The rain came down thick and merciless, as if the sky had decided to wash away an entire past once and for all. Heavy drops drummed against the hood of Stefano Petrov’s car and streamed down the windshield like dark veins.

The engine purred low, a steady, solid sound that contrasted with the chaos outside — the flooded road, the grass crushed by the torrent, and, in the distance, the ruins of houses like the exposed bones of a village swallowed by water. It was late — too late for anyone who didn’t know the shortcuts — and the world seemed to shrink to the yellow glow of the headlights and the wet shimmer of asphalt.

Stefano drove calmly, his face carved with an expression few could read. Since moving into the mansion, his life had become a clockwork of rigid routines, calculated decisions, and a solitude that hid itself behind luxury.

He had grown into almost an exact copy of his father, Stefan Petrov.

At twenty-eight, standing 1.84 meters tall, with green eyes inherited from his beautiful mother Yonara, Stefano had straight, light brown hair — a perfect blend of both parents’ genes.

He had reached the top, but had paid the price with a frozen heart. Yet that night, something shattered the symmetry of his perfectly still existence: a shadow by the roadside.

The silhouette moved clumsily, bent over itself, a red flicker of despair against the gray rain. Stefano slowed down, signaled for his men to step out, and when the back door opened, the sight before them looked like a scene torn from a drenched nightmare.

It was a young woman — perhaps in her twenties — kneeling in the mud, her pale face streaked with tears that mingled with blood. Her body trembled; one hand pressed desperately against her side, where the fabric of her dress was soaked in dark red.

The silence that followed was heavy. The wind howled, and the car’s lights carved out the misery of the scene: a shard of debris had pierced her flesh, leaving a deep wound near her ribs, almost at the waistline. It was a cruel gash, caused by something sharp carried away by the flood — yet, by a strange mix of luck and malice, it had missed her vital organs by mere millimeters.

She lifted her face, and through the curtain of wet hair, locked eyes with him. Beautiful eyes, light brown but clouded with sorrow and confusion; eyes that, in that brief instant, searched for something Stefano no longer cultivated — mercy.

The girl fell to her knees, and when her words came, they were almost a whisper, broken by the rain.

_ “My house... collapsed.

_ My family... died. I don’t know where to go.”

Her voice dragged, filled with disbelief, making her seem even smaller. Her worn, tattered clothes — once a simple dark green dress with thin straps — clung to her body, soaked with blood and rain.

For a moment — shorter than a blink — something faintly human flickered in Stefano’s chest, a spark he had long denied himself.

It was only a glimpse, enough to make his ever-firm shoulders sag just a little. Seeing her there, fragile and slowly losing life, touched a place in him that had long since turned to stone.

He looked sideways at one of his men — a man with an expressionless face and eyes trained to obey. In a low, steady voice, he said:

_ “Put her in the car. Take her to the hospital. Then... get rid of her.”

Stefano spoke without the slightest hint of concern for what might happen to the girl afterward.

The command hung in the air like a sentence. No one questioned it. In that world, favors had prices; kindness was a rare commodity — one that always came with conditions. The men lifted her with military care, wrapped her in a damp blanket, and laid her on the back seat. The car sped off into the night, slicing through the rain that hammered a rhythm matching everyone’s quickened breath.

At the hospital, fluorescent lights burned away the remnants of the storm and replaced them with sterile cold. Doctors moved with precision — stitching, stopping the bleeding, checking her vitals. The hemorrhage subsided.

When consciousness returned, she opened her eyes to a world of salt-colored light and the sharp scent of antiseptic. She was somewhere unfamiliar, covered with clean sheets that felt as out of place as her own presence there — no documents, no money, no memory of the city beyond. Panic rose in her throat — the kind born of the unknown and the loneliness that bites when the body begins to heal.

She was discharged a week later — on another rainy day that hadn’t given up falling. As she stepped through the hospital’s automatic doors, the world burst into sound: cars, footsteps, voices. That was when she saw, not far away, one of Stefano’s men walking toward her. His expression carried no surprise — only the calm of someone following orders.

A faint thread of hope lit up in Seline’s chest — an indecipherable mix of relief and fear. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm, her voice trembling with gratitude and confusion:

_ “I’m so glad to see you... it feels like fate is trying to help me.”

