The chandeliers still dripped gold across the polished marble floors, their light flickering over empty champagne flutes and half-wilted roses. The party had ended hours ago, but the air still carried the clinging scent of perfume, cigars, and money.
Serena stood at the edge of the grand hall, her hands folded neatly before her, the perfect statue of a well-trained wife. The last guests had left with air kisses and promises to "do lunch soon." Behind their polite murmurs was the truth—everybody came for Adrian, not for her. She was just part of the furniture.
From somewhere behind her, Adrian's voice cut through the quiet.
"Make it clean."
Just three words. Not a request—an order.
Serena turned, offering a small nod. "Of course."
He didn't wait for her to answer, already heading upstairs without so much as a glance back. The tailored line of his suit caught the light like a blade. He was done with her for tonight.
She exhaled softly, careful not to let it sound like relief.
The servants were already hovering in the corners, waiting for direction. Serena walked toward them, heels clicking against the marble. "Start with the glasses," she instructed quietly, "Then the linens. Leave the flowers for last."
They moved quickly, grateful for her soft tone, though she knew it wouldn't matter—if Adrian wanted something done a certain way, no one's feelings would save them.
She oversaw the process, making sure every silver fork was collected, every spilled drop of wine lifted from the tablecloth before it could stain. If anything was out of place tomorrow morning, she would hear about it. And if Adrian heard about it first… she didn't want to think about that.
But before she could even take another step, a sharp voice sliced through the room.
"Serena!"
She froze. The servants did too, their eyes instantly dropping to the floor.
Marina Varrow—the queen of this house, Adrian's mother—was gliding into the room. Her gown still shimmered from the evening's festivities, though her expression was all venom.
"Yes, Mother Varrow," Serena said softly, bowing her head slightly in the gesture of respect Marina demanded.
Marina didn't return the courtesy. Instead, she came closer, her heels striking the floor like a metronome of judgment. "Do you even look at yourself before stepping into my parties?"
Serena blinked. "I—I made sure my dress—"
"Not the dress," Marina cut in sharply. "Your face."
Serena's hand instinctively rose to touch her cheek, but Marina swatted it away.
"No. Don't hide. Look at me."
Her voice was low, controlled, but it carried enough ice to freeze the air around them.
"You've wasted my money on hiring a makeup artist to train you, and yet—" She grabbed Serena's chin, tilting her face toward the light. "You still manage to look unfinished. Like a child trying to play at being a woman."
The words struck deeper than the grip on her jaw.
"I—"
"Don't speak." Marina's grip tightened. "You're here because my son won you in a game. Do you think for a second that makes you worthy? No. It makes you property. And property should be displayed perfectly, or not at all."
Her nails dug in as she spoke, her perfume suffocating.
"You think you're fooling anyone? The foundation doesn't hide the exhaustion. The lipstick is uneven. And that blush—" She laughed, short and cold. "If you can't even paint your face correctly, how can you possibly make a man happy?"
The servants stood utterly still, eyes locked to the floor. They wouldn't interfere. They never did.
Serena's cheeks burned—not from the insult, but from the knowledge that they were all watching.
Then came the slap.
It was sharp, precise, calculated—not the uncontrolled anger of someone losing their temper, but the deliberate sting of someone teaching a lesson.
Her head turned with the impact, but she didn't flinch. Flinching would give Marina satisfaction.
"Useless," Marina hissed. "You can't even do this one thing right. And your family—" Her eyes glittered with malice. "Your pathetic family lost everything in business. They were once proud. Now? Now they are nothing. You should thank my son for giving you a roof to sleep under."
Serena's nails dug into her palms, the only sign she allowed herself of how deep the words cut.
"My son could have chosen any woman. Do you know how many begged to stand where you stand? And yet here you are, failing to even look the part. You're not a wife—you're an embarrassment."
Marina released her chin with a shove, the motion making Serena take a step back to keep from falling.
"Fix your face before you dare step into my presence again."
The queen had spoken.
Marina turned and walked away, her gown whispering against the marble as if even the fabric disdained touching the same floor as Serena.
The servants moved again, their eyes studiously avoiding her. But she knew they'd all seen. They always saw. And by tomorrow morning, every word, every slap, every humiliation would be whispered in the corners of the house.
Serena stayed rooted for a moment, breathing slowly until the burn in her cheeks subsided.
She told herself she didn't care. She'd told herself that for five years now—ever since the night Adrian had won her like a trophy at a table where her fate was a deck of cards.
She had arrived here with nothing but a suitcase and the clothes on her back, believing—naively—that it would be temporary. That there would be a way out. But the Varrow estate had gates, and those gates had locks, and those locks were never meant to open for her.
She had learned quickly.
Here, you spoke only when spoken to.
Here, you smiled even when you bled.
Here, you played the perfect wife, even when every bone in your body screamed to run.
She had been beaten for mistakes. Insulted for truths. And when she cried, she was told to fix her makeup and try again.
Five years. Five years of living as if she were a beautifully kept pet—fed, clothed, displayed, but never truly free.
And yet she did it. Every day. Because hope was the only rebellion she could still afford.
One day, she told herself, she would find the key. She didn't know when. She didn't know how. But she clung to the thought like a lifeline.
Until then, she would survive.
She glanced at the servants, who were now nearly done clearing the room. "Good work," she said softly, because someone had to speak to them like they were human.
