Wicked Master's Trap

Chapter 1

The sharp toll of bells sliced through the early morning silence, pulling Kiara from what little comfort the stiff mattress offered. It was far from warm or cozy, nothing like the feather-soft beds from her distant past, but still, she was quietly thankful. At least it wasn't the cold stone floor. At least it was something.

“Gabby, Gabby, get up, we’ll be late,” Kiara whispered urgently, nudging the sleeping form beside her.

A groggy groan followed. “I want to sleep,” Gabrielle mumbled into the thin pillow.

“Gabby, come on… You know they’ll punish us again,” Kiara pleaded softly. “We won’t get any food all day.”

Gabrielle cracked one eye open and sighed. “Do you even call that food? Boiled mush and bread that could break a tooth?” But then she sat up anyway, yawning. “Don’t worry, cutie. I’m getting up. I can’t let my little fluff ball starve.” She pinched Kiara’s soft cheeks teasingly, pulling a reluctant giggle from her.

Still half-asleep, the two seventeen-year-olds pulled on their worn maid uniforms, plain gray dresses with aprons already stained from yesterday’s work, and stepped out into the cold corridor. As the lowest-ranking servants in the Dominic estate, they were tasked with the dirtiest, most grueling work, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, doing laundry, and cleaning toilets. There was no glamour, no respect. Only survival.

They hurried into the courtyard, where a long line of servants had already formed for roll call.

“Silence, you lowlives!” came a shrill, commanding voice.

The crowd stilled instantly.

Beatrice, the estate’s head maid, stood tall and imposing at the front. Though nearly fifty, she carried herself with a youthful severity and an iron gaze that could shatter egos in seconds. Her crisp uniform was spotless, unlike theirs, and her expression betrayed nothing but disdain.

In the Dominic household, the lowest-ranked servants were openly called lowlives. Most were orphans. Some, like Kiara and Gabrielle, had been sold into servitude by relatives with cold hearts and empty pockets. The abuse from higher-ranking staff was routine. Expected.

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re still alive,” Gabrielle murmured beside her.

Before Kiara could respond, Beatrice’s voice rang out again.

“Master Asher is returning tomorrow. It will be his formal takeover ceremony,” she announced. A hush fell across the courtyard. “I want this mansion sparkling by morning. If any of you fail to meet expectations, you won’t eat for a week.”

A collective gulp passed through the line. Their meals were already little more than thin porridge and stale bread, barely enough to fill a stomach, but the threat of losing even that was enough to silence any complaint.

Kiara’s heart skipped.

Master Asher is coming back…

She remembered him well. She had been just eleven years old when her uncle and aunt, her only remaining family after her parents died, sold her into servitude here. That was the first time she saw him. Asher Dominic. The heir of the most powerful family in the country.

The Dominics ruled not just the world of business and politics, but whispered rumors claimed their influence reached far darker realms, organized crime, underground dealings, perhaps even blood-stained power. But no one dared speak of it openly.

Kiara had kept her head down ever since, quietly working, surviving.

Still, sometimes, when the nights were cold and sleep wouldn’t come, she let herself remember her parents. Their gentle voices, the warm hugs, and the way her father used to call her his little princess. Back then, she was loved. Cherished. The queen of her tiny kingdom.

But those days were gone.

Now, the only kingdom she belonged to was made of marble floors, iron rules, and eyes that watched her like she was nothing but a tool to be used.

(Past)

“Mommy, when will we get there?” the little girl asked, her small face scrunched into a pout as she leaned against the car window, watching the trees blur by.

“Soon, Princess,” her mother said with a soft chuckle, turning in her seat to offer a loving smile.

“Daddy, I’m going to go on sooo many rides when we reach!” the girl giggled, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement.

Her father reached back to ruffle her hair. “Of course you will, sweetheart. You can ride them all.”

Their laughter filled the car, warm and carefree. The hum of jazz music floated from the speakers, and the family hummed along in harmony, their voices light and melodic. For a moment, the world was nothing but joy, laughter, music, and the promise of a fun day ahead.

But fate had other plans.

Without warning, a monstrous truck veered into their lane, its headlights blinding, its tires screeching against the asphalt like a scream.

“Carter!” the mother screamed in terror, clutching her husband's arm as he jerked the steering wheel hard to the right.

The car swerved violently, but it was too late.

Metal crunched, glass shattered, and the vehicle slammed head-on into a massive tree at the edge of the road with a deafening crash. The world tilted. Then everything went still.

“Mommy? Daddy?” the girl whimpered, her voice shaking, her tiny body trembling. Blood dripped from a gash on her forehead, trickling down her cheek like a tear. She reached out with trembling fingers toward the front seats.

But her parents didn’t answer.

Their bodies were slumped forward, lifeless, broken, streaked in blood and twisted in unnatural angles; the dashboard caved in around them.

“Mommy... please... wake up... Daddy...” she sobbed, crawling toward them through shards of glass and twisted metal. But they remained silent. The scent of blood filled the air. The music had long stopped. Only her cries echoed now.

She stayed there for hours, bleeding, broken, terrified, calling for them again and again.

Until her little body gave up, and darkness swallowed her whole.

One month later, the house no longer felt like a home. For the little girl cowering in the corner, it felt more like a prison of silence and judgment. Kiara stood silently in the corner of the hallway, her small frame stiff, her tear-streaked face turned toward the shouting voices, voices that carved deep into her fragile heart, slicing away the last bits of comfort she had tried to hold onto. She didn’t flinch or move. She just stood there, frozen, like a child-shaped ghost haunting a place she was never truly welcome in.

“I’m telling you, Albert, I can’t take care of this girl anymore. I want her out of this house, right now!” her aunt's voice thundered like a storm.

Little Kiara flinched.

“Please, Florence, she’s my brother’s daughter,” her uncle tried to reason gently. “She has no one else. I can’t just throw her out into the streets.”

“She’s a curse!” Florence snapped. “Since the day she arrived, we haven’t had a single moment of peace. Yesterday, it was the broken plate. Today, it’s my vase! She’s clumsy, she’s useless, she can’t do a single thing right!”

Kiara’s small frame shook as she hugged herself tighter, trying to shrink deeper into herself. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, but her voice was lost in the sea of anger.

Florence’s eyes found her like daggers. “Get the hell out of my sight! Now!”

The eleven-year-old gasped, heart pounding. No one had ever shouted at her like that before. Not her mother. Not her father. Never.

With trembling legs, she ran to the small room they had given her, barely a closet, and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked, and the world outside felt even colder than before.

“Stupid… stupid Kiara,” she sobbed, slapping her cheeks in frustration, her tears falling faster. “Why do you always mess things up?”

From behind the door, she heard her uncle sigh, his voice muffled. “Just calm down, honey. Give me a little time… I’ll do something about her.”

She sank onto the creaky old mattress, her sobs barely contained. Slowly, with trembling hands, she reached into her small pink bag, the only thing left from her old life, and pulled out a worn photograph of her parents. The edges were bent from all the times she had held it close, and the smiles in the picture now felt like ghosts from another world.

“Mommy... Daddy...” she whispered, gently tracing their faces with her fingers. “I made another mistake. I didn’t mean to drop the plate. I just… I just wanted to help. I don’t want to be a burden. I really tried...”

Her voice cracked under the weight of guilt and sorrow.

“I promise, Mommy, I didn’t mean to break anything. I just wanted Aunty Florence to like me. I wanted her to smile at me the way you used to.”

But Florence never smiled.

And the little girl, once a cherished princess in her parents’ arms, now sat alone, forgotten, unwanted, and desperately clinging to a memory that felt like a dream she was waking up from far too soon.