes sharp with interest. Red lipstick curved into a knowing smile as her gaze dragged over me.

Judging.

Assessing.

Then she smiled.

"Oh, let me guess," she said, stepping closer. "You're Daniel Langford's little princess, aren't you? The hidden one."

She knew.

Except I was never a princess.

"You finally got her, babe," she purred, turning to Asher. Her hand slid up his chest as she pressed herself against him, kissing his jaw slowly. "Why does this make it so much hotter?"

She laughed softly.

"I mean—revenge so good your stepsister ends up your maid?" Her eyes flicked to me. "Delicious."

Asher didn't look away from me when he wrapped an arm around her waist.

"You haven't seen anything yet, Jennifer," he said. "This is just the warm-up."

She laughed, delighted.

Two people discussing my torment like entertainment.

I should've been surprised.

I wasn't.

I turned to leave quietly.

"Wait, maid," Jennifer called sweetly.

I stopped.

"Bring me wine. Now."

I swallowed.

It wasn't a belt.

It wasn't a fist.

But the way she said it—

It hurt more.

Because pride, I learned, bleeds deeper than skin.

I looked at Rolly. She nodded gently and motioned for me to follow.

The wine cellar was cool, dim. Quiet.

"I'm sorry," Rolly whispered as we walked. "I know this must be—"

"I've been through worse," I replied softly.

She stopped walking.

"...Jennifer is Mr. Grayson's fiancée," she explained. "They started seeing each other at a young age. Her father has helped Mr. Grayson with his business over the years. They've been together for a while. And she is fond of him, that’s why—

I picked up an aged bottle without hesitation. My mother loved wine—used to send me to fetch it for her when she drank too much.

"She hates me too," I said quietly, grabbing the glasses, finishing off for Rolly “Because Asher hates me."

Rolly didn't argue.

That silence told me everything.

When we returned to the hall, the tray felt heavier than it should've. Jennifer sat practically on Asher's lap, her fingers tracing his jaw, claiming him openly.

Of course she was affectionate.

Men like Asher were made to be worshipped.

And I was made to kneel.

He was tall. Handsome. Brooding.

His jaw was sharp, his eyes a striking shade of blue, his hair impossibly perfect—like the men I used to see in my mother's magazines. Hollywood gods, she'd called them.

And now, one of those gods watched me with devil's eyes.

His gaze tracked my every movement, slow and deliberate, like a predator trained to study its prey. One arm was draped around Jennifer, the other stretched lazily over the back of the couch.

He sat like a king.

"Didn't know you guys were having a party," a voice drawled from the doorway.

Richard leaned against the frame, Lucy still in his arms. The moment he set her down, she ran straight to me, brushing against my legs, asking for affection.

I carefully placed the tray on the table and picked her up. She licked my chin eagerly.

"Hey, sweetheart," I whispered. "I missed you."

Lucy and Leona were the only things that had ever felt like home.

"I didn't call you here to put on a little show with that annoying thing, bitch," Jennifer snapped. "Put her down and pour me my wine."

I flinched.

Just barely.

My eyes flicked to Asher without thinking. His face gave nothing away.

"Sorry," I murmured, setting Lucy down and reaching for the bottle.

I knelt to pour the wine.

Richard stepped closer, unexpectedly, “Hey, pretty face—that's not how you open a wine bottle." His tone was oddly gentle. "Give it to me."

My hand trembled as I passed it to him. His eyes caught the fading mark on my hand; his brows creased briefly, but he said nothing.

He opened the bottle with ease and handed it back.

"Thanks," I whispered.

I could feel Asher's stare burning into my skin.

"Are you planning to fuck her, Rich?" Jennifer laughed. "You're not the type to help for free."

The words froze me in place.

She made me feel cheap. Small.

Before Richard could answer, Asher did.

"Jennifer," he said calmly, cold steel under his voice, "watch your mouth."

"Oh, please," she laughed. "We both know Rich."

I bit the inside of my cheek as I poured the wine, my hands shaking. I wanted to disappear. Completely.

"Jennifer—" Asher started.

"What's taking so long?" she snapped, looking at me—eyes venomous.

I looked up, fighting the tears. "Sorry, it's just—"

Her hand snapped out, fingers gripping my jaw. Her nails dug into my cheek.

A sharp hiss escaped me.

"Jennifer, what the fuck?" Richard barked.

"This bitch got too used to the luxury her daddy stole," she sneered. "It's time she learns her place."

Then—

She grabbed the bottle.

And poured the wine over me.