Bound by blood and lies

I woke before the curtains opened. That was the first thing I noticed. The room was still dim, washed in that pale grey light that came just before morning fully arrived. Everything was quiet—too quiet. No distant traffic noise, no voices, not even the hum of a television somewhere down the hall. Just silence. The kind that pressed softly against your ears until you became aware of your own breathing. I shifted slightly, and the sheets whispered against my skin. Silk. Of course. They slid over me like water, smooth and cool, too perfect to wrinkle, too soft to feel real. Even after all this time, I still noticed it. Still felt like I didn’t quite belong in it. I turned my head toward the window. The curtains were parted just enough to reveal the city beyond. Tall buildings stretched into the pale sky, their glass faces catching the early light. Cars moved below like tiny, distant toys, their noise completely shut out by thick glass and careful design. Everything looked… far away. Untouchable. Like I was watching a world I wasn’t part of. I pushed myself up slowly, the silk slipping from my shoulders as I sat on the edge of the bed. The floor was warm beneath my feet—heated, of course. It always was. There was never a moment of discomfort here. Not even by accident. I glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The armchair by the window, untouched. The glass table, spotless. A book I hadn’t finished sat exactly where I left it, not a millimeter out of line. Even the air felt arranged, controlled, like someone had decided how it should exist. Perfect. Always perfect. I exhaled quietly, running a hand through my hair. “There are people who dream of this life,” I murmured to no one. My voice sounded small in the room. “I just happen to be trapped in it.” The words settled into the silence and stayed there. Breakfast was already set when I walked in. It always was. The dining room was bright, filled with natural light pouring through tall windows. The table stretched longer than it needed to, polished to a shine that reflected everything placed on it. Plates, cutlery, glasses—each one positioned like they were part of a display instead of something meant to be used. My father sat at the head of the table. He looked up the moment I stepped in, and just like that, his expression softened. “Ariana,” he said, his voice warm in a way it was never with anyone else. “You’re awake.” I smiled faintly as I walked toward him. “I am usually in the mornings.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly like I’d said something amusing. “Come. Sit.” I took my seat, and almost immediately, a servant stepped forward to serve me. She moved carefully, placing food onto my plate with practiced precision. Eggs. Toast. Fruit arranged neatly to look like it belonged in a magazine. I watched her hands for a moment. Steady. Careful. Like she was afraid of something. “Did you sleep well?” my father asked. I picked up my fork, glancing at him. “I slept.” He tilted his head slightly. “That doesn’t answer my question.” “It’s the closest answer I have.” He studied me for a second, then smiled again, softer this time. “We can improve that,” he said. Of course, we could. Everything here could be improved. Adjusted. Refined. I took a bite of my food, chewing slowly. Across the table, another servant reached to pour my father’s tea. Her hand slipped. It was small. Barely noticeable. The teapot tilted just a little too far, and a drop spilled onto the saucer. For a second, nothing happened. Then my father’s gaze shifted. The warmth disappeared. “Stop.” His voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be. The girl froze instantly, her hand still hovering in midair. “I—I’m sorry, sir—” “You’re shaking,” he stated, but who wouldn’t be? He was the alpha king, and she was only a slave, no position whatsoever. Her breath hitched. “I didn’t mean—” “You didn’t mean to make a mistake?” he interrupted calmly. She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the handle. “No, sir.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her. The room felt colder. “Then why did you?” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “I asked you a question,” he said, still calm, still quiet—but there was something underneath it now. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry.” He sighed, like she had disappointed him in a way that genuinely bothered him. “That’s not an answer.” I set my fork down. “Dad.” He didn’t look at me. “Perfection isn’t complicated,” he continued, his gaze still fixed on her. “It requires attention. Discipline. Care. If you lack any of those, then what exactly are you offering?” The girl’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place. I leaned back slightly in my chair, watching them both. “Dad,” I said again, a little lighter this time. “It’s tea, not a national crisis.” That got his attention. His eyes flicked to mine, and just like that, the tension shifted. “Ariana,” he said, his tone softening again. “This isn’t about tea.” “I know,” I replied, resting my chin lightly on my hand. “That’s kind of the problem.” For a moment, he just looked at me. