Bastian's hand stayed on my throat for a beat too long. His eyes weren't those of a "Trash Prince" anymore. They were cold, gold, and predatory. In the corporate world, I'd seen that look before—it was the gaze of a shark that had just spotted blood in the water.
"You're a very dangerous girl, Elara," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "Most maids would be begging for their lives. You're trying to sell me a business plan."
"I don't beg," I croaked, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, though I kept my face like stone. "Begging has a terrible ROI. Negotiation, on the other hand, is how empires are built. Or saved."
He let go suddenly, the force of it making me stumble back. I hit the edge of a mahogany wardrobe and rubbed my neck, gasping for a real breath of air. He didn't return to the bed. Instead, he walked over to a polished desk hidden in the shadows and poured himself a glass of water—not wine. He drank it in one go, his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders tight.
"You said I'm acting," he said, turning around. "Prove it. Give me one reason not to have you tossed in the dungeon for heresy."
"Simple," I said, leaning against the bedpost to hide the fact that my knees were shaking. "A real drunk doesn't aim for the wall next to a maid's head; he hits the maid because his coordination is shot. A real lazy royal doesn't have calluses on his sword hand from hours of secret practice. And a man who has truly given up on life doesn't keep a sharpened dagger under his pillow, hidden in the silk."
Bastian stiffened. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his lips—the first honest expression I'd seen on his face. "You've been busy for someone who just arrived with a bucket and a mop."
"In my world, if you aren't observant, you're lunch," I replied. "You're playing the fool so your brothers think you're not a threat. You want them to think you're a mess so they leave you for last. But you're failing at the most basic level of management."
"And what's that, CEO?" he mocked, the title sounding like an insult in his mouth.
"Your staff," I said, gesturing to the chaos of the room. "They think you're a joke. They steal your jewelry. They report your every 'stumble' to the Empress. You need a gatekeeper. Someone who can manage the vultures while you focus on the throne."
Before he could answer, a sharp, rhythmic knocking echoed through the double doors.
"Your Highness?" A shrill, annoying voice called out. "It is Lady Elena's maid, Sarah. I've brought your 'medicine' from the Empress. She insists you drink it while it's hot."
Bastian's entire aura changed instantly. The sharpness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dull, glazed look. He slumped his shoulders and grabbed a wine bottle, splashing a bit onto his silk shirt until he smelled like a tavern floor. He tipped over a chair and rolled onto the rug.
"Get in here!" he wailed, his voice cracking like a pathetic loser. "More wine! I want more wine!"
He looked at me and hissed under his breath, "Deal with her. If she suspects anything, I'll tell them you robbed me and have you hanged by noon. Don't fail me, Elara."
Charming boss, I thought, straightening my scratchy apron.
The door creaked open. A young maid with a sharp nose and shifty eyes stepped in, carrying a small silver tray with a steaming cup. She looked at the Prince on the floor with total disgust—a look that told me she'd already written him off as dead weight. Then her eyes landed on me.
"Who are you?" she snapped. "Where is the Head Maid? Only authorized staff are allowed in the royal wing."
"I'm the new help," I said, stepping in front of her, blocking her path to the Prince. I didn't look like a scared servant. I looked like a woman who was about to audit her entire life. "The Prince is... indisposed. Give me the tray. I'll see to it."
"This is a special tonic from the Empress herself," Sarah sneered, trying to push past me. "I must see him take it. Her Majesty is very concerned about his 'failing health.'"
I leaned in and smelled the tea. My nose, sharpened by years of expensive catering and high-stakes dinners, picked up a faint, bitter almond scent. It wasn't enough to kill him instantly, but it was a sedative—something to keep him sluggish and stupid.
"The Prince just vomited on the last person who touched him," I said loudly, my voice echoing. Bastian let out a loud, wet groan and a pathetic sob on cue. "If you want to ruin that silk dress of yours, be my guest. Otherwise, leave the tray and tell the Empress that His Highness is exactly as 'sick' as she hopes he is. Maybe even worse."
Sarah hesitated, looking at Bastian's 'pathetic' form on the floor. She curled her lip. "Fine. He's a pig anyway. Make sure he finishes every drop, or it's your head on the block."
She slammed the tray into my hands and marched out, her heels clicking aggressively on the stone.
The moment the door clicked shut, Bastian stood up, dusting off his pants with a cold efficiency. He looked at the cup in my hand, his face a mask of hatred.
"She comes every day," he muttered. "If I don't drink it, they suspect I'm recovering and send an assassin. If I do drink it, I can barely think straight for six hours. It's a slow-motion execution."
I walked over to a large potted plant in the corner—a dying fern that had seen better days—and dumped the entire cup into the dirt.
"From now on, you don't drink anything I don't pour," I said, setting the empty cup back on the tray. "And you don't talk to anyone I haven't vetted. We are going to change the narrative of this 'Trash Prince' story."
Bastian walked toward me, stopping just a few inches away. He was a head taller than me, smelling of stale wine and hidden power.
"You're very bossy for a girl who owns nothing but a wooden bucket, Elara."
"I'm not a maid, Bastian," I said, using his name without the title for the first time. He winced at the boldness, his hand twitching toward his hidden blade. "I'm your Chief of Staff. You want the crown? I'll give it to you. But in exchange, I want total immunity and a seat at the table when you win. I don't plan on being a servant forever."
Bastian looked at the empty cup, then at me. He held out a hand—not to choke me this time, but to shake.
"Total immunity," he agreed, his voice low and gravelly. "But if we get caught, I'm telling them the maid drugged me. You'll be the scapegoat."
"Naturally," I smirked, shaking his hand with a firm, corporate grip. "That's what 'plausible deniability' is for. Now, sit down. We need to talk about your budget. You're spending way too much on bad wine for this performance, and we need to start bribing the right guards."