WANT ME BACK. BREAK ME TWICE

Chapter One

I had been working since three in the morning, and by ten, my body no longer felt like mine.

Every muscle throbbed in slow, heavy pulses. My fingers were wrinkled from hours in icy water, the skin tight and aching, the tips stinging each time they dragged against the marble edges of the grand staircase.

Eighty steps.

Each one scrubbed until it reflected the massive crystal chandelier above.

"Elara."

The voice didn’t belong to my sister. It was deeper. Cooler. A voice that carried the weight of a man who owned the very earth beneath our feet.

My hand froze on the scrub brush.

I didn't look up immediately. I couldn't. The rules in the Margualie mansion were clear, dictated by the master of the house himself: You do not speak unless spoken to, and you do not look him in the eye.

A pair of immaculate, hand-crafted Italian leather shoes came to a halt exactly two steps above mine.

Rohan.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I swallowed the dryness in my throat and slowly lifted my head.

Rohan Margualie stood tall, his towering frame cutting a dark silhouette against the opulent backdrop of the foyer. His tailored charcoal suit was flawless, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes—those striking, obsidian eyes—were entirely devoid of warmth. This was the man I had once given my soul to. The man who had held me in the dark though unlovingly, only to cast me into Hell when the lies of my family tore us apart.

"Sir," I whispered, the title tasting like ash on my tongue.

He looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my faded uniform, my damp hair, and my trembling, soap-reddened hands. There was no pity in his expression. Only a cruel, mocking amusement that twisted the corner of his lips.

"You missed a spot," Rohan said softly, pointing a slender long finger at the corner of the step I had just spent twenty minutes cleaning. "Right there. It's still dull. Much like your family's legacy."

The insult hit my chest, heavy and precise. He knew exactly how to twist the knife. He wasn't just punishing me for the alleged "betrayal" that caused our divorce; he was systematically dismantling whatever pride I had left.

"I will re-wash it, Sir," I murmured, lowering my head again.

"See that you do," he replied coldly. "I am hosting a gala tonight for our international investors. I won't have my guests smelling the stench of a servant's incompetence the moment they walk through my doors."

Before I could answer, a soft, purring voice interrupted from the top of the stairs.

"Rohan, hubby! You’re home early."

Treas glided down the steps, the silk of her designer dress rustling elegantly. She looked radiant, the picture-perfect wife of a billionaire tycoon. She stepped right past me, ignoring my existence entirely, and wrapped her arms around Rohan’s neck.

"I was just making sure the staff was doing their job," Treas said, casting a venomous, triumphant glance down at me. "But Elara has been so sluggish today. I told her to clear the west wing hours ago, and she ignored me."

Rohan didn't lean into Treas’s touch, but he didn't pull away either. His eyes remained fixed on the top of my head, heavy and suffocating.

"Is that so?" Rohan asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously quiet.

"Yes," Treas sighed, playing the victim perfectly. "She's being deliberately defiant, Rohan. What should I do with her? If she ruins the gala tonight..."

Rohan stepped back, breaking Treas's hold on him. He looked at me, his expression unreadable, a grim, arrogant deity deciding the fate of a mortal.

"If she cannot perform the basic duties of a maid," Rohan said, his words slicing through the quiet air, "then she doesn't deserve the comfort of a bed tonight. Clean the grand staircase, the west wing, and the ballroom, Elara. You will not sleep until it is pristine. If it takes you until morning, so be it."

"Rohan..." I breathed, a desperate plea slipping through my lips before I could stop it. "Please. My hands..."

He stepped closer, his shadow completely enveloping me. He leaned down slightly, his scent—expensive cologne, cedarwood, and rain—flooding my senses.

"You chose to stay in this house, Elara," he whispered, so low that only I could hear. "You begged to stay near Allegra. This is the price of your proximity. Never forget that I can throw you out into the street with nothing but the clothes on your back at any second."

He straightened up, his eyes turning back into chips of ice. "Do your job."

Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall toward his study, his strides powerful and unbothered.

Treas waited until the doors of his study clicked shut. The moment Rohan was out of sight, the mask of the elegant wife dropped from her face, replaced by pure malice.

"You heard my husband," Treas sneered, stepping down until she was directly above me. "Get to work."

In her hand, she held a glass of dark red wine she had carried from the dining room. With a slow, deliberate tilt of her wrist, she poured the crimson liquid directly over the steps I had just scrubbed. It splashed against the white marble, pooling around my knees, staining my apron.

"Oops," she mocked. "Dirty again."

I stared at the stain, a sudden spark of numbness settling into my chest. "I have to clean the ballroom, Madam. I will do this last."

I picked up my bucket and stood, intending to walk past her.

"Did I give you permission to leave?" Treas hissed.

Before I could react, her hand flew out, gripping my chin tightly, her manicured nails digging into my skin. "Look at me, you pathetic piece of trash. You think because Rohan looks at you, you still have a chance? You are a ghost in this house. If you ever walk away from me again, I won't just punish you."

She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. "I'll take it out on Allegra. I'll make sure your precious daughter learns exactly what happens to daughters of disgraced women."

Horror exploded in my veins. "Don't you dare touch her!" I gasped, trying to wrench my face from her grip.

"Then bow!" Treas shrieked, shoving me backward with all her might.

My wet shoes slipped on the soapy, wine-stained marble. My balance snapped.

The world tilted violently.

"Ah—!"

A sharp cry tore from my throat as I went over the edge. I hit the first step with a brutal force, pain exploding through my ribs. I couldn't catch myself. I was tumbling down, a chaotic blur of white marble, stinging pain, and darkness.

My shoulder struck. My back cracked.

And then, my head hit the heavy wrought-iron banister at the base of the stairs.

A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the foyer. White light burst across my vision, followed immediately by an all-consuming darkness.

As my consciousness faded into nothingness, the last thing I heard was the heavy thud of the study doors throwing open, and a deep, suddenly panicked voice echoing across the hall:

"Elara!"