Morning arrived the same way night had — without warning.
I woke before any bell, before any knock. The house seemed to wake me itself, as if it didn't trust servants who slept too deeply. Pale light filtered through the tall windows, cutting the room into neat rectangles. Everything here was orderly. Too orderly. Even the silence felt measured.
I dressed quickly in the uniform left for me — simple, dark, anonymous. The kind of clothes designed to erase a person.
Good, I thought.
That's exactly what I need to be.
Invisible.
I stepped into the corridor, careful with my footsteps. The floors were polished stone, cold even through my shoes. The mansion looked different in daylight — not friendlier, just clearer. Every corner was intentional. Every hallway curved in a way that felt planned decades, maybe centuries, ago.
A man was waiting near the servants' staircase. Middle-aged. Straight-backed.
Eyes sharp enough to cut.
He didn't introduce himself.
"You clean what you're told," he said flatly.
"You don't wander."
"You don't speak unless spoken to."
"And you don't look at the masters."
His gaze lingered on me.
"Especially not them."
I nodded.
That seemed to satisfy him.
He handed me a list — handwritten, precise.
Study room.
Corridor shelves.
West wing dusting.
No mistakes. No delays.
The study room sat exactly where I remembered it from the man's instructions — second floor, long hallway, doors carved with old symbols I didn't recognize. The air changed as I approached.
Thicker.
Heavier.
Like the house was watching me cross a line.
I pushed the door open carefully.
The room smelled like old paper, ink, and something metallic underneath — faint, but present. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, packed with books and documents.
A massive desk dominated the center, dark wood polished to a mirror sheen.
And someone was already there.
He stood by the window, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed impeccably in black. His hair was dark, falling just long enough to brush his collar. One hand rested casually in his pocket. The other held a book, open, unread.
Lucien.
He was the youngest son of the family. I knew it was him without being told.
The room felt… smaller.
My heart stuttered once before I forced it back into rhythm.
Don't panic.
You're a servant.
You don't exist.
I lowered my gaze immediately and stepped inside, keeping my movements slow, controlled. I went to the shelves, cloth in hand, pretending my hands weren't shaking.
He didn't move.
Didn't turn.
Didn't acknowledge me at all.
Minutes passed.
The silence grew unbearable, pressing against my ears. I could hear my own breathing, too loud, too human. Every scrape of fabric against wood felt like a crime.
I dared a glance — just a fraction.
His reflection stared back at me from the glass of the window.
Not at me.
Through me.
Like I was furniture. Like I was air.
Fear curled low in my stomach — sharp, instinctive.
This is worse than being noticed, I realized.
This is being dismissed.
He closed the book with a soft sound and walked past me.
Close enough that I felt the air shift.
Cold brushed my skin.
I froze, every muscle locked, terrified that any movement would draw his attention. But he didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't even look.
At the door, he paused.
For half a second — just long enough for hope to flicker.
Then he left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I exhaled shakily, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Relief washed over me — hot and dizzying.
Good, I thought.
Good. He didn't care.
But beneath the relief was something else.
Something colder.
Because indifference like that wasn't safety.
It was power.
And as I resumed cleaning, my hands steadier now, one thought settled deep in my chest:
If he ever looks at me…
That's when I should be afraid.
I finished the study room in silence.
Every surface gleamed when I stepped back — desk polished, shelves dusted, floor immaculate. I made sure nothing looked disturbed, nothing looked touched. The room felt the same as when I had entered it, as if I had never been there at all.
That, I was learning, was the goal.
I slipped out into the corridor, closing the door carefully behind me. The hallway stretched long and narrow, light filtering in through tall windows at intervals. Dust floated lazily in the air, visible only when the light caught it just right.
I had just begun wiping the corridor shelves when a voice cut through the quiet.
"You."
I flinched.
The old servant stood a few steps behind me. I hadn't heard him approach. He leaned , his posture stiff but alert, eyes sharp beneath a face carved with age and discipline. His uniform was older than mine — darker, worn smooth by decades of use.
"You were in the study," he said.
It wasn't a question.
My fingers tightened around the cloth.
"Yes," I answered quietly. "I was assigned there."
He studied me for a long moment, as if weighing something.
Then he sighed — slow, heavy.
"I may have forgotten to tell you something important."
My stomach dropped.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You do not enter a room when one of the masters is present."
"Ever."
The word landed hard.
"It's an unforgivable mistake."
My heart started pounding, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
"I'm surprised you were spared," he continued, his gaze lingering on my face. "Perhaps it's because you look… fragile."
"And because it's your first day."
The cloth slipped from my fingers.
Spared.
The word echoed in my head, sharp and hollow.
"You are not like ordinary men," he added quietly. "If you see one of them, you leave. If one enters, you lower your head. You do not breathe too loudly. You do not exist."
I nodded, throat tight.
"I didn't know," I whispered.
"Now you do," he replied. "Learn quickly. This house doesn't forgive twice."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps slow but deliberate, leaving me alone in the corridor.
I stood there long after he disappeared.
Understanding crept in slowly, like cold water seeping into my bones.
That moment in the study.
The way Lucien had paused at the door.
The single second of attention I hadn't understood.
It hadn't been indifference.
It had been a decision.
I wasn't supposed to be there.
And yet, I had walked out alive.
My hands began to shake.
Not from relief.
From the realization that I had already brushed past something final — something that, for reasons I didn't understand yet, had chosen to let me go.
And I didn't know whether that mercy was a blessing…
…or a debt.