WANT ME BACK. BREAK ME TWICE

Chapter 3

By morning, the pain had settled into something deep, radiating, and heavy, it was a constant, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in tandem with my heartbeat. My right arm had swollen significantly overnight, the skin stretched tight, hot to the touch, and mottled with angry purple bruising beneath the surface.

In the dim, cramped confines of my servant’s quarters, Nina moved quietly around me. She was efficient, her movements practiced and careful, born from a shared understanding of the rules that governed this house. She didn't ask questions anymore. In the Margualie mansion, curiosity was a luxury that the staff could rarely afford, and asking about the master's affairs—or the injuries of his disgraced ex-wife—was a quick way to find oneself dismissed without references.

"Hold still," Nina murmured, her voice barely above a breath as she wrapped a thick elastic bandage firmly around my forearm. She worked with a practiced hand, lifting the limb with absolute gentleness before securing the fabric into a makeshift sling against my neck to take the weight off my shoulder.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth clicked, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead as the fabric tightened against the injury.

"There," she whispered, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second, filled with a quiet, helpless pity that I couldn't bear to look at. "It will help keep it stable while you work."

"Thank you," I rasped. My throat felt dry, coated in the dust of the house I spent every waking hour cleaning.

I shifted slightly, leaning my back against the rough wooden headboard of the cot, cradling my injured arm against my chest. Nina disappeared into the small hallway and returned a moment later carrying a steaming porcelain mug. The sharp, spicy scent of ginger drifted upward, cutting through the stagnant, damp air of the room.

"Ginger tea," she said, pressing the warm mug into my uninjured left hand. "It might ease the inflammation... a little. Drink it quickly before the morning shift begins."

I brought the cup to my lips, the heat bleeding through the ceramic and grounding me in a way nothing else had since yesterday. For a brief, fragile moment, there was a profound quiet. The mansion above us was still asleep, a sleeping giant of marble, glass, and gold, and I allowed myself to believe, just for a second, that I was human.

Then, the door slammed open. The wood cracked against the plaster wall with a violent force that echoed through the small room like a gunshot. The fragile peace shattered instantly.

Nina jumped, her breath catching in her throat as she instinctively took a step back, her head dropping instantly into a posture of absolute submission.

I froze, the mug suspended halfway to my mouth.

Treas stood in the doorway. She was perfectly poised, dressed in a sweeping cream silk robe that trailed elegantly against the linoleum floor of my room. Her makeup was already flawless, her hair styled into loose, expensive waves. But her expression was dark, her eyes scanning the sparse, barren contents of my quarters before settling on me with a look of profound disgust.

"Well," she said, her voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous purr. "Look at you. Playing the lady of the manor in the servant’s quarters."

Nina’s shoulders trembled. "Madam, I was only—"

"Leave us," Treas snapped, not even looking at her. "Get out before I have Rohan replace you by midday."

Nina didn't hesitate. Fear was a powerful motivator in this house. She slipped past Treas quickly, her eyes glued to the floor, and disappeared into the corridor, leaving me alone with my sister.

Treas walked closer, her heels clicking sharply against the floor until she stood right beside the bed, towering over me. A low, mocking laugh slipped from her lips.

"What right do you have," she said, her voice dripping with venom as she leaned down, "to sit here, sipping tea like you’re something special? Look at this room. Look at your clothes. You are a maid, Elara. A broken, pathetic maid."

Her eyes narrowed at my silence, her irritation flexing beneath her perfect composure. "Did I tell you that you had permission to rest today? Did Rohan say you could slack off?"

The next second, her hand shot forward with terrifying speed. She ripped the mug from my grip before my fingers could tighten around it, and with a swift, vicious flick of her wrist, she threw the contents directly at my chest.

The scalding, hot liquid soaked through my thin cotton shirt instantly, seeping into my skin.

A sharp, instinctive cry tore from my throat as I jerked backward, my body reacting to the burn before my mind could stop it. The heat spread across my chest and collarbone, turning the skin a violent, stinging red. I stood up abruptly, the movement sending a white-hot spike of agony through my injured leg, my heart hammering violently against my ribs as I breathed through the shock of the heat.

For one second—the submissive mask I wore entirely slipped.

I looked at her. I really looked at her.

And something dark, ancient, and violent rose inside my chest. A wild, uncontrollable urge flared in my veins—to reach across the small space separating us, to grip her by that perfect silk collar, and to slam her face into the wall until she felt even a fraction of the physical degradation she had inflicted on me. My left hand twitched, my fingers curling into a tight, trembling fist, my jaw locking so hard it ached.

Treas noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes gleamed with a twisted, triumphant satisfaction. She wanted me to strike her. She wanted me to push back so she could go to Rohan, play the victim, and have me removed from the estate entirely.

Allegra.

The name hit my mind like a bucket of ice water, putting out the fire in an instant.

