The air in the dining hall was still charged from our spat, but Damian was quick to break it before it could grow fangs.
"Lucia," he turned to the housekeeper, his voice clipped, "show Selene to her room."
For a second, relief washed over me—until Damian's mother leaned back in her chair, a cold smirk pulling at her lips.
"Ah, yes," she purred.
Finally, this woman gets me.
"Take her to the old servants' quarters. There's a nice draft there. Should suit her… humble background."
My cheeks burned instantly. Servants' quarters? Did this woman reduce me to some charity case dragged in off the street?
Damian's jaw tightened. "Mother." Just one word, laced with warning.
She ignored him completely, sipping her wine like she'd just made a toast at my funeral. "Better yet," she added, eyes gleaming, "why not put her in the storage room? Fewer windows, fewer delusions. I wouldn't want her getting… ideas above her station."
I almost laughed, but of sheer rage, I already had for this woman. She really wanted me folded up and stacked next to sacks of rice?
Damian cut in before I could bite her back. "Selene will have a proper room. End of discussion."
His mother's gaze flicked to me. It was now overly measured, judging, and worse, unrelenting. "Proper? She's already had more than she deserves. Don't do this, Damian. Don't make a fool of yourself by parading... this thing around this house."
This woman just called me a thing, who the f*ck does she think she is?
Her voice was dripping with venom when she said it, but Damian angled himself slightly forward, shoulders squared like a shield. I saw it then: the clash wasn't just about me. It was more about, let's call it....control.
"Mother," he said again, softer this time, but sharper too. "Enough."
Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. She leaned closer, almost conspiratorial, her words striking like poisoned darts.
"Don't do this, Damian."
And in that moment, I realized—I wasn't the one she was truly challenging.
--------------------
The housekeeper guided me up a flight of polished stairs, her steps were careful, and her silence was heavy. I followed, each creak of the wood echoing my own unease. We stopped before a door not far from Damian's own wing, let's just say it's a fact I noticed immediately. Too close for coincidence.
When the door opened, Oh God; I half expected another humiliation—a cramped closet, a bed frame without a mattress, the echo of his mother's insult. Instead, the room was… decent. The room was spacious enough, with faint traces of dust, as if it hadn't been touched in years but hadn't quite been abandoned either.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, as my fingers brushed the quilt, my mind refusing to still.
Why had Damian defended me?
Why play the knight in one breath, only to play the executioner in the next? His masks slipped and shifted so fast, and I couldn't tell which was the truth and which was just another layer of performance. With his mother, he was the dutiful son. With me, he was… what? Protector? Manipulator? Both?
I tried piecing it together, mapping the puzzle of him in my mind—but every time I thought I had him cornered, he slipped away. A chameleon cloaked in shadows and sharp smiles.
"What is your reason?" I whispered to the empty room.
The silence offered nothing back.
I lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, a single thought anchoring itself in my chest like a vow.
I'll find out why. Why you kept me in this house, Damian. I'LL FIND OUT THE REAL REASON YOU KEPT ME HERE.
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I had barely allowed myself a moment's rest when a soft knock rattled the door.
"Miss," a maid's voice floated through, cautious, clipped, "the evening snack is served. The family is waiting."
Wait a minute, evening snack? God, how long was I thinking about this guy? If Clara was here, she'd say I was running my own fantasy.
The family. The words felt heavier than they should have. Still, I smoothed my dress and followed, each step toward the dining hall carrying the weight of eyes I wasn't ready to meet.
The hall itself was grandeur dressed in shadows—long table, polished silver, a chandelier casting light like judgment from above. They were all there already. Damian's mother at the head, her posture a sermon on superiority.
A few others, faces I didn't recognize, scattered like chess pieces around the table. And Damian, of course, lounging in his chair as though the world itself bent to his rhythm.
I hesitated at the threshold, feeling their eyes rake over me, stripping me down layer by layer until I was raw beneath their gaze. The maid gestured, and I forced myself forward, spine straight, chin raised just enough to pretend I belonged here.
"Sit," Damian's mother said, her tone not an invitation but a command.
I slid into the seat beside Damian, my hands folding into my lap to still their tremor. The silence that followed was thick, deliberate, a silence that pressed against my skin and dared me to break it.
Then, from the far end of the table, a voice—deep, smooth, and unfamiliar—cut through the air.
"And who is she?"
The question hung there, echoing, and I felt every eye turn sharper, keener, waiting for the answer.
God, I knew this was the final straw, and worst of all, I wasn't ready. I swear if I so much as receive one insult commentary, I roast whoever gave me that, alive.
I just had to stay put and wait for whatever 'surprises' were install for me at the dinner table.
--------------------
Everyone just stared at me like I was some ghost or walking emblem or something. I wanted to open my mouth and answer the question, but for some reason, I couldn't. The weight of their gaze fixed on me, was just too much.
The kind of feeling that you get when someone is pointing a gun at you. Yah, I'd say that's it.