The man allowed her warmth for a moment, then looked her up and down as one would inspect goods. His gaze wasn’t made for compassion.

_ “Mr. Stefano Petrov doesn’t do favors out of kindness,”

he said, his voice dripping with warning.

_ “No matter how noble it may seem, there’s always a price to pay.”

Those words fell upon her like a new weight. A tremor ran through her body. With each step toward the mansion, a fierce anxiety tightened her chest, and a panic attack twisted her thoughts — fragmented memories, the smell of mud, the blood, her mother’s voice that no longer existed.

She breathed as if trying to pull in air with the last strength she had left.

When the gates of the estate opened and the façade of the mansion came into view, glowing in the distance, it looked like a beacon of wealth and detachment. Inside, everything was precisely calculated — furniture untouched by rustic hands, wide corridors lined with cold, watchful eyes.

Then Stefano appeared, emerging from the shadows of the room like a discreet colossus. His eyes met hers with the same coldness that had cut through so many lives — an instant evaluation, devoid of remorse.

_ “I see you survived that night,” he said. His voice was low and sharp, without a trace of surprise. There was, however, a kind of restrained satisfaction — not pleasure in another’s pain, but in knowing he had remained in control.

_ “Good for you,” Stefano added, with a hint of satisfaction, as though he had just gained a small advantage.

Seline shrank. Each of his words seemed to weigh another kilogram. Stefano continued, as one who delivers a sentence with elegance.

_ “What is your name?”

_ “Seline,” she replied, breathless, as if she had been running.

_ “Now you owe me.

I don’t help failures — not unless they have something to offer in return.

_ And you do.”

A silence followed — the mansion’s clock marking the dragging seconds. The poor girl tried to grasp the meaning behind those words, but nothing fit. She was homeless, a twenty-five-year-old woman, uneducated, shattered by tragedy — what could a man like Stefano possibly want from her?

_ “You will serve me,”

he said.

_ “In whatever way I see fit.”

It was neither an empty threat nor a generous promise. It was a clear exchange — life for servitude, survival for submission.

She, who had lost her home to the flood and her family to the night’s fury, now stared into the hollow emptiness those words carved inside her.

Survival had a price.

Survival demanded debts.

And there, under the cold glow of the mansion and the relentless beating of rain, she realized her existence had just changed owners.

As Stefano retreated into the shadows of his private empire, the young woman remained still, feeling the echo of his last words like a verdict. Around her, the rain kept falling — implacable, continuous — and the wind whispered between the columns, as if the night itself demanded payment.

_ “Serve him?

_ What does that mean?

_ Am I his slave now?” murmured Seline in thought, watching him walk ahead with unhurried steps, leaving the vast hall behind.

It didn’t take long before she heard the voice of one of his employees directing her:

_ “Come. I’ll take you to the room where you’ll be staying.”

Without knowing what to say or how to react to everything she’d heard, she simply followed.

The corridor seemed endless. The sound of her fragile, uncertain steps blended with the firm rhythm of the man guiding her. Each ceiling light cast a cold glow, revealing walls adorned with artwork that meant nothing to her — yet radiated the power of someone who lived surrounded by dominance.

She dared not speak. Stefano’s words still echoed in her mind, and her heart pounded as if trying to flee her chest.

The man stopped before a large double door of dark wood. The golden handles reflected the light, giving the space an almost sacred air. With a calculated motion, he pushed one door open, allowing her to step inside.

The room was vast — nearly larger than her entire former home. The floor was covered by a thick, wine-colored rug that muffled every sound.

Ahead stood an imposing canopy bed, draped in ivory satin sheets and buried beneath a mountain of pillows that seemed more decorative than useful. On the nightstand, a crystal lamp cast a soft amber glow that contrasted with the mansion’s otherwise frigid atmosphere.

The curtains were long and heavy, dark blue velvet reaching almost to the ceiling.

To the right, a carved wooden vanity stood with an oval mirror framed by golden arabesques. Perfumes, brushes, and small objects were meticulously arranged atop it, as though someone had prepared the space for her arrival — though it seemed impossible that Stefano would care for such detail.

