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That night, the silence in Jane's room was a heavy blanket. It felt as if the entire house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. She sat on the edge of her bed, the memory of Alexander's words at the dinner table still a bitter tang in her mouth. "I want you to come to my room later." The command had been simple, yet its weight was immense, promising a fresh kind of cruelty.
A soft knock came at the door, and Jane's heart leaped into her throat. She didn't answer. A moment later, the door opened, and a maid, a young girl with kind eyes, peered inside.
"Ma'am?" she said softly, her voice filled with an apology that was both unspoken and profound. "Mr. Alexander... he is waiting for you."
"I am not going," Jane said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady. The maid's face fell. She was joined by another maid, and then another, their presence a silent, growing pressure. They stood in a semicircle, not daring to come closer, their faces a mix of pity and fear.
"He doesn't like to be kept waiting," the second maid whispered, her eyes darting toward the hall. "It's best if you just go."
Jane shook her head, tears pricking the back of her eyes. "I can't. I won't."
The tension broke when the head maid, a tall, severe-looking woman, appeared behind them. Her face was a mask of cold professionalism. "Miss Jane," she said, her voice a sharp blade cutting through the silence. "You are being disrespectful. Mr. Alexander's orders are to be followed without question."
Jane looked from the head maid's stern face to the pity in the eyes of the younger girls. She was trapped. A prisoner in a gilded cage. The promise of another punishment, another sixty days, loomed over her like a dark cloud. She felt a hand on her arm, not a gentle touch but a firm, unyielding grip. The head maid was escorting her, not asking. She was a lamb being led to the slaughter.
She was dragged down the long, cold hallway, her feet barely touching the marble floor. Every shadow seemed to twist into a menacing shape. Every sound was amplified, a drumbeat of her own fear.
The door to Alexander's study was an imposing wall of dark oak. It opened before the head maid could even knock. Alexander stood in the center of the vast, opulent room. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, deceptive glow on a room that felt as cold as an ice cavern. He was dressed in a simple black robe, his hair still damp from a shower. He looked less like a ruthless businessman and more like a predator waiting for its prey. His face was a chiseled mask, expressionless, but his eyes, two chips of obsidian, were fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
The head maid pushed her gently inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click that sounded like a prison lock. Jane was alone with him.
"You are late," he said, his voice a low growl.
Jane stood rooted to the spot, trembling. Her mind raced, a frantic hummingbird beating its wings against a glass wall. She remembered his words from dinner, the threat, the punishment. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"Strip," he commanded, the single word cutting through the tense air like a knife.
Jane's mind went blank. Her breath hitched. "What?" she choked out, her voice barely audible.
"Strip," he repeated, his eyes never leaving her face. "This is your punishment. You will remove your clothes, one by one."
A hot wave of shame and terror washed over her. She shook her head, a desperate, frantic movement. "No," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Please. I—I can't. I'll do anything. I'll work twice as hard, I'll be your girlfriend, I'll—"
"I don't negotiate," he said, his voice as cold and hard as the marble floor beneath her feet. He took a step toward her, and she flinched, instinctively taking a step back. "You have disobeyed me. You ran. This is the consequence."
Tears began to stream down her face, hot trails of misery. "Please," she sobbed, "please don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Guards!" he called, his voice echoing in the large room. "Since she has refused to remove it herself, I'll do it for her."
The threat was real. Jane's mind conjured images of the men who had dragged her back from her escape attempt, their rough hands, their cold eyes. The thought of them touching her, of them seeing her like this, was more than she could bear.
"No!" she screamed, a raw, primal sound of despair. "Please! Don't call them! I'll do it. I'll do it."
She fumbled with the buttons of her dress, her fingers shaking so violently she could barely feel them. The first button came undone, then the next. Her movements were slow, agonizing, like a snail inching its way across a razor's edge. With each piece of clothing that fell to the floor, she felt a piece of her dignity, her defiance, her very soul, being stripped away. She moved slowly, her body shivering, not just from the cold but from the humiliation. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet his gaze. She was a statue of terror and shame.
When she was about to unhook her bra, to remove her last piece of clothing, she heard his voice again.
"Stop."
She froze, her hands hovering at her back.
"Stop," he said again, his voice lower this time, a strange tremor in it she couldn't place.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, tears streaming down her face. His face was a mask of stone, but she could see something flicker in his eyes. A flash of something she couldn't name. It was gone in an instant.
"You are nobody to me," he said, his voice now back to its cold, hard cadence. "You have to behave like you're nobody to me, because that's what you are."
He turned away from her and walked to his desk. He picked up a thick book, its cover worn and faded. He didn't look at her as he turned back around and threw the book at her. It landed at her feet with a heavy thud.
"My mother is coming today," he said, his eyes now fixed on the fire. "Make sure you learn and practice those."
Jane looked down at the book. The title was in French, but a single word caught her eye: "Etiquette." She bent down to pick it up, clutching it to her chest as if it were a shield. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion.
"Some of the things in there are what my mother hates and loves," he continued, his voice a monotone. "My mother doesn't eat red meat."
Jane's mind spun. What did this have to do with her? The words were a nonsensical riddle. "But I'm not a chef," she said, her voice a small, broken whisper.
"She might ask you to prepare one of her best meals," he replied, his face expressionless. "She likes to test people. She wants to see if you are worthy of me." He said the last words with a sneer, a kind of self-loathing that surprised her. "And remember about the public display," he added, his eyes finally meeting hers. "You're meant to act sweet to me. In fact, be clingy to me."
Jane could not say anything. She simply stood there, naked except for her underwear, clutching the book like a life raft. The humiliation was a physical ache, a burning in her stomach. Her fear had been replaced by a quiet, simmering rage. She could not process what was happening. One moment he was a monster, the next he was a puppet master, giving her contradictory instructions. She only nodded in fear, a small, involuntary movement of her head.
"That's all," he said, his voice dismissing her as if she were a nuisance. "You can go."
She didn't need to be told twice. She snatched her clothes from the floor, not caring that she was still exposed, and scrambled out of the room as if it were a burning hell. She didn't put her clothes back on until she was safely inside her own room, the door locked behind her.
Alexander stood in the silent room, the scent of lavender from Jane still hanging in the air. He didn't know what had just happened. He had seen the terror in her eyes, the slow, agonizing movements of her hands as she obeyed his order. A part of him had reveled in her fear, in his power. But then, as her bra was about to be unhooked, a jolt had shot through him, a feeling he couldn't name. He had been about to do something he would have regretted.
He didn't know what happened, but when she was removing her clothes, even though his eyes were never on her, he could barely breathe. The air had been thick with a potent, unfamiliar energy. He hadn't looked at her, not truly. He had kept his gaze on her face, on the tear tracks that had stained her pale skin. But a new, shocking realization had flooded his senses. For the first time in 26 years, he was aroused by a woman. He had felt it, a hot, undeniable surge of a primal instinct he had buried a long time ago.
He walked to the door she had just fled through. The scent of her was still there, a whisper of lavender and something else, something uniquely her. He locked the door, the sound of the tumblers clicking into place a decisive, final sound. It was as if he was not just locking her out, but locking something in. A feeling, a realization, a desire he had never known. The knowledge was both terrifying and intoxicating. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew one thing for sure: his plan, his carefully constructed charade, was about to get a lot more complicated.