Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Irresistible Substitute Wife

Chapter 7 Have We Met Before?

(Emma's POV)

I followed Harrison silently through the labyrinth of Bennett Manor. Finally, after several flights of stairs, we reached the basement level.

"This will be your quarters," Harrison informed me coldly, opening a door to reveal what could only be described as a storage closet.

The space was barely large enough for the narrow cot pushed against one wall. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. There was no window, no ventilation—just damp walls and the smell of mildew.

I stepped inside hesitantly, placing my small bag on the floor. Before I could say anything, Victoria appeared in the doorway, her elegant figure looking strangely out of place in these spartan surroundings.

"Do you like your new accommodations?" she asked with mock sweetness. "I thought it fitting for someone as greedy as you."

I remained silent, knowing from experience that responding would only make things worse.

Victoria circled the tiny room. "You thought you could come here and extort money from me?" She laughed, the sound echoing harshly off the bare walls. "I'm going to make you understand the price of greed."

She turned to Harrison, who stood rigidly by the door. "She is to receive no food for three days. Nothing. Not even water. We'll see how obedient she becomes when she's truly hungry."

My stomach contracted painfully at her words. I already hadn't eaten since before the auction, nearly two days ago.

"Yes, Miss Bennett," Harrison replied with a slight bow.

Victoria's eyes swept over me one last time, cold and calculating. "Your suffering has only just begun," she promised softly. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll wish you'd never heard the name Bennett."

With that, she swept out of the room. Harrison followed, closing the door behind him. I heard the distinct click of a lock engaging, sealing me in my prison.

I sank onto the cot, which creaked ominously beneath even my slight weight. The thin mattress offered little cushioning against the metal frame. Exhaustion washed over me as the events of the past two days caught up with me.

Sold at auction, forced to sleep with a stranger, sold again by my family, and now imprisoned in the basement of a mansion—it was like something from a Victorian novel, not something that should happen in modern America.

I curled into myself on the narrow cot, not even bothering to remove my shoes. Touching the hidden pendant beneath my shirt, I allowed myself to cry silently until sleep finally claimed me.

I was awakened what felt like minutes later by the door being thrown open. Harrison stood there, his face impassive as always.

"It's 5 AM. Time to begin your duties," he announced.

I blinked groggily, disoriented by the lack of windows and natural light. My stomach cramped painfully, reminding me that I hadn't eaten in well over 36 hours now.

Harrison led me to a large laundry room elsewhere in the basement. Inside were mountains of clothing—elegant dresses, blouses, skirts, all clearly belonging to Victoria.

"These are Miss Bennett's haute couture pieces," Harrison informed me, gesturing to the piles. "They can only be hand-washed with specific detergents. If you damage even one garment, you'll never be able to afford the replacement cost in your lifetime."

He handed me a small bottle of specialized detergent and pointed to a large sink. "Miss Bennett has instructed that you are to wash her clothes while kneeling. She believes it's the only position fitting for someone of your... status."

I bit my lip but said nothing. This was humiliation for humiliation's sake, but protest would only make my situation worse.

"You will finish all of these by evening," Harrison added, gesturing to the enormous pile. "I will return to inspect your work then."

After he left, I filled the sink with lukewarm water and the special detergent, creating a gentle bath for the delicate fabrics. Kneeling on the hard tile floor, I began the painstaking process of washing each garment by hand.

The hours passed in a blur of aching knees, cramping hands, and gnawing hunger. Each piece required meticulous attention—designer labels I recognized from fashion magazines my mother used to flip through enviously. Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Givenchy. Each item probably cost more than I had earned in months at my previous jobs.

By midday, my knees were raw from the tile floor, and my hands were red and chapped from the constant exposure to water and soap. The hunger had progressed from a sharp pain to a hollow, all-consuming emptiness that made focusing increasingly difficult.

By evening, when the basement lights automatically brightened to compensate for the setting sun I couldn't see, I had finished all but the last few items. My entire body trembled with exhaustion, my hands so numb I could barely feel the delicate fabrics anymore.

Harrison returned precisely at seven, his critical gaze sweeping over the neatly arranged garments I had finished. He inspected several pieces at random, holding them up to the light, checking seams and delicate embellishments for damage.

"Adequate," he finally pronounced, which I suspected was high praise coming from him. "You may return to your room."

