His slave 10

Amelia's eyes widened in disbelief. "B-But that's servant work, sir! Surely there are maids more suited to-"

"Silence!" Rothchild's roar made her flinch. "You'll do as I command without argument, or would you prefer an evening's penance in the stables to remind you of your place?"

Fighting against tears of humiliation, Amelia could only stoop and retrieve the coarse apron before scurrying from the room, Rothchild's mocking laughter ringing in her ears.

The hours that followed were some of the most degrading of Amelia's life as she scrubbed and scoured on blistered hands and knees. By the time Eleanor arrived to "inspect" her progress, she was disheveled and filthy to the roots of her hair from the toil.

"Well, isn't this a sight of inspiration," the matriarch sneered, surveying Amelia's handiwork with a critical eye. "I had my doubts, but it seems some base menial labor may be the only honest work you're suited for after all."

Rage, bitter and caustic, finally bubbled up from that dar