chapter 5

Isabella's POV

Niles led me down the polished marble hallway, his steps slow and deliberate while mine clicked awkwardly against the shiny floor. I kept my eyes mostly on the ground, afraid to lift them too high, because the house was already overwhelming me. Chandeliers dangled like stars, walls glowed with soft lights, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and something expensive I couldn’t name.

Finally, he stopped in front of a door, opened it, and gestured for me to enter. My breath caught when I stepped inside. The room was bigger than the entire orphanage dorm I grew up in. A queen sized bed with snow white sheets sat neatly in the middle, curtains that looked like silk draped elegantly, and a wide window allowed sunlight to pour in, painting the room golden.

“This will be your room,” Niles said, his voice steady, almost formal. He placed a neatly folded outfit on the bed. “Your uniform. You’re expected to wear it at all times while on duty.”

I hesitated before moving closer. My fingers brushed the fabric, and my heart sank. It was a black gown flared at the bottom, but shorter than I was comfortable with. A tiny white apron lay on top. I stared at it in silence, my stomach twisting. Was I supposed to wear…this?

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Niles continued. “Dinner is at seven sharp. The master prefers punctuality.” His eyes flicked over me once more before he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone, I sank onto the bed, clutching the uniform in my lap. The fabric was smooth, almost silky. My chest tightened as I whispered to myself, “the pay is very good and there's accommodation too it's totally worth it.” I tried reassuring myself.

I stood in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the gleaming mirror. My face looked pale, my eyes tired from the past few days of rejection and humiliation. But the bathroom itself, God it was like stepping into a spa. White marble tiles, a tub big enough to swim in, soaps and lotions neatly arranged like treasures on a shelf. I turned on the shower, hot water cascading down in a perfect stream, not the sputtering drips I was used to. As it hit my skin, I closed my eyes, and for a second, I wanted to cry. The warmth washed away not just the dirt clinging to me but the weight of everything I had been carrying.

Steam still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the bathroom, the borrowed towel wrapped tightly around me. For the first time in days, I actually felt clean. The gown Niles had handed me lay neatly folded on the bed, black fabric with a tiny white apron. A maid’s uniform. My heart twisted at the thought, but what choice did I have? I slipped it on. The skirt stopped higher on my thighs than I would have liked, the apron strings pulling snug at my waist. It wasn’t terrible, but it screamed of servitude. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost laughed. Isabella, once dreaming of freedom, now dressed like a caricature of a maid.

Swallowing my pride, I tied my damp hair back and pushed the door open. The house was vast, too silent, the kind of silence that made you afraid to breathe too loudly. My footsteps echoed against the polished floor as I wandered aimlessly, unsure where to begin. Then I found the kitchen. It wasn’t just a kitchen, it was bigger than the entire orphanage dining hall I grew up in. Marble counters stretched endlessly, gleaming appliances I didn’t even know how to operate lined the walls. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and expensive coffee.

I stood there, frozen, my fingers tugging nervously at the hem of the apron. Nobody had told me what to do. No instructions, no lists, nothing. My stomach tightened with panic. Should I wait? Should I ask? Or… Old habits tugged at me, survival habits. In the orphanage, when you didn’t know what to do, you worked anyway. In Nathan’s house, cooking had always been my responsibility. My hands moved on their own before my brain caught up.

I opened the fridge. Eggs, bread, fresh vegetables stacked like artwork. Everything was so spotless, so untouched, it almost felt like stealing. Still, I rolled up the sleeves of the black gown and set to work. The sizzle of onions hitting the pan calmed me a little. At least this, I knew. Cooking was the one place where my hands didn’t betray me. But even then, doubt whispered at the back of my mind. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he thinks I overstepped? What if I ruin something? Still, I stirred, chopped, and fried, letting the smell of warm food fill the massive kitchen. Because if I didn’t start here, then where else could I?

Julian’s POV

The steady rhythm of my typing slowed when a faint smell drifted through the air. I froze. Porridge. Not just any porridge. My mother’s. The same warm, spiced scent that used to fill the house when I was a boy. My chest tightened, my heart hammering harder than it should. That smell had no place here. Not in this house. Not after all these years.

Pushing back from my desk, I followed it slowly at first, then with an urgency I couldn’t explain. And then I saw her. Standing in my kitchen as if she belonged, sleeves pushed back, a little frown on her face as she stirred the pot. That ridiculous black uniform with its short skirt and apron somehow fit her perfectly, almost too perfectly. The white tied at her waist only sharpened the curve of her figure, and her black hair pulled into a loose bun looked like it was meant to be that way. I caught myself smiling. Smiling like an idiot. Why?

