BZZZT!
The system’s ear-splitting alarm blared through Erick’s earpiece, shattering the silence of the Laurent family’s storage room.
He just looked at the encrypted flash on his screen: “They know Quade is still alive.”
Erick’s fingers hovered over the glass.
Five years of playing the ghost in his own life, of Five years of swallowing his pride, and now the walls were finally closing in, and the walls were finally closing in.
He deleted the message with a surgical flick of his thumb and smoothed the creases of a shirt that cost more than the people he served actually earned.
He stepped out of the dark, adjusting his mask.
Breakfast at the Laurent estate was never pleasant.
Leroy sat at the head of the marble table, hiding behind a Wall Street Journal, his presence a heavy, suffocating weight.
Evelyn spent the morning obsessively aligning the silverware, her eyes darting around for a speck of dust that didn’t exist.
Michel lounged, thumbing through his phone with a smirk, while Dominique sat as far from Erick as the table allowed, as if she couldn’t stand sitting near him.
The seat nobody else wanted
“Oh, you’re awake,” Michel sneered, not looking up from his screen.
“Or did you finally decide to move into the pantry where you belong?”
Erick didn’t blink.
He reached for the coffee.
“Michel, be polite,” Evelyn sighed, though her voice held no warmth.
“Erick is still… family.” She said the word with obvious disgust.
“Let him eat,” Leroy muttered from behind the paper.
“We can’t have the press claiming we starve the help before tonight’s gala.”
“He’s just logistics,” Dominique added, her voice flat.
“No one will even notice him tonight.”
Erick looked down at his plate.
In the reflection of the polished silver, he saw a man who looked defeated.
It was a perfect performance.
Only Remi, the youngest, gave him a small, fleeting smile that didn’t reach her eyes—a pity smile.
Erick stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.
“I need to head out early.”
“Clean the table first,” Michel snapped.
“Leave him alone, Michel,” Remi defended softly.
Evelyn rolled her eyes.
“Don’t act noble, Remi.
If Erick weren’t here to absorb your father’s temper, you wouldn’t be allowed near the office.
Erick, make yourself useful.
Clear the plates.”
Erick nodded.
He moved quietly, stacking the porcelain.
His jaw locked tight, a muscle pulsing in his cheek.
None of them knew what that hand was capable of
The kitchen smelled of bleach and strong detergen
“Husband or servant?
I can’t tell the difference,” one maid whispered, leaning toward the other.
“A man with a build like that… choosing to live as a parasite,” the other snorted.
Mrs.
Hollis, the housekeeper, chased them back to their stations with a sharp glare.
As Erick set the last plate down, his secret phone vibrated against his thigh.
They’re looking for Quade.
Erick’s eyes hardened.
The “parasite” had spent five years feeding on their arrogance, building a silent empire of revenge while they treated him like furniture.
“Mr.
Erick, Miss Dominique is waiting,” Mrs.
Hollis announced.
“She’s late for her dress fitting.”
The drive through Manhattan was a claustrophobic blur of yellow cabs and grey skyscrapers.
Dominique sat in the passenger seat, her laughter echoing through the leather interior as she stared at her phone.
“Martin, you’re too funny…” she giggled, her voice a high, airy sound that grated on Erick’s nerves.
Erick’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.
He knew Martin Clarke.
Martin had money, connections, and the arrogance to use both.
At the luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue, Dominique vanished into a private dressing room.
Erick waited in the VIP lounge, the air smelling of expensive musk and arrogance.
“Erick.”
Martin Clarke was lounging on a leather sofa, a smug, predatory grin on his face.
He held a red velvet jewelry box, tossing it lightly in the air.
“I didn’t know chauffeurs were invited to these things,” Martin mocked, his eyes scanning Erick’s simple attire.
Erick remained silent, a statue in a tailored suit.
Martin stood, closing the distance until they were chest-to-chest.
“You know,” Martin whispered, the scent of expensive cologne cloying, “when Dominique and I were dating, I knew every inch of her.
Every sound she made when I touched her.
Every place she liked to be… pleased.”
Erick felt his control slipping.
“Funny how some things never change,” Martin continued, leaning in closer.
“She still calls me when she needs a real man.”
He tapped the velvet box against Erick’s chest.
“Three million dollars.
Just because I can.
Tell me, Erick—when was the last time you bought her anything that wasn’t from a discount rack?”
Martin wanted a reaction.
He wanted the “pathetic husband” to crumble, to shout, to beg.
He mistook the silence for submission.
“You’re nothing but a glorified driver,” Martin sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
“A placeholder.
A joke.
She’s mine.
She’s always been mine.”
For five years, Erick had been the punching bag for the Laurents.
He had learned to wait.
That was how he survived five years with them.
But Martin wouldn’t stop talking.
Something inside Erick snapped—not out of anger, but out of a sudden, visceral need to see the look on Martin’s face when the joke ended.
Erick’s fist slammed into Martin’s face.
Blood exploded from his broken nose, spraying across the white stone.
The diamonds scattered across the marble.
“YOU PSYCHO!” Martin screamed, clutching his face, his voice nasal and wet.
“I’LL KILL YOU!”
Security rushed in, but Erick didn’t move.
He stood his ground, breathing rhythmically, his knuckles throbbing with a satisfying heat.
For the first time in five years, Erick had lost control.
The dressing room door flew open.
Dominique stood there in a half-finished gown, her face pale.
She looked at Martin sobbing on the floor, the scattered diamonds, and then at Erick’s bloodied fist.
“Erick…”
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t apologize.
For the first time in five years, he didn’t look like a servant.
Dominique stared at him as if she were seeing a stranger.
Maybe she was.
The man she thought she knew had never really existed.