Must I Serve?

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.

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