I struggled to my feet, my legs nearly buckling beneath me after kneeling for so many hours. Sharp needles of pain shot through my knees as blood flow returned, and I had to grab the edge of the sink to steady myself.

Harrison watched my struggle dispassionately before turning to leave, clearly expecting me to follow. I limped after him, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my abused joints.

Back in my tiny room, Harrison left without another word, locking the door behind him. I collapsed onto the cot, my entire body screaming in protest. The hunger had become an entity unto itself, a gnawing beast inside me demanding to be fed.

I had suffered from stomach problems since childhood—the result of my mother's frequent "punishments" of withholding food. Now, the familiar acid burn was intensifying to unbearable levels. I needed to eat something, anything, or risk serious health consequences.

After an hour of lying still, gathering what little strength remained in my depleted body, I pressed my ear to the door. The basement corridor outside seemed quiet. Most of the staff would be upstairs, serving dinner to Victoria and her guests. This might be my only chance.

I remembered noticing that the lock on my door was old and simple—the kind that could potentially be picked with the right tools. Searching through my meager possessions, I found a bobby pin I'd used to secure my hair during work.

With trembling fingers, I bent it into shape and began working on the lock, using skills I'd learned years ago when my parents would lock me in the basement as punishment.

After several tense minutes, I heard the satisfying click of the lock disengaging. Easing the door open, I peered into the dimly lit corridor. Empty, as I'd hoped.

Moving as quickly as my painful legs would allow, I made my way through the basement, following the signs to the service stairs. I had a vague memory of passing a kitchen during my initial arrival, somewhere on the ground floor near the service entrance.

I moved cautiously, freezing at every creak and distant voice.

Finally, I located the kitchen. My stomach contracted painfully at the lingering smells of dinner preparation.

Moving on instinct, I headed straight for the refrigerator, opening it to reveal shelves of neatly labeled containers. I grabbed what appeared to be leftovers of some kind—a container of pasta—and quickly transferred a small portion to a napkin. I also took half a roll from a bread basket, wrapping everything in the napkin and tucking it into my pocket.

I was about to leave when I heard a car approaching outside. The kitchen windows overlooked the service entrance driveway, and headlights illuminated the room as a vehicle turned in. Panic seized me—I needed to get back to my room before I was discovered.

Rushing out of the kitchen, I headed toward what I thought was the service stairs. My legs, still numb and painful from the day's labor, moved awkwardly beneath me.

In my haste and confusion, I took a wrong turn, finding myself in a corridor that led toward the main entrance rather than back to the basement.

Before I could correct my mistake, I heard the front door opening. Terrified, I tried to duck into an alcove, but my legs wouldn't cooperate.

The sudden movement sent sharp pain through my knees, causing me to stumble forward just as headlights from outside illuminated the hallway.

A sleek black car had pulled up to the entrance, its headlights catching me in their glare. Through the windshield, I could see the driver's surprised expression.

The car braked suddenly, but not quickly enough. It struck me with a glancing blow, enough to send me sprawling to the ground with a cry of pain.

The driver jumped out immediately. "Miss! Are you alright? I didn't see you there!"

I tried to scramble to my feet, ignoring the new pain radiating from my hip where the car had struck me. If Victoria found out I'd been wandering the house, stealing food...

"Stay still, you might be injured," the driver insisted, kneeling beside me.

I was about to protest when I heard another car door open. Looking up, my blood ran cold as I recognized the tall figure emerging from the backseat. Alexander Blackwood. Of all the people to catch me...

"What happened?" he asked, his deep voice carrying the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"I didn't see her, sir," the driver explained nervously. "She appeared suddenly in the headlights."

Alexander approached, his expression unreadable in the shadows. I kept my head down, praying he wouldn't recognize me from the hotel. If he connected me to that night, if he told Victoria...

"Can you stand?" Alexander asked, addressing me directly.

I nodded quickly, trying to push myself up despite the pain shooting through my leg. I needed to escape this situation as quickly as possible.

As I struggled to my feet, I felt something slide from beneath my shirt—the pendant James had given me had slipped out. In the car's headlights, the sapphire caught the light, glinting brilliantly.

Alexander froze, his eyes fixed on the pendant. I followed his gaze and realized with horror that the necklace was fully visible. Quickly, I tried to tuck it back under my shirt, but it was too late.

Alexander said slowly, his eyes narrowing as they moved from the pendant to my face. "Have we met somewhere before?"