If I was thrown out, I would lose access to my daughter. Rohan would ensure I never saw her face again. For Allegra, I could endure hell. For Allegra, I could swallow my own blood.

I forced my fingers to uncurl. I forced my chin down, dragging my gaze away from her face and back to the floor.

"Clean the mess up," Treas ordered, pleased by my swift submission. She stepped closer, and before I could predict her movement, her hand reached out and deliberately grabbed my swollen, bandaged right arm, squeezing right over the injury.

I hissed sharply, my vision instantly blurring with tears as my entire body went rigid. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly, tilting her head with mock curiosity, her grip tightening just a fraction more to feel the tremor in my muscles. "Good. Don't make me hurt you more, Elara. Remember your place, and remember who truly owns everything in this house."

She released me with a sudden, careless shove that sent me stumbling back against the cot. Adjusting the sleeve of her robe, she turned on her heel. "I have an appointment in the city. Make yourself useful while I’m gone. The east wing needs dusting."

She walked out, leaving the door wide open, as if I weren't even worth the effort of closing it.

I spent the afternoon moving like a ghost through the grand corridors, forcing my battered body to keep moving. Every task was ten times harder with only my left hand functioning properly, my right arm pinned uselessly against my chest in the sling. My sprained knee dragged slightly with every step, a dull, scraping reminder of my fall. But I didn't stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking was too dangerous.

I paused on the second-floor landing, hiding behind a massive marble pillar as voices floated up from the grand foyer. Treas had returned, but her energy was completely different than it had been this morning. She wasn't angry; she was glowing, her voice filled with a light, breathless excitement as she walked through the doors with her phone pressed to her ear.

"Yes, Mum," she was saying, her laughter echoing brightly against the high ceilings. "I told you it would happen. The doctor just confirmed it before I left the clinic."

I stood perfectly still, my hand tightening against the polished wood of my duster. A cold, heavy knot began to form in my stomach.

"Of course I’m sure," Treas continued, her voice practically dripping with pride and absolute possession. "I'm finally giving him a child. A proper Margualie heir."

The words seemed to bounce off the marble walls, striking me directly in the chest.

Pregnant.

It wasn't jealousy that made my breath catch; it was a profound, instinctual terror. Treas didn't care about the child as a mother would; to her, a pregnancy was an achievement, a bulletproof contract, a way to permanently lock down Rohan’s immense wealth and inheritance. And more than that, it meant my presence in this house was about to become an active threat to her new status.

Within two hours, the front gates opened again. My stepmother walked into the mansion like she owned the foundation it was built upon. She was the woman my father had brought into our lives after my mother died, believing she would fill the void in our family. Instead, she had systematically dismantled our lives from the inside out, orchestrating the lies that led to my father’s bankruptcy and my own forced marriage to Rohan.

I stayed in the kitchens, keeping my head down, focusing on polishing the silver to avoid them. But fortune was never on my side. Marina walked into the kitchen space under the pretense of pouring herself a drink, her sharp, calculating eyes instantly locking onto me.

"Well, look at this," Marina said, stepping closer, her expensive perfume instantly filling the air. She looked at my faded uniform and my bandaged arm with open disdain. "I see three years haven't taught you how to be any more graceful, Elara. Still clumsy. Still a disappointment.""You always were the stubborn one," Marina sneered, her voice sharpening when I refused to give her the satisfaction of looking up. "Just like your father. Too proud to admit when you've been thoroughly beaten. Look at my daughter, and look at you. She has everything you ever dreamed of, and you're scrubbing her silver."

I remained entirely silent, my breath slow, matching the rhythmic movement of my hand. The lack of a reaction was clearly irritating her, the lines around her mouth tightening with annoyance.

"Treas!" Marina called out sharply toward the hallway. "Come look at this pathetic creature. She won't even look her elders in the eye anymore."

Treas walked into the kitchen, a smug, contented smile still firmly fixed on her face. She looked at her mother, then gave me a dismissive wave of her hand. "Mum, leave her. Don't waste your energy on the help. We have much more important things to focus on now. Rohan will be home soon, and we need to prepare for the announcement."

"You're right, darling," Marina softened instantly, giving me one last contemptuous look before turning away. "Some people are simply born to serve."

Later that evening, under the strict protocol of the house, I was permitted an hour to leave the estate grounds to walk to the local district commercial center to retrieve a specific brand of specialized floor wax that Treas had demanded.

I changed quickly into a pair of loose, faded trousers and an oversized black hoodie—something large enough to conceal the damp tea stains on my shirt, the thick bandages on my arm, and the dark bruises that covered my skin.

The evening air was crisp and cool, a shocking contrast to the suffocating warmth of the mansion. I walked slowly down the quiet, tree-lined boulevards of the exclusive neighborhood. The streets were empty, the massive iron gates of neighboring estates locked tight. Nobody looked at me. To the wealthy residents of this district, a girl in a baggy hoodie dragging her leg was completely invisible.