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ve always had a way of saying things,” he said. “I try.” He exhaled quietly, then waved a hand dismissively toward the servant. “Clean it.” “Yes, sir,” she whispered, relief flooding her voice as she quickly moved to fix the mistake. The room breathed again. Like it had been holding it in. My father turned his full attention back to me, and it was like the other moment hadn’t even happened. “You deserve perfection,” he said. I raised a brow slightly, picking up my fork again. “I’m not royalty.” He smiled. “To me,” he said, his voice quiet but certain, “you are.” I held his gaze for a second. Then I smiled, just a little. Light. Easy. The kind of smile that didn’t ask questions. But inside, I felt weird. Because the way he said it— It didn’t feel like affection. It felt like a rule. I pushed my chair back slowly, the soft scrape barely making a sound against the polished floor. “I should get ready,” I said, dabbing the corner of my mouth with a napkin I didn’t really need. “I have things to do today.” My father watched me for a moment, like he always did when I stood to leave. Not in a controlling way. Not exactly. More like he was memorizing something he already owned. “Of course,” he said gently. I gave him a small smile and stepped away from the table. A servant moved quickly to pull my chair back in, aligning it perfectly with the others. Another reached for my untouched glass, clearing it before I had even fully turned around. Everything stayed seamless. I walked toward the door, my steps quiet against the marble floor. I was almost out—almost free of the heavy stillness of that room—when his voice stopped me. “Ariana.” I paused, my hand resting lightly against the door frame. I turned back to him. “Yes?” He hadn’t moved much. Still seated. Still composed. But something in his face had shifted. The softness was there—but thinner now, like a layer stretched too far. “Stay out of the basement.” That again. He didn’t elaborate. He never did. No explanation. No reason. No story to soften it. Just the rule. The same rule he’s had for as long as I can remember. I tilted my head slightly, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You say that like I spend my free time wandering down there.” His gaze didn’t change. “I say it because it matters.” There it was. That tone. Not angry. Not even strict. Just… final. I held his eyes for a second longer, then let out a soft breath through my nose. “Okay,” I said lightly. “Noted.” For a moment, neither of us moved. Then his expression eased again, like someone had flipped a switch back into place. “Good,” he said. And just like that, it was over. Conversation closed. Rule stated. No room for questions. I nodded once, turning back toward the door. The hallway outside felt different. Not because anything had changed—but because it hadn’t. Still spotless. Still quiet. Still arranged like every inch of it had been carefully planned and maintained. The walls were lined with soft lighting, paintings placed at perfect intervals. Even the air smelled faintly clean, like something expensive and impossible to name. I walked slowly, my fingers brushing lightly against the wall as I moved. “Stay out of the basement.” I exhaled quietly. It wasn’t new. That was the thing. He’d said it before. Not every day. Not even often. But enough times for it to settle somewhere in the back of my mind like a rule I had always known, even before I understood it. And I had never broken it. Not once. I wasn’t curious like that. At least… I told myself I wasn’t. I turned a corner, my steps echoing softly now as the hallway stretched longer, quieter. The part of the house most people didn’t really use. My chest felt a little tight. Just a little. It was strange. I trusted him. That wasn’t something I asked. He had never given me a reason to. Everything he did—every decision, every rule—always circled back to one thing. Me. My comfort. My safety. My life, shaped into something smooth and untouched. So why did that one rule feel different? The hallway grew quieter the farther I walked, like sound itself had decided not to follow me. The soft hum I hadn’t even realized was present earlier faded completely, leaving nothing behind. Just silence. My steps slowed. This time, I noticed. The temperature dipped slightly—not cold enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to feel different against my skin. Enough to make me aware of it. I glanced ahead. The basement stairs sat at the end of the hall. Unremarkable. Just a door. Closed. Of course, it was closed. It was always closed. I stopped. I hadn’t meant to. My body just… did. For a moment, I stood there, staring at it. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. I turned to leave, almost slapping myself For being weird, but that was when I heard it. A scream. Fear clutched at my heart. My body went cold and still. I waited to see if I was imagining things. I didn’t breathe, scared that I was going to miss it but I didn’t. I heard it again, loud and clear. “Help me!”