Then she walked toward the stairs, her steps steady, her face once again a mask of calm. Inside, she was still burning from Marina's slap, still hearing her voice, still tasting the bitterness of her own helplessness.
But no one would see that.
No one ever would.
The grand party was long over.
The music, laughter, and clinking of crystal glasses had faded into the suffocating silence that now wrapped the Varrow mansion like an invisible shroud.
Serena closed the heavy double doors to the ballroom behind her, the scent of perfume and spilled champagne still clinging to the air. The servants had done their rounds; the glittering floor was spotless again. Every trace of the evening's grandeur had been wiped away, as if nothing had happened. The only proof that the night had ever existed was in her aching body, the bruises hidden beneath her gown, and the taste of humiliation still fresh on her tongue.
She made her way to the east wing, her slippers barely making a sound against the marble. The hallways here were colder, darker, the lavish chandeliers dimmed to save power—because here, the beauty of the mansion was only a mask. Beyond these walls, the Varrow family didn't need to smile.
Her bedroom door opened without a sound. The moment she stepped inside, she knew Adrian wasn't there. The room was pristine, untouched since she had left for the party. No jacket tossed carelessly on the couch. No scent of his cologne lingering in the air. She didn't have to wonder where he was—Adrian had his own ways of celebrating after nights like this.
With other women.
The thought didn't bring jealousy anymore—only a quiet, exhausted resignation.
Serena locked the door and let herself crumble. Her hands shook as she moved toward the bathroom, each step heavier than the last. She turned on the light, and the mirror reflected a stranger back at her.
Her hair was still in place, the waves from the hairstylist intact, but her eyes… they were empty, ringed in faint shadows. She slowly peeled off the gown, the silk pooling around her ankles, and that was when the truth of her body was revealed.
Bruises bloomed across her skin in violent shades—deep purples on her ribs, the sickly yellow of fading wounds on her arms, angry reds along her hips. Some fresh. Some weeks old. A history of pain painted on flesh that no one in the glittering ballroom would ever see.
She touched one mark on her shoulder and flinched. The memory came unbidden—his hand, his voice, his anger. She shut her eyes against it, swallowing hard.
The tears started before she could stop them. They fell silently at first, and then her chest shook with the weight of everything she had buried for years. She turned on the shower, not for the warmth, but for the sound—to drown out the broken sounds escaping her.
When she finally emerged, her skin was pink from the heat, her hair damp and clinging to her neck. She wrapped herself in a robe and stepped back into the darkened room.
That was when she heard it.
A soft knock.
Not the kind that demanded. The kind that asked.
Her breath caught, but she already knew who it was. She quickly wiped her face, smoothing her hair, forcing her voice into something steady.
"Come in."
The door opened just enough for a small figure to slip inside. Elise, her personal maid, closed it behind her, locking it without a sound. In her hands, she carried a small tray—simple food, still warm, and a well-worn leather case that Serena recognized instantly.
The medical kit.
Tena didn't ask what had happened tonight. She didn't have to. Her eyes moved over Serena's posture, the tightness in her jaw, the way her robe clung to one side as if she were hiding something.
"You haven't eaten," Tena said softly, placing the tray on the small table by the window. "And you need these treated before they get worse."
Serena's throat tightened. She wanted to refuse, to pretend she was fine, but her legs carried her to the chair without a word.
Tena knelt in front of her, her movements careful and precise. She untied the robe, and Serena felt the air hit her skin as the bruises were exposed. Tena's jaw clenched, but she kept her voice even.
"He's getting worse," she murmured, dabbing antiseptic on the worst of the wounds. "These aren't healing before the next ones appear."
Serena didn't answer. She couldn't.
"You can't keep living like this," Tena continued, wrapping a bandage around her arm. "You need to run."
Serena let out a hollow laugh. "And go where? He's Adrian Varrow. Even if I left, he'd find me before I made it to the city gates."
"You underestimate what desperation can do," Tena said, her voice firm but still quiet, as if the walls themselves might betray them. "I've seen women vanish from men like him. It's possible."
Serena looked at her, really looked, and saw the fierce determination in Tena's eyes. It almost made her believe. Almost.
"Tena…" Her voice broke. "If I leave, I have no one. My family is gone. My friends—if they even remember me—would turn away. I have nothing outside these walls."
"You have yourself," Tena said. She gently brushed Serena's damp hair back from her face. "And that is more than you think."
For a long time, they were silent, the only sound the quiet rustle of bandages and the faint hum of the heater. Outside the window, the vast estate lay in darkness, its gardens and fountains sleeping under the moonlight.
When Tena finished, she slid the tray closer. "Eat something. Even if it's just a little. You need your strength."
Serena obeyed, taking small bites of the bread and soup. Each swallow felt heavy, but the warmth spread through her like a fragile shield against the cold reality she lived in.
When the food was gone, Tena packed away the medical kit. She stood by the door for a moment, looking back at Serena with something unspoken in her gaze—something between pity and promise.
"One day," Tena said quietly, "you won't be here anymore. And when that day comes, you'll remember you still had the strength to survive this."
Serena didn't answer. She just nodded, clutching her robe tighter around herself.
When Tena left, the silence returned—but this time, it wasn't just dangerous. It was also a reminder of how small hope could be, yet still manage to live in the cracks of the darkest places.