The moment the words left her mouth, Amelia closed it immediately. Heat rushed up her neck. What is wrong with me? She had always possessed a sharp tongue, but how had she been bold enough to say that out loud? It should have remained locked in her thoughts. Now it would put her in trouble.
Enzo’s grey eyes cooled. His gaze was the kind of look that had probably ended lives without a second thought.
"You’re lucky you signed the document before spouting that. I would have snapped your neck instantly."
A full-body chill raced down her spine, sharp and paralyzing. Her hands slowly lowered from her mouth, fingers curling into fists at her sides. Inside her chest, her heart hammered a frantic, deafening warning.
But something inside her refused to back down completely. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was simply that she had nothing left to lose.
"The only bit of freedom I have left is my sharp tongue," she quietly said. "So you should expect me to use it from now on. Bottling it up inside won’t be good for me... or for you." She paused, letting that sink in. "Especially if you want me to act as your ’oh so loving wife.’"
She mimicked the last words with a faint, mocking lilt.
Enzo stared at her. For a long second he said nothing. The irritation he expected never fully arrived. Instead, something lighter—almost like reluctant amusement—settled in his chest. Comedic relief. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.
He looked away first.
"You’ll be appointed a personal maid. She’ll also teach you the necessary customs. Now get out of my sight."
Amelia didn’t wait a second longer. She turned and walked out of the office at once.
Behind her, Enzo picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. This woman is different. One, she had been loyal enough to endure two weeks of torture rather than break. And now she was bold in a strangely comedic way—something rare, something he had never encountered before.
Why am I thinking about her?
He scowled and placed the call, forcing the thought away. He shouldn’t be dwelling on a powerless, useless mistress.
Well. Now she was just slightly less useless.
Outside the office, Amelia let out a long, quiet breath of relief. The corridor was empty. No maid waited by the door. No one is watching her right now.
Does that mean what I think it means?
She could walk anywhere... until someone caught her.
The sensible choice was clear. Go straight back to her room. Stay out of trouble.
Would she do that?
No.
Any chance to start looking for escape routes—any chance at all—she would take it.
Amelia started walking along the hallway, slowly committing every turn, every doorway to memory. The estate was wide and expensive-looking, the kind of place where a person could easily lose their way among endless corridors and identical double doors.
She didn’t care if she got lost. If she wandered too far, someone would eventually find her and march her back to her room. That could be the least worst thing that could happen. At least then she’d have learned something about the layout.
She paused at the tall windows lining one side of the corridor and looked out. Third floor. The grounds stretched far below—manicured gardens, stone pathways, distant walls that seemed to mark the edge of the property. Escape routes would not be simple. Its easy to come in, but impossible to go out.
From one hallway she moved into another, then another, until she came upon a long glass wall. Behind it, people worked carefully among rows of rare and beautiful plants. An inner garden, lush and carefully tended, the air beyond the glass thick with green life. Amelia’s steps slowed.
This is beautiful. Like a different world inside this prison.
She recognized one of the women inside. The healer. The same woman who had once mended the torn flesh on her back after the weeks of torture.
As if sensing the weight of a gaze, the healer turned. Their eyes met. Amelia braced herself, half-expecting to be called out or reported. Instead the woman offered only a tight, unreadable smile before returning to her work.
Amelia was confused. What was that? A warning? A greeting? Or just... nothing?
Amelia left the glass wall behind and rounded the next corner.
A serving trolley with three stacked shelves of equipment came racing toward her at full speed, wheels rattling against the floor. A woman’s voice shouted from behind it.
"Stop the trolley!"
Amelia tried to step aside, but she wasn’t fast enough. The front wheel clipped her leg hard. Pain flared. She lost her balance and went down, landing on the floor with a sharp wince, her hand scratching against the hard floor.
The trolley jolted to a halt only a few feet past her.
"Thanks a lot," the woman said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She didn’t even glance at Amelia at first. Instead she hurried to the trolley and began checking every shelf, every item, as if terrified something might have gone missing. Only when she let out a long sigh of relief did she finally look at amelia.
She’s more worried about her equipment than the person she just knocked over. Typical.
Amelia pushed herself up onto one elbow, her leg throbbing, already bracing for a scolding or worse.
But the woman’s expression changed. Recognition flickered across her face.
"So," she said slowly, her eyes sweeping over Amelia’s face, her posture. "You’re the one I’ll be working for."
Amelia blinked, still on the floor. "What?"
The woman’s lips curved into a wry smile. "I’m your new personal maid. Or did they not bother to tell you?" She extended a hand, palm open. "Name’s Skye. Try not to get run over by any more trolleys. It’s bad for my reputation."