CHAPTER FIVE
The first light of dawn slipped through the thick curtains, pale and timid, as if afraid to wake the house.
Adaline stirred reluctantly, a shiver running through her despite the warmth of the bed. She had slept well, too well, almost dangerously well. It had been years since she'd lain in a bed this soft, a bed that didn't squeak or force her to curl up in corners for safety. And now, the thought that she might have overslept made her stomach twist with unease.
Yesterday's instructions replayed in her mind like a warning: Mrs. Margareta had walked her through the mansion with calm authority, showing her what she could touch, where she could go, and, most importantly, what she must never touch or enter. Every gesture, every step had been carefully measured. "Obedience keeps you safe," the older woman had said. Adaline had nodded, committing it all to memory, though her hands still trembled slightly as she recalled it.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the polished floor beneath her bare feet. Each step was cautious, deliberate. A wrong move could bring attention, punishment, or worse. Her chest tightened, and a faint tremor ran through her as she tiptoed toward the corridor.
The bathroom offered a brief moment of relief, steam and warmth but she still kept her movements small and careful, combing her hair quietly, washing quickly, and choosing clothes from the wardrobe that were surprisingly her size. She dressed with precision, almost mechanically, as if any hesitation would betray her presence.
Finally, she stepped out of her room. The mansion was silent, too silent, and the weight of it pressed against her. She moved slowly, each footstep measured, listening for the smallest sound, any creak, any hint that her master might be near.
The kitchen was cold and dimly lit. She made the coffee and prepared a simple sandwich, arranging it neatly on a plate. Every movement was deliberate, precise, careful. She paused often, listening to the empty house, imagining what punishment might follow a single misstep. The thought made her stomach churn, but she swallowed it down and continued, because there was no choice.
Her heart raced, but she forced herself to steady her hands. This was not a home. This was a cage. And she had learned early that survival required silence, obedience, and fear.
Adaline served the breakfast on time, arranging the plate neatly on the small tray just as Mrs. Margareta had instructed. She stepped back, standing silently to the side, a posture she was already used to.
Minutes passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Still, no sign of him.
A sudden, icy panic gripped her chest. What if she had missed him? What if he had left the house before she had even served the food? Her fingers trembled slightly, and her heart pounded. She pressed her palms together, trying to steady herself, but the thought of the torture room, made her stomach twist.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the floor in front of her.
"Miss whitmore," The gentle voice of Mrs. Margareta startled her. She spun slightly to face the older woman.
"I… I—I don't know what to do," Adaline admitted softly, her voice trembling. "I've been standing here… waiting… and he hasn't come."
Mrs. Margareta studied her for a moment, then the corners of her lips turned up just slightly. "Ah… he didn't come home last night." Her tone was calm, almost amused at the misplaced fear. "Is that why you're crying?"
Adaline's chest loosened. Relief washed through her like warm sunlight. She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.
"Oh…" she whispered, barely audible.
Mrs. Margareta gave her a small nod, leaving no judgment in her eyes. "Go on, then. Pack the food up. Take it to the kitchen and dispose of it."
Hands still shaking slightly, Adaline lifted the tray. She moved to the kitchen slowly, methodically, as she had been trained to, disposing of the untouched food.
By the time she returned to her room, her hands were steady again, but her chest still thumped in nervous rhythm. She laid on her bed trying to calm down.
Few hours later, the mansion doors swung open with Camilla strolling in.. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished marble floor, a rhythm that demanded attention. The servants greeted warmly, bowing their head gently.
Camilla's gaze swept the grand foyer like a predator assessing territory. She didn't pause to return the greeting. Her mind was already on the girl,the newest slave, she thought with thinly veiled disgust, refusing to dignify her with a name. She signaled one of the servants to come closer
"there's a new slave here,lead me to where they kept her" Camilla snapped, her voice icy. She expected instant obedience.
The young servant in front of her froze, clearly uncomfortable. "M-Mistress… you… you can't go there. The private wing… it's forbidden. We're not allowed—"
Camilla's eyes narrowed, fury igniting. "the private wing!,"she shouted "How can Ronan allow that filth near him? Near his rooms? Where I've never been permitted?!"
The servant swallowed hard, stepping back, but Camilla was already pacing, her hands clenched at her sides. Rage coursed through her veins, hotter than she had felt in months. How dare he let some insignificant girl walk freely in the wing where she had never set foot?
"Call Margareta. Now," she barked, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Within moments, Mrs. Margareta appeared, composed and unflinching, as if she had expected Camilla's arrival.
"Mrs. Margareta," Camilla spat, gesturing sharply toward the private wing. "take me to the private wing now"!. She demanded.
Mrs. Margareta's calm hand rose slightly, stopping her mid-rant. "If you require anything," she said evenly, her voice smooth, "the servants may attend to you. "Miss whitmore only attends to our master and is not allowed out of her room except permitted to do so".
Camilla froze, a flare of rage crossing her features. Her hand twitched as though she might strike the older woman, but she clenched her fists and restrained herself. Not here. Not now. Any misstep could put her in Ronan's bad books, and she could not risk it.
Breathing through the sting of her frustration, she turned sharply on her heel. Her heels echoed against the marble as she stormed down the hall, her fury focused now on Ronan himself. The next stop was his office, where she could vent, demand answers, and make clear that nothing, not even the newest slave, would ever threaten her place by his side.
Every step carried the heat of her anger, but beneath it all lingered a sharp, biting awareness: Ronan
had chosen, and she had no control over that. Not yet.