Wicked Master's Trap

Chapter 2

"Do it quickly. "There’s still a mountain of work waiting for you two," Maya snapped, her tone sharp as broken glass. She stood above Kiara and Gabrielle with arms crossed, lips curled in disdain. Ever since she'd been appointed as Lady Gianna’s personal maid, Maya had made it her mission to flaunt her position and belittle the maids beneath her. Among the lower-rank servants, she was simply known as the viper in silk, a bully wrapped in a smile.

Lady Gianna, the poised and elegant wife of Mr. Dominic, the patriarch of the country’s most powerful family, had always been the embodiment of nobility. Her every movement dripped with grace, her silence commanded more authority than a thousand words. But behind that regal composure, the palace’s shadows crawled with poison.

Maya wielded her proximity to Lady Gianna like a dagger. Her every order, every smirk, was sharpened by the influence she borrowed. And she wasn’t alone in her tyranny.

"Look how pitiful they look. Ugh, it’s disgusting," Piper, Maya’s ever-present shadow and fellow, sneered as her gaze scanned the two teenage girls scrubbing the floors. Her voice dripped with mockery, loud enough to ensure it stung. Together, they ruled the lower servants with iron tongues and cruel eyes, cloaked in the illusion of favor.

While Lady Gianna sipped tea in silk-draped rooms, oblivious or perhaps silently permitting it, Maya turned her assigned power into dominance. For the servants below her, the Dominic estate wasn’t a house; it was a gilded cage.

Kiara and Gabrielle said nothing. They kept their heads bowed and hands moving, swallowing the humiliation like they always did. The words stung more than they’d ever admit, but silence was their only armor.

"I can’t even stand here anymore. The air feels dirty," Maya muttered, flipping her hair arrogantly before walking away. Piper followed, snickering with every click of her heels.

As their footsteps faded, Gabrielle’s hands balled into fists. “I can’t take this anymore,” she hissed, suddenly throwing the dust cleaner across the marble floor. “This life... this hell, they treat us like we’re less than nothing.”

"Don’t say that," Kiara whispered, eyes soft with worry. "At least we have a roof over our heads. Some people don’t even have that..."

Gabrielle turned to her, voice trembling. “A roof isn’t worth it if it means being treated like trash, Kiara. I wish we could run away. Just disappear from this nightmare.”

Kiara stepped forward and hugged her tightly, gently rubbing her back. “Don’t cry, Gabby. Please. We’ll get through this....”

Wiping her tears roughly, Gabrielle pulled herself together and gave a small nod. “Come on then. Let’s finish before another vulture finds us slacking.” She picked up the dust cleaner she’d thrown, her grip tighter this time, like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

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The white jet bearing the Dominic crest sliced through the clouds with graceful force. As it descended, its airspeed slowed, and with a subtle whisper of friction against the tarmac, the aircraft landed smoothly on Menderly’s private runway. A soft hiss followed as the doors opened, and a wave of sharply dressed men descended the stairs, each commanding attention, but none more than the man who led them.

He walked with an aura that made the earth itself seem to pause.

Steel-grey eyes scanned the land he hadn’t seen in a decade, and light brown hair tousled perfectly in the breeze. His chiseled jawline was only sharpened by the subtle stubble framing it. He looked every bit the man he had become, one built by time, molded by power, and defined by purpose.

Asher Dominic had returned.

Taking a long breath of Menderly’s air, he let the scent of home fill his lungs. The towering mountains in the distance, the sprawling estates, the velvet horizon, everything was just as he remembered it. And now, all of it was his to command.

He had come not just for his title, but for her, the girl who had haunted his thoughts for nine long years. His reason. His obsession. The final piece of what was rightfully his.

"God, I missed Menderly," muttered Zander beside him, his cousin and closest confidant.

Menderly, land of legacy, cloaked in old-money grandeur and royal power belonged to the Dominics. It lived and breathed their name. And with Asher’s return, it was about to witness the rise of its most formidable heir.

"Don’t forget to call the girls tonight," one of Asher’s friends chuckled behind him. "I need something to relieve the exhaustion. That flight drained me."

Asher rolled his eyes but said nothing. He was beyond such distractions now.

"There’ll be plenty to pick from," Zander smirked darkly. "Slave girls, servants... take your pick."

Zander, second in line to the Dominic legacy, stood tall beside Asher like a shadow forged in the same fire. Though cousins by blood, their bond was deeper than brotherhood. Betraying Asher was unthinkable to Zander. He was family, and in the Dominic world, that meant everything or nothing, depending on which side of the blade you stood on. Ruthless by nature and loyal by blood, Zander wore dominance like a second skin.

Dominance, it ran thick in Dominic's veins.

Inside the estate, grace whispered through every corner of the grand hall. Perched gracefully on an ivory couch, a silver-haired woman with noble posture lifted her porcelain teacup with practiced poise. Diamonds glittered at her throat, a necklace reserved only for the wife of the Dominic heir.

Lady Gianna.

Even time had bowed to her grace. She remained the reigning matriarch of the Dominic household, refined, powerful, and unyielding.

"Master Asher has arrived at the airport, ma’am. He’ll be here within twenty minutes," the butler, Patrick, informed her with a respectful nod. "The entire family awaits downstairs, and Patriarch requests your presence."

Lady Gianna didn’t even blink. "Ensure all servants are assembled at the main entrance, heads bowed. My son deserves no less than the honor that befits his name."

"Yes, ma’am. Male and female servants are lined up by the gates as instructed. Everything is prepared for the young master’s arrival."

"Good." She handed her cup to the maid behind her with a flick of her wrist. Then, rising with effortless grace, she adjusted her silk shawl and headed toward the hall with an expression that said only one thing:

The King is coming home.

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"My neck hurts... how long do we have to keep standing here?" Gabrielle whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible through the tension in the air.

It had been over an hour.

The scorching sun bore down on them as rows of servants stood in rigid silence at the grand entrance of the Dominic estate, heads bowed, backs straight. Their muscles ached from the long day’s labor, but no one dared move. Today was not just any day. Today, the heir was returning.

"Silence!" Beatrice’s sharp voice cracked through the silence like a whip, causing a collective flinch down the line. Gabrielle and Kiara froze, holding their breath, but Beatrice’s cold eyes scanned past them without catching the source of the whisper.

"Shhh," Kiara gently hushed Gabrielle, her voice trembling. Her legs were sore, her back burned, and her neck was stiff from holding the same position for far too long. But fear had a way of locking the body into stillness.

Fear and something else...

As she stood among the line of nameless servants, Kiara’s thoughts betrayed her discipline.

Will he remember me?

The question floated through her mind like a ghost, uninvited and dangerous. Her heart fluttered for just a moment, brushing against memories long buried, fleeting glimpses of a time when she was just a girl and he was only a boy, before the world had carved them into their roles, Master and servant.

No, she shook the thought away, scolding herself. Don’t be foolish, Kiara. A man like him won’t remember a lowly slave. He’s returned to claim power, not to look back at a forgotten face from the shadows.

Still, something in her chest ached.

He had always belonged to a different world, one of wealth, status, and control. And she… she was nothing more than dust on the marble floors of his empire.

I mustn’t look at him. I mustn’t feel.

But even as she told herself this, her heart whispered what her mouth never could:

What if he does remember?