Farther back stretched a built-in wardrobe, its mirrored doors reflecting her trembling image. Beside it, an upholstered chair sat near a small table bearing a silver tray with a glass pitcher of water and two crystal cups.

It was a luxurious room, fit for a palace — but the air that hung within was not welcoming. It was a gilded cage — beautiful and cold, swallowing her fragility whole.

The employee turned to her, his voice neutral, almost mechanical:

_ “This will be your room. Mr. Stefano wishes for you to rest tonight.”

She merely nodded faintly, unable to find words.

Her heart still hammered, and Stefano’s phrase — “You will serve me, in whatever way I desire” — burned in her mind like hot iron. Crossing the threshold, she felt the invisible weight of the door closing behind her.

There she was — alone, surrounded by luxury, yet suffocating in silk.

---

At dawn, she took a bath in the adjoining bathroom.

The next morning, still drowsy and heavy-minded, she pushed open the door beside the bed and froze. The bathroom was unlike anything she had ever seen. The space was vast, lined with white marble streaked with gold veins that shimmered under the soft ceiling lights.

An oval porcelain bathtub, with golden claw feet, stood in the center. Beside it, a glass shower released hot water like a small waterfall. Steam filled the air, wrapping the room in a light mist mingled with the delicate scent of soaps resting on silver trays.

The floor was cold and polished, yet soft beneath a cream-colored rug. Perfectly folded towels were stacked on a nearby shelf — each one appearing softer than the last. Slowly, she removed the simple clothes she had been given at the hospital — garments that still carried the memory of pain and weakness — and stepped beneath the warm water.

For the first time since the tragedy, she felt her body begin to relax.

After bathing, she wrapped herself in a large, thick towel so soft it felt like an embrace. She left the bathroom with cautious steps, glancing around uncertainly, unsure what she was expected to do. She needed clothes, yet saw nothing — only the pristine bed and the immaculate furniture that looked more like museum pieces than anything else.

Exploring the room in silence, she noticed a small, almost hidden door beside the wardrobe. Curious, she pushed it open — and gasped.

It was a closet.

Small by the mansion’s standards, but to her, it felt like another world. Neatly arranged hangers displayed dresses, shirts, trousers — shoes lined up on lit shelves. Perfume bottles and decorative boxes filled elegant niches in the walls. Everything belonged to someone who had lived in a different reality — one of abundance and control.

Her eyes widened. She had never seen anything like it, nor even known such a place had a name. Running her fingers along the fabrics, she was both amazed and terrified — feeling like an intruder amid treasures she didn’t deserve.

She chose the simplest thing she could find — a plain black dress with thin straps — and slipped it on.

Moments later, someone knocked on the door, and a wave of dread washed over her. Her terrified eyes welled with tears as she stared toward the sound.

The game room smelled of fresh wood. Dim lights hung above the pool table, tracing the green surface with golden lines. Stefano moved the cue with calm, precise gestures, each strike of the ball sounding like a measured sentence.

His eyes, guarded and mysterious, followed every movement with the same coldness with which he had studied the girl on that rainy night. When he spoke, his voice was as serene as the movement of the cue.

_ “I called you here because I have plans for you. Many more to come.”

Seline remained standing, her hands trembling from the command she had just been given. Her heart raced; the man’s presence made the air around her feel denser. She listened and kept every word as if it were a thread that could tie her life to a new destiny.

_ “My sister recently married a man I’d seen before at a horse betting game,” he said, pausing to line up another shot.

_ “They tampered with our game. We lost a considerable amount.”

“I need you to get close to her—and to their house. I want you to be my informant.”

The cue sliced through the air, the ball rolled, and the sharp click that followed was as brief as the sentence that completed it.

_ “You’ll be introduced as my girlfriend.”

Seline felt the world spin. The idea seemed absurd, almost laughable given the fragility she still carried. How could a poor, uneducated girl with no past pretend to be someone refined? Stefano, however, had no intention of discussing possibilities; he dictated orders and outcomes.

_ “I don’t have time to find or pay someone else to do what I’ve planned.

_ You’ll be trained for it. You’ll present yourself as an elegant, refined woman.”

His voice grew sharper.

_ “Don’t ruin my plans. If you do, your end will come quickly.”

She tried to protest, her voice escaping between her teeth.

