The Playboy’s Substitute Bride

Starvation

The dawn didn't bring warmth to the cliffs of the Vane Estate; it only brought a grey, sickly light that revealed the frost clinging to the glass of the balcony. Ivy Sterling didn't wake up—she simply stopped drifting in the shallow, shivering unconsciousness that had been her only mercy during the night.

Her skin was a blue-tinted marble, her limbs so stiff they felt like brittle glass. When the electronic lock on the balcony door finally hissed open at 6:00 AM, Ivy couldn't even stand. She rolled off the wicker lounge chair, her body hitting the stone floor with a dull, hollow thud.

"Get up. The master doesn't like a messy terrace."

Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, her charcoal uniform crisp, her face an unreadable mask of granite. She didn't offer a hand. She didn't offer a blanket. She simply stepped aside as Ivy crawled back into the room, her breath coming in ragged, white plumes.

"I... I need a coat," Ivy rasped, her voice almost non-existent. "Please. I can't... I can't feel my feet."

"You should have thought of that before you married a man who clearly finds you repulsive," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dripping with a casual, sharpened cruelty. "Dress yourself. You have chores. Mr. Vane expects the guest wing to be spotless before he leaves for the office."

Ivy looked at the maid, her mind sluggish. "Chores? I’m... I’m his wife."

Mrs. Gable leaned down, her cold, stale breath hitting Ivy’s cheek. "You are a Sterling. You are a debt. In this house, if you don't provide pleasure to the master, you provide labor to the staff. Now move, before I tell Mr. Vane you’re being 'difficult' again."

Ivy dragged herself to the bathroom. She splashed freezing water on her face, the sensation like needles against her skin. She found a plain, black silk slip-dress in the closet—another mockery from Jaxson—and pulled it on. She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.

By noon, Ivy hadn't seen Jaxson. She had spent five hours polishing the silver in the formal dining room, her hands shaking so violently she nearly dropped the heavy trays. The hunger was no longer a dull ache; it was a sharp, biting animal in her stomach, clawing at her ribs.

She hadn't eaten since the morning of the wedding. Thirty-six hours of nothing but water and fear.

She crept toward the kitchen, the scent of roasting garlic and expensive herbs pulling at her like a physical leash. The kitchen was a massive, industrial space of stainless steel and white light. Four chefs were busy preparing a multi-course lunch for Jaxson and his "guest"—Camille, the woman from the portico.

Ivy stood in the doorway, her fingers digging into the doorframe to keep herself upright.

"Excuse me," she whispered.

The head chef, a man with a narrow face and a white apron that looked like a surgical gown, turned to her. He didn't bow. He didn't smile. He looked at her like a cockroach that had wandered onto a clean plate.

"The dining room is that way, 'Madam,'" he said, the title sounding like a slur.

"I... I haven't eaten," Ivy said, her pride long since buried under the weight of her survival instincts. "Could I just have... a piece of bread? Or some fruit?"

The chef looked at Mrs. Gable, who was standing by the industrial refrigerator. The maid gave a slow, imperceptible shake of her head.

"We only cook for the master and his invited guests," the chef said, turning back to his stove. "There is nothing for you here."

"Please," Ivy gasped, her vision blurring. "Just a crust. Anything."

"Get out," Mrs. Gable barked.

Ivy backed away, her heart hammering. She waited until the staff moved to the pantry to unload a delivery. With a desperation she didn't know she possessed, she darted toward the butcher block. There, in a wooden basket, sat a single, hard heel of sourdough bread—the scraps intended for the birds.

She grabbed it, her fingers trembling as she shoved a piece into her mouth. It was dry, stale, and tasted like heaven.

"Thief!"

The word exploded behind her. Mrs. Gable grabbed Ivy’s hair, yanking her head back with a brutal force that made Ivy cry out. The bread fell from her hand, skittering across the floor.

"So, the Mayor’s daughter is a common thief?" Mrs. Gable hissed, her grip tightening until Ivy’s scalp burned. "Stealing from the master’s kitchen? I should call the police right now."

"I was hungry," Ivy sobbed, her hands clawing at the maid’s arm. "Please, I just... I haven't eaten."

"Then you’ll learn the price of a stolen meal," a low, tectonic voice echoed from the doorway.

Jaxson stood there. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, his expression one of bored, clinical indifference. Camille was clinging to his arm, her eyes wide with a fake, mocking pity.

"Jaxson, look at her," Camille cooed. "She’s eating off the floor. How... primitive. I told you the Sterlings were just peasants with better tailors."

Jaxson walked into the kitchen, his boots clicking against the tile. He looked at the piece of bread on the floor, then at Ivy’s tear-streaked face. He didn't offer her his hand. He didn't fire the maid for pulling her hair.

"Gable is right," Jaxson rasped, his eyes dark and unreadable. "A wife who steals from her husband’s table needs to learn discipline. If you’re so hungry, Sienna, perhaps you should learn the value of a meal."

He looked at the floor, where a bag of unbaked, long-grain rice had spilled near the pantry.

"Kneel," Jaxson commanded.

Ivy froze. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy level. "Kneel on the rice. Two hours. If you move, if you cry, or if you try to stand up, you’ll spend another night on the balcony. Gable, watch her."

Ivy looked at him, searching for a single spark of the man who had looked at her with curiosity in the car. She found nothing but the Playboy King—a man who broke his toys just to see them bleed.

Slowly, Ivy lowered herself. The dry, hard grains of rice bit into her bruised knees instantly. It was a sharp, localized agony that made her breath hitch. She clenched her teeth, her hands fisted at her sides, as she settled her full weight onto the jagged pile.

Jaxson watched her for a moment, his jaw tightening just a fraction. Then, he turned to Camille.

"Come on," he said, his voice cold. "The steak is getting cold. Let the mouse have her dinner in peace."

They walked out, the sound of their laughter drifting back into the kitchen.

Ivy sat there, the rice digging into her flesh, her stomach screaming for the bread that was now being swept into the trash by a mocking maid. She looked at the white tile floor, at the shadows of the servants who were watching her with delight, and she realized the "Substitute" wasn't just a wife. She was a prisoner.

And in this house, the only way to survive was to become as cold as the man who owned her.