Aria Grace
Aria Grace
I should have chosen prison for crimes I didn't commit rather than agreeing to work for Vincent Blackwood.
Just a year ago, I lived a simple, ordinary life. Now, everything has spiraled into something far worse. My name is Aria Grace, and I am paying for sins that were never mine.
I still remember the day I signed away my life, my freedom, to Vincent Blackwood. That memory is burned into me like a scar.
I could have said no. He couldn't physically force me. But his offer, as cruel as it was, sounded better than rotting away in a cold prison cell. At that time, honestly, anything sounded better than prison.
Vincent himself didn't bother to show up. No, the devil was too important to dirty his hands with me. Instead, his lawyer came, a sharp man in his fifties with slicked-back gray hair and a face carved into permanent disapproval. His suit screamed money and power, and every word that left his mouth was meant to remind me how little I had of either.
Beside him stood Vincent's assistant, a woman tall and elegant in a fitted navy skirt-suit, her dark hair pulled into a flawless bun. She looked like she had been sculpted out of ice. No smile, no warmth, just a clipboard clutched in her manicured hands and eyes that assessed me as if I were dirt under her designer heels.
The lawyer leaned across the table, his voice low and deliberate, each word sharp enough to slice me open. "Miss Grace, without this agreement, you're facing a manslaughter conviction. That's up to twenty-five years in prison. And with Mr. Blackwood's influence, I assure you, you will serve every single day of it."
Then, as if I were no longer worth his time, he gathered his papers and left the room.
The assistant stepped forward, her heels clicking against the floor like a judge's gavel. She slid the contract toward me, her tone clipped and empty. "If you choose to accept Mr. Blackwood's offer, you will work under him directly. As his personal maid. Effective immediately." Her eyes didn't blink, didn't soften, as she added, "If you refuse, the deal is off the table. And prison will be your reality. If you accept his offer, you will be able to see your family, as you will be paid for your service."
Her voice was calm, polished, almost rehearsed, as if she had delivered this speech to a dozen desperate souls before me.
I looked up at her through blurred, tear-filled eyes. My body shook with fear, anxiety, and the kind of hopeless apprehension that made my stomach twist. I was trapped, cornered, with no way out. And all of this, for a crime I hadn't even committed.
I hadn't expected him to pay me. That detail almost startled me, though it didn't bring comfort. Not when it was Vincent Blackwood pulling the strings.
Unlike her, standing there immaculate and untouchable, I was a complete mess. My unwashed hair was pulled into a careless bun, strands falling into my swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Dark bags hung beneath them, my nose raw from tears and tissues, my lips cracked and dry. I was wearing a plain, stained white t-shirt and old jeans, the very picture of defeat.
I swallowed hard, my throat raw and tight from crying. "So… what's the catch?" My voice cracked, hoarse, more plea than question.
For the first time, her mask slipped. She sniggered, a sharp, condescending sound that made the air feel colder. "You will work for Vincent Blackwood," she said simply.
The name alone sent a shiver racing down my spine. Fear coiled in my chest, suffocating me. But I knew I had no choice.
Prison would mean never seeing my mother and little sister except through glass, never being able to help them. With our fragile finances, without my income, they would crumble. At least with this deal, I could see them, maybe even protect them from afar. And if I were being paid, I could keep contributing, keep them afloat.
It wasn't much of a choice. It was survival.
"For how long do I have to work for him?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"Just one year, that's all." Her finger tapped the line on the contract lying between us. "It's written clearly."
One year with him sounded far better than twenty-five years behind bars. No matter how cruel he could be, I kept telling myself it would all be over soon. Just twelve months of survival, and then I would walk free. I would reclaim my life.
I stared down at the pen in front of me, my hands trembling. Signing that paper felt like putting my name on a death warrant.
And yet, I signed.
It has been forty days since I signed away my freedom to become Vincent Blackwood's personal maid, and every one of those days has been a battle. Life has been anything but easy. I keep count not just because I miss home or the scraps of peace I once called a life, but because each passing day here feels like a test of survival. Every dawn reminds me of the cage I stepped into, and every night I wonder how much longer I can endure.
At that moment, I was cleaning his study, completely alone. The room was massive, intimidating in its silence. A wide mahogany desk dominated the space, surrounded by endless shelves lined with hundreds of books. My task was to dust and polish them, one by one. In the corner stood a small bar, where I was expected to wash every glass, every piece of cutlery until it gleamed. There was even a sitting area within the study, with leather chairs and a coffee table, all of which had to be scrubbed and wiped until spotless.
Every inch of the room felt like him. The sharp scent of his cologne clung to the leather and wood, reminding me that even in his absence, he was watching. It was as if the study itself carried his authority, reminding me with every task that I didn't belong here, that this wasn't work. It was punishment. His desk was spotless, but I wasn't allowed to leave a single fingerprint. His shelves were lined with books that looked untouched, yet I was told to polish them over and over as if dusting away sins invisible to me. Washing, scrubbing, dusting, I could handle all of that. I had been used to hard work my whole life. What drained me was the repetition. He made me do it again, and again, and again, until my arms ached and my energy was wrung out of me like dirty water from a rag.
And who exactly is Vincent Blackwood?
He is the heir to Blackwood Industries, one of the most powerful and ruthless business empires in the country. Born into generational wealth, Vincent has never known struggle, never known hardship. He is the eldest son of Hans Blackwood, the formidable chairman who built the Blackwood name into a dynasty.
Vincent himself is the picture of power. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that seem carved from stone, he has the kind of cold, arresting beauty that makes people stare but never approach. His dark eyes miss nothing, and his expression is always stern, unreadable, the kind that makes even seasoned executives hesitate. He is impeccably dressed at all times, his presence commanding entire rooms without a single word.
To the world, Vincent Blackwood is brilliant, disciplined, and untouchable. To me, he is something else entirely: my captor, my punishment, the man determined to crush me under the weight of his control.
The door to the study creaked open, and I turned to see Erica, the head maid of the Blackwood estate, step inside. She was the only person here who ever showed me kindness. Her lips curved into a small, sad smile as her eyes landed on me. She didn't have to ask. My exhaustion was written all over my face. I was drained, starving, and on the verge of collapse.
I had been scrubbing and polishing this room for three, maybe four hours straight without pause. Since the day I arrived, the difference in how I was treated compared to the other maids had been painfully clear. They were never forced to clean the same spot again and again without reason. They ate dinner together in the servants' chamber and served fresh food at proper times.
But me? I was only allowed to eat after Mr. Blackwood had his fill. And on the nights when he didn't come home, I wasn't fed at all. I went to bed hungry, my stomach twisting in protest.
Erica walked closer, lowering her voice. "Aria," she said gently, "Mr. Blackwood will be home any minute now. His dinner needs to be served in thirty minutes." She didn't need to say anything more. I already knew what was expected of me. I had to go downstairs and help the cooks prepare dinner for him. Vincent always ate alone, and when he did, I was the only one allowed to remain at his side. The other maids were dismissed for the night, free to rest, while I stayed behind.
Dinner with Vincent was never just about food. It was about power. Every glance, every silence, every demand he made during those meals reminded me of the invisible chains he had bound me with. Even the clinking of silverware felt like a reminder that I wasn't here to serve dinner. I was here to be reminded of my place.
Every second of my days here feels like hell, but being in his presence is its own kind of torment… the worst of it all.