My mind slipped back to that afternoon the first time I saw her. I had gone for a walk, more out of boredom than anything. And there she was, sitting on the curb, shoulders shaking as she cried with no concern for who might see. Something about it struck me. She looked so… lost. So small. For a second, I’d thought of that cartoon character from when I was a kid, Dora. Big eyes, round cheeks, stubborn little expression even when she was crying. I remember wondering what could break someone like that.

Now here she was, cooking in my kitchen, and the memory only deepened the curve of my smile. I didn’t even try to stop it.

“Sir.”

I nearly jumped when Niles’ voice came from beside me. I hadn’t even heard him approach. I cleared my throat quickly, straightening, trying to mask whatever expression had been on my face. Niles’ eyes flicked toward the kitchen and back at me, and his lips twitched like he was fighting a grin.

“I didn’t realize porridge was strong enough to draw you out of your study.” His tone was even, but I could hear the amusement hidden beneath it.

I coughed, straightened, shoving my hands into my pockets as if that would ground me.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than sneak up on me?” Niles’s lips twitched almost into a smile, almost not.

“Not particularly. Though I must admit, it’s refreshing to see you smiling, sir.” I choked, literally choked, coughing into my fist as heat crept up the back of my neck.

“Niles,” I said coolly, my voice steady now, “make sure she doesn’t burn the place down.”

I looked back at her. She had already noticed us. She’d turned from the stove, clutching a wooden spoon like it was some kind of shield. Her wide eyes met mine, and in an instant, her lips parted, trembling.

“I…I’m sorry!” she stammered, bowing once. Then again. Then again. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean… I was just… I thought…” The words tumbled out of her in a frantic mess, each apology tripping over the next. Her fear was so raw, so misplaced, it almost made my chest tighten. Almost.

I exhaled sharply, a scoff slipping past my lips as I turned away. “Tch. Ridiculous.”

Without another word, I strode off down the hall, shoulders squared, expression cold. By the time I reached the end of the corridor, whatever foolish smile I’d been wearing earlier was long gone.

I shut the door to my study and leaned back against it, dragging a sharp breath into my lungs. My heart was still racing as my eyes drifted to the far wall, to the large portrait hanging there. Mother. Her smile was frozen in time, soft and warm in a way life had rarely been. She looked back at me as if she could still smooth the edges of the chaos in my chest. But the comfort barely lasted a second before my phone buzzed violently on the desk. The name flashing across the screen made my stomach coil.

Stepmother. I should’ve let it ring. I should’ve ignored her like I always tried to. But my thumb betrayed me, swiping the call open. Her voice lashed out before I could even breathe.

“You bastard.” The venom in her tone was sharp enough to slice through glass. “Your whore of a mother was nothing but a gold digging slut, and you her spawn dare to parade around as if you belong to this family.”

My jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around the phone.

“Transfer every property to my son,” she spat. “He’s the rightful heir. He was the one who stayed here, who cared for his grandfather for twenty damn years while you were out of the country, fucking men, wasting your life, staining our name. You think I don’t know what you are?” Her laugh crackled through the line, venom dripping with every word.

“And don’t think I’m blind. Those forged documents you used to steal what doesn’t belong to you. How much did you pay that lawyer to play along with your filth? Tell me, Julian. How much?” Her words clawed into me, each one dragging blood from an old wound.

I pressed my palm against my forehead, forcing my breathing to stay even, forcing myself not to let her hear what she wanted, weakness. But inside, my chest was burning. I let the silence stretch. My grip on the phone tightened, but when I finally spoke, my voice was ice.

“Careful,” I said slowly. “The only reason you still have a roof on your head is because I allow it. Your precious son wouldn’t last a week without the money you spit on. You call my mother a whore, yet you’ve been whoring yourself to this family name for decades, leeching off a man who never loved you.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end, her words frozen for once. I smirked coldly, pressing the final nail into her throat.

“You should pray every night I don’t wake up and decide you and your son aren’t worth the trouble. Because the day I do, you’ll both be out on the street where you belong.”

I didn’t give her a chance to respond. I ended the call, the sharp click echoing in the quiet room. The study was silent again, except for the pounding in my chest. My gaze drifted back to the portrait of my mother, her painted smile steady while my own composure cracked beneath the weight of rage and grief.