On my way down, I caught one of the maids in the hall and said, “Change all the bedding in my room. Everything. Sheets, duvet, pillows. Burn them if you want. Just make it clean.”
She blinked at me, but nodded.
Dinner was already being served when I walked in.
Just the usual suspects tonight. My father, seated at the head like a king. Two of his closest men on either side. My mother, already deep into some arcade game on her phone. And Felix.
He stood up the moment he saw me. Like some fucking gentleman from another century, he pulled out my chair—smiling, eyes gleaming with mock chivalry—and gestured for me to sit.
I stopped for a breath. Then moved forward, letting him hold the chair while I lowered myself into it without a word. His hand brushed my shoulder as I sat, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl.
“Interesting tactic,” he murmured with a smirk, eyes dragging over the turtleneck like it was lingerie. “Dress like a saint, make me work for it. But don’t think for a second it puts me off—it just makes the game better.” Then, like nothing had happened, he returned to his seat with the same smug composure.
I glared at him, my eyes sharp enough to cut, but he only looked more entertained, like my fury was just another move in his game.
A plate of lamb was set in front of me. I wasn’t hungry. I took a few mechanical bites and reached for the wine.
If there was one indulgence I had left in this house, it was the wine. Red, dry, sharp. I sipped it while my father talked politics with his friends, my mother tapped at her screen, and Felix watched me.
He watched me—every move, every breath, every shift of my fingers around the glass.
At some point, he stood and walked out of the dining room without a word. I didn’t ask where he was going. I didn’t care.
But then he came back.
In his hand was a tall glass of milk.
The room seemed to tilt, as he set it down in front of me. No announcement. No explanation. The glass landed with a soft, deliberate tap, white against the dark wood like a warning.
Then, without a word, he reached across the table and wrapped his fingers around my wineglass, lifting it from my hand with quiet deliberation. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t even look at me.
“No more wine,” he said, calm and pleasant, as if he were doing me a favor. “Milk is better for you.”
For a second I just stared at the empty space where my glass had been. “Excuse me?”
His tone was sickeningly sweet. “You look so innocent with a glass of milk. Like a girl who knows how to behave. Let’s stick to that, shall we?”
Something tightened in my chest. I looked down the table, instinctively searching for help I already knew wasn’t there. My father was mid-sentence, gesturing with his fork. My mother’s head was bent over her phone, fingers moving fast, absorbed. The men beside my father laughed at something I didn’t hear.
No one was watching.
Felix leaned closer, close enough that his shadow fell over my plate. “Go on,” he murmured. “Drink.”
I didn’t move. My fingers stayed flat against my thigh, nails digging into fabric. I met his gaze and held it, daring him to blink first.
He didn’t.
“Don’t make me wait,” he said.
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. There was something underneath them—cold, patient—that made my stomach drop. In that moment, it hit me with terrifying clarity that I didn’t understand his rules, and that meant I couldn’t predict his punishments.
I was alone at the table. Surrounded by people, and completely alone.
My hand lifted slowly, not because I agreed, but because I didn’t see another way out. The glass was colder than I expected, condensation slick against my palm. I brought it to my lips and took a small sip, barely enough to swallow.
The milk was ice cold. It coated my tongue, my throat, wrong and intimate.
Felix smiled like he’d won something.