I walked past the main residential gates, turning onto the commercial boulevard until I reached the small, family-owned pharmacy tucked away at the corner of the square.

The pharmacy was warm, smelling faintly of dried herbs and rubbing alcohol. Behind the counter stood Mr. Zach. He was an older man with kind, tired eyes, a long-time friend of my late father who had always managed to look past my disgraced status whenever I came in for the mansion's medical supplies.

"Ah, Elara," Mr. Zach greeted me, his voice naturally warm. But as I stepped into the light of the counter, his smile vanished. His eyes dropped to the way I was holding my right arm, and the slight limp in my gait. "My God, child. What happened to you?"

I hesitated, then carefully pulled back the sleeve of my oversized hoodie, revealing the thick elastic bandage Nina had wrapped around my swollen forearm. "Just a clumsy mistake on the stairs, Mr. Zach. I lost my balance."

His expression darkened with a deep, silent knowing. He knew the people I lived with. He didn't push the lie. "Sit down," he said gently, pointing to a small wooden stool near the counter. "Let me retrieve a proper topical anti-inflammatory for that swelling. The standard house supplies won't do much for a sprain that severe."

"Thank you," I said softly, gratefully sinking into the stool.

As Mr. Zach turned around, moving down the narrow aisles of shelves to locate the medication, I rested my left elbow on the glass counter. To my immediate right, his personal laptop was open, the screen glowing brightly in the dim corner of the pharmacy. It was logged into a medical research database, a heavy academic article displayed on the screen.

My eyes wandered over the text out of pure, mindless distraction, trying to take my mind off the throbbing in my shoulder. But a specific string of words highlighted in a laboratory case study caught my attention.

...clinical observation showed a state of 12 hours unconsciousness, mimicking complete physical cessation before full systemic recovery...

I blinked, my brow furrowing slightly as my eyes scanned the abstract. My mind, foggy from the concussion, tried to process the scientific jargon. "Twelve hours unconscious..." I murmured under my breath, the words slipping out before I could censor myself.

Mr. Zach froze in the aisle. He turned around instantly, a sudden, sharp tension entering his shoulders. He walked back to the counter with a small box of ointment, and without a word, his hand reached out and smoothly closed the laptop screen, cutting off the light.

I blinked, startled by his sudden defensiveness. "I'm sorry," I said quickly, pulling my hand back. "I didn't mean to pry into your work. I was just... reading the screen."

"It's nothing," Mr. Zach said, his voice forcedly casual, though his tone had completely shifted into something guarded, almost anxious. "Just some dry academic research for a pharmaceutical consulting project I am assisting with. Nothing for you to worry about."

I studied his face for a second. He was a man who spent his life dealing with standard prescriptions, yet the intensity in his eyes told a different story. Curiosity, quiet and purely academic, flickered in my mind. "How is that even possible? To stay completely unconscious for twelve hours like that without waking up?"

Mr. Zach paused, his hands halting as he packed the ointment into a small paper bag. He looked at me.

"The human body can be manipulated to look like it has shut down entirely under the right chemical compounds, Elara," he said softly, his voice dropping as if someone were listening to us. He pushed the paper bag across the counter toward me. "But it is highly dangerous. A fraction of a milligram off, and the heart simply forgets to start beating again. Be very careful with your arm. Apply this twice a day."

He didn't expand further, effectively closing the conversation. I took the bag, the odd detail of the research lingering in the back of my mind like a strange piece of trivia, nothing more. "Thank you, Mr. Zach."

By the time I returned to the mansion, the front driveway was occupied by Rohan’s sleek black sports car, the engine cold. He was home.From the drawing room, Treas’s voice rose in absolute delight. "Rohan, darling... I’m pregnant. We're going to have a baby."

A heavy silence followed. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, I watched Rohan’s face. His expression didn't shatter into joy; instead, his obsidian eyes turned calculated and unreadable. He looked like a tycoon who had just secured a vital corporate merger.

"Congratulations," Rohan said, his voice smooth and completely detached. "An heir is exactly what the family legacy requires."

Treas wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, but Rohan didn't look at her. As if sensing a presence, his head shifted. His piercing, dark gaze cut right through the dim light of the corridor, locking instantly onto me in the shadows. His jaw tightened, his eyes pinning me to the wall like a captive butterfly. You will stay, and you will watch, his gaze seemed to repeat.

I didn't lower my eyes this time. I looked back at him through the dark, entirely still, entirely silent.

Later that night, as the mansion fell into a deep quiet, I sat alone on the edge of my cot in the dark. My mind spun, replaying the trauma of the day, until the image of Mr. Zach’s computer screen flashed across my memory.

12 hours unconscious... mimicking complete physical cessation.

A slow, quiet breath left my lips. For the first time since I had been forced into this house, the thought of an end didn't terrify me. It steadied me.

If they wanted a ghost in this house... perhaps I would eventually have to give them exactly what they asked for.