Ira’s POV

The dress was red.

Not the maroon maid uniform I usually wore, but something tighter, shorter. The neckline dipped too low, the fabric clung too close. It wasn’t meant for modesty. It was meant for control.

> “He wants you at the dinner tonight,” Rosa said flatly as she handed me the box. “You serve only him.”

I didn’t ask why.

I already knew.

This wasn’t an invitation. It was a leash.

---

The dining hall was full of sharply dressed men, wine glasses catching the glow of chandeliers, polished silverware lined like weapons. Luca sat at the head of the long table, calm and unreadable in his black suit, the collar of his shirt lazily undone.

His eyes found me the second I entered.

But he didn’t nod.

Didn’t acknowledge me.

Just watched.

I moved to stand behind him, as I was instructed. I poured wine. Refreshed glasses. Moved like a ghost.

His voice barely reached my ears when he muttered without turning,

“Don’t embarrass me.”

The words chilled me more than they should’ve.

---

I didn’t mean to do it.

Or maybe… a small part of me did.

I was careful. Silent. Invisible.

But when I came back to refill his glass, my hand tilted just slightly—too quickly, too deliberately.

The deep red wine spilled across his lap, soaking into the fabric of his pants.

A collective silence followed.

Eyes turned.

Luca looked down at the stain.

Then up at me.

His smile was slow, cold, terrifying.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood up, wiped his hands with a napkin, and said,

“Excuse me.”

And walked out.

---

The moment I stepped inside his study, I felt the air shift.

Luca poured himself a drink. The soft clink of glass was the only sound.

Then, without a glance, he threw a box of tissues at my feet.

“Clean it.”

I froze.

He stepped back and sat down in his leather chair — legs wide, hands resting lazily on the arms.

“On your knees. Now.”

Shame crawled up my neck. But I sank slowly to the floor.

I crawled toward him, picked up the tissues, and began to dab at the wine on his pants, starting from the edges, careful not to touch him directly.

His eyes stayed on me like I was something beneath his shoe.

I reached forward to wipe a stubborn spot, and as I shifted on the floor, my balance faltered. My palm brushed against his upper thigh.

Too high.

Too close.

I froze.

Luca leaned forward, one hand resting on his knee.

“Careful, serva.”

His voice dripped with warning, with mockery.

I quickly pulled back, eyes down.

He laughed under his breath. It wasn’t amused.

It was cruel.

“Look at you. On your knees like a dog. You wanted to act out like a brat? This is what you get.”

I didn’t speak.

“Clean it all. Or I’ll make you lick it.”

His words hit harder than any slap.

I kept wiping.

Slow. Silent. Swallowing every part of my pride.

When the wine was gone, I sat back on my heels, hands shaking.

Luca stood up slowly and stepped around me like I wasn’t even there.

I thought that was it.

I thought it was over.

---

But five minutes later, Bruno—his ever-silent shadow, the man I’d seen at his side more than anyone else—appeared at the door.

“Come,” he said.

No explanation.

I followed.

Down the hall, past familiar rooms, until we stopped at a steel door I’d never noticed before.

Bruno unlocked it with a separate key.

Inside: no windows. No light. A bare mattress. Four concrete walls.

A prison.

He shoved me in.

The door slammed.

Click.

The lock turned.

I ran to it. Pounded my fist.

“Luca!”

Nothing.

“Luca, please—don’t leave me here—!”

Still silence.

Then finally, muffled through the door:

“You’ll come out when you remember your place.”

And then… footsteps.

Fading. Leaving me in the dark.

---

I sank onto the mattress, the red dress wrinkled, clinging to my skin like sham

e.

My throat ached. My eyes burned.

But I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Because crying would mean he’d broken something in me.

And I wasn’t ready to give him that.

Not yet.