The Overheard Conversation
1087 Words
I finished the arena floor in record time, adrenaline sharpening my movements. The sooner I’m done, the sooner I can disappear back into the servant quarters.
I dump the bloody water down the drainage grate, hoist the empty bucket, and gather my supplies. The industrial elevator is fifty yards away, past the fighter preparation rooms and through the administrative corridor, which I'm technically not supposed to use at this hour.
But the service elevator takes twenty minutes.
This one takes three.
I’ve been pushing boundaries like this for months, committing small infractions that save time and test how closely they're watching. So far, no one has cared that a servant girl uses the fast elevator. We're furniture, invisible. Invisible.
Except now Knox has been watching me.
The thought makes my skin crawl, but I force it down. Paranoia is just fear with a story attached, and fear gets servants killed.
Stay sharp. Stay smart. Stay alive.
The administrative corridor is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the arena from the luxury boxes. During fights, this hallway is packed with security and VIP guests. The administrative corridor is a ghost town at three-thirty in the morning, cold and silent, lit only by recessed floor lights that cast everything in shades of blue and shadow.
My footsteps barely graze the polished concrete, soundless. I’ve learned to walk without making a sound, a skill that’s saved me more times than I can count. The bucket is the only thing that might give me away, so I carry it carefully, avoiding any clatter that might echo.
I’m almost to the elevator, almost safe, when I hear voices.
Stay alive. Male, deep, and coming from Knox's private viewing box twenty feet ahead.
Every instinct screams at me to turn around, take the long way, avoid whatever conversation is happening behind that door. But the bucket is heavy, my arms are shaking, and the elevator is right there.
I shouldn't stop. Head down, eyes forward, an invisible servant doing invisible work.
The smart choice is obvious.
I take two steps toward the elevator before my traitorous curiosity wins. The viewing box door is cracked open, light spilling into the hallway in a golden wedge. I shouldn’t stop. Shouldn’t listen.
I hesitated, caught between duty and the urge to know more, and then, against my better judgment, I stopped.
The conversation inside the viewing box stops. That’s Tristan Locke, Knox’s right-hand enforcer. Thirty-five, brutal, efficient, and the kind of man who'd take a bullet for Knox without being asked and never mention it again. His voice is smooth, cultured, the kind you'd expect from a lawyer, completely at odds with the violence he's capable of. “Dr. Hayes triple-checked the markers," Tristan says. "There's no question.
"Royal bloodline. Knox breathes the words like he's been waiting years just to say them out loud. Fifteen years. And she’s been under my nose the entire time.
A cold spike lances through my chest, freezing me in place.
"Royal bloodline.
Fifteen years.
Invisible."
The timing is perfect, Tristan continues. “The championship tournament is already generating a record-breaking level of interest. If we position her as the catalyst, the ultimate underdog story, we could triple our projected revenue.
It's about the spectacle. Though that's certainly a benefit. The poetry of it. A royal bloodline wolf is forced to fight for survival in the very arena built for her family's destruction.
I can’t breathe. The bucket slips from my numb, trembling fingers, my breath catching in my throat as it crashes to the floor with a metallic clang that echoes like a gun.
The conversation inside the viewing box stops.
Footsteps approach the door.
I grab the bucket and run, panic flooding my system. My shoes slap against the polished floor, echoing off the walls like accusations. Behind me, the viewing box door slams open.
“Stop her!” Knox’s voice cuts across the corridor like a razor blade.
I don’t look back. The elevator is ten feet away. Eight. Six.
The doors are closed.
I slam my palm against the call button, as if repetition will make it arrive faster. Come on, come on, come on.
Heavy footsteps pound behind me. "Stop her!" Security.
The elevator chimes.
The doors slide open with agonizing slowness.
I throw myself inside, jabbing the button for the servant level. The doors start to close. A hand shoots through the gap, triggering the safety sensor. The doors reopen.
Tristan Locke steps into the elevator, and my world shrinks to the space between us.
He's over six feet tall, with a build that comes from decades of violence. His dark hair is slicked back, his suit spotless despite the time. Cold gray eyes study me like a scientist studies an insect.
"Miss Daniels," his voice is pleasant. “Working late?”
My mouth is dry. “Just finishing my shift.
"Of course," he doesn't move to press a floor button. He just stands there, blocking my exit, studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “You know, it’s curious. You’ve worked here for three years, and somehow, we missed running a full medical workup. An oversight we’ll be correcting tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning.
Medical workup.
They’re going to confirm whatever they think they know.
“I don’t understand,” I say, and I almost believe the confusion in my own voice. “I’m just a servant. Why would I need a medical exam?
“We like to be thorough with our employees.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing to worry about. Eight a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.
The elevator reaches the administrative level. Tristan steps out, holding the door open with one hand.
“Oh, and Sierra? Mr. Ashford wanted me to remind you that running in the corridors is against facility rules. We wouldn’t want you to have an accident.
His smile lingers for a moment before the elevator doors slide shut, sealing me in with the weight of what's coming.
I slump against the elevator wall, my legs shaking so badly I can barely stand. Eight a.m. They’re going to examine me. Test my blood. Confirm whatever Royal bloodline markers they think I carry.
And then they’re going to throw me into the arena.
The elevator descends into the servant levels, carrying me down into the bowels of The Crimson Cage, where I’ve hidden for three years.
But hiding time is over.
Knox knows.
And tomorrow morning, the whole world is going to know too.
- Writer
