BENEATH THE BILLIONAIRE'S CRUELTY

Dawn spilled its first pale light through the narrow window of Amara's—well, it was difficult to call it a room as such; it would be more accurate to describe her accommodations as a converted storage closet in the mansion's third story. She’d been up already for an hour, lying in bed on the thin mattress she used as a bed, watching darkness give way to light. It was her favourite time of day, these stolen moments before the house woke up, before she had to become invisible once more. She silently stood up and walked over the cold-wooded floor. A room barely larger than the mattress, with its small wooden crate for a nightstand and narrow wardrobe which held her three sets of worn clothing. Nothing — no mirror, anyway; she had seen her full-length reflection only once in the six months since she'd arrived at the Moretti mansion. Perhaps that was a mercy. Amara went to the small window and put her palm against the glass. From where she stood on the third-floor landing, she had a view of acres and acres of gardens below that a groundskeeping crew kept as velvety smooth as the indoor carpets. She hardly ever saw him. The mansion was a testament to wealth and power, a striking blend of glass, steel, and stone perched on the hillside above Aurelia City. It had forty rooms, an indoor pool, a private gym, a wine cellar that could stock a restaurant, and a garage filled with fifteen luxury cars. She’d counted them once while cleaning. She also noted that in six months, Dante Moretti had spoken directly to her just four times. The first time, he told her, “You’ll sleep on the third floor. Stay out of my way.” The second was, “The study needs cleaning. Don’t touch anything on my desk.” Then came, “You’re blocking the hallway.” And the last one, “You’re still here?” That last comment had been three weeks ago, and his tone had made it clear he’d forgotten she existed. Honestly, that was better than the alternative—his attention was never a good thing. Amara pulled her hair back into a tight bun, securing it with an old elastic band that had seen better days. Her hair was her one… well, it was something she took pride in. Amara quietly pointed out, "We’re just servants." "You know what I mean. She’s not even married to him, but she acts like she owns the place. And the way she treats you—" Maria’s voice rose, full of indignation. "Maria," Lucia interrupted gently but firmly. "Careful."