_ “Why are you doing this? If it’s out of pity... let me go.”

He dropped the cue, stepped closer, and cornered her with his large frame and the overpowering weight of his authority.

_ “Did I not make myself clear?” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers.

_ “You’re just a little toy to me, girl. Now I own you. And when you’re no longer useful, I’ll get rid of you.

_ You’ll know too much.”

The warning carried the chill of a contract written in invisible ink—blood in exchange for obedience. To the staff, she would be treated with apparent courtesy; in truth, everyone knew who she belonged to and under whose command she acted. That was how loyalty was bought: public appearances sealed by silent threats.

A week passed in short lessons—improvised etiquette, hair arrangements, and rehearsed posture. She learned to move with a restrained grace, transforming herself through fear and effort into a woman who only seemed elegant. Every gesture was another piece of the mask Stefano forced her to wear.

The grand night arrived: a dinner at the mansion. Yarin, Stefano’s sister, arrived with her husband.

Her brother-in-law had always been a suspicious shadow—opposed to the sudden marriage, prone to quiet criticism. And though Yarin knew her husband’s intentions were never pure, she stayed silent out of fear of displeasing Stefano. For that very reason, more than curiosity, his presence lit a spark of old resentment in Stefano—the memory of the rigged bet, the suspicion of deceit. That’s why he needed sharp eyes inside that house.

Seline entered the dining room with her chest tight, bound by nerves and discipline.

Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders; her lighter brown eyes shone nervously. She wore a simple yet well-tailored emerald-green crepe dress, with a fitted waist and modest neckline—something that conveyed elegance without ostentation, the result of her hurried lessons. The fabric moved with modest grace, concealing the trembling in her stomach.

Yarin and her husband observed her with a mix of admiration and suspicion. Yarin, blessed with the intuition inherited from their mother Yonara—a sensitive woman who could always tell when someone wasn’t well—noticed something beyond Seline’s surface beauty: a deep, unmistakable fear. She couldn’t explain it; she simply felt it.

Yarin had an admirable beauty—green eyes, sleek dark brown hair, and a soft, easy smile. A gentle, refined, and humble woman. That night she wore a long dark-blue gown, her hair tied in a bun with a few loose strands framing her face like a delicate fringe.

The conversation at the table flowed through polite topics—business, family memories, subtle compliments on the house’s décor. Seline tried to keep up, but her world spun around a core of anxiety. In a single moment—perhaps from her trembling hand, perhaps from her dry throat—her wine glass slipped.

The crimson liquid spread, biting into the fabric of her dress before dripping to the floor. The glass shattered, scattering into fragments that glittered like tiny black crystals under the light.

A sharp silence swept through the table, cut only by a breath. Yarin stood up at once and approached, her expression quickly overtaken by concern.

_ “Are you all right?” Yarin asked softly.

_ “You seem nervous. Come with me—I’ll help you with your dress.”

From his chair, Stefano’s gaze lifted—sharp, assessing, cold. Seline felt panic close in around her chest. She feared his wrath for drawing attention, for breaking the perfect scene he valued so much. Each step toward the washroom felt like a trial.

In the bathroom, the scent of soap and steam wrapped around her like a veil. Yarin brought a new dress—one she had quietly asked a maid to fetch in advance—a gesture meant to protect without revealing her suspicions. As Yarin helped dry the wine from Seline’s skin and adjust the new fabric over her body, her voice dropped to a near-maternal whisper.

_ “Is something happening? Is my brother hurting you?”

The question struck straight at her heart. Seline felt all the words she could say tighten into a fragile thread. Her mind raced with dreadful possibilities—if she said the wrong thing, if she was discovered, Stefano could punish her. He could demand more. He could, at worst, take her life. The thought slid coldly down her throat.

She met Yarin’s clear green eyes, and for a moment, all the protection she had never known condensed into a silent plea. It wasn’t just a look—it was a cry for help.

The shimmer in her eyes begged for something words could not express: help, care, salvation.

Yarin leaned in, placing her hand over Seline’s for a second—a small gesture, yet filled with human warmth. Little, perhaps, to save a life; yet enough to ignite hope. For one brief moment, Seline felt there might be a way out—beyond orders, beyond the silken prison she was trapped in.