CHAPTER EIGHT: LADY TO SERVANT
1387 Words
The echo of Lucien Virell’s decree still thundered through the halls long after he disappeared behind the shadows of his wing. The maids were gone. The castle had fallen into an unnatural quiet. And Aurelia Monroe, daughter of a businessman and betrothed to a vampire she barely knew, was no longer a guest—nor a lady.
She was now a servant.
And she had only herself to rely on.
Lucien’s voice still haunted her ears.
> “If she wishes to stay, she must earn her place. No food unless she works for it. No rest unless it’s earned. Laziness will be punished.”
No one argued. No one dared.
The only remaining staff member, Mrs. Adeline—the elderly head maid who had once looked after dozens—now answered to Lucien and Lucien alone. Her gaze no longer held sympathy when she looked at Aurelia, only grim resignation.
That morning, Aurelia’s fine silks and delicate laces were taken from her wardrobe. In their place were two plain, scratchy uniforms—black dresses with white aprons, the garments of a working maid.
The contrast was humiliating.
But there was no room left for dignity.
---
By sunrise, Aurelia found herself in the laundry chamber, a dark stone room tucked deep beneath the east wing. The air was damp, thick with the scent of boiling water and lye. Her hands were raw from scrubbing linens in ice-cold water. The tubs were ancient, the brushes brutal. The first time she dropped a soap block into the pail, she sliced her knuckle fishing it back out. The water stung.
Mrs. Adeline glanced at her but said nothing.
There was no instruction, only expectation.
“Dry those by noon,” the maid said. “Then mop the kitchen tiles. You’ll help with the dishes after.”
“What about breakfast?” Aurelia asked, voice already trembling.
Mrs. Adeline’s mouth thinned into a line.
“You haven’t earned it.”
---
The hours bled together in one long, painful blur.
Her arms ached. Her back throbbed. Her skin felt blistered, the fine hands of a sheltered heiress now red and chafed. No one offered her a cloth for the sweat on her brow. No one spoke kindly.
In the afternoon, she was sent to dust the ballroom.
The room was the size of a cathedral, filled with mirrors and chandeliers taller than men. The dust alone could have buried her. And yet she climbed the ladders, balanced on window ledges, reaching for spots no one would ever see.
By the time the sun set, she hadn’t eaten a single bite.
Her stomach curled in protest, but her pride refused to beg.
She returned to her room—still the same one they’d given her upon arrival, though now it felt like a mockery. A grand bed in a golden room for a girl no longer meant to be anything but labor.
The silence was worse than pain.
The castle, once glittering and cold, now bore down on her with oppressive weight.
---
The second day was worse.
Lucien appeared in the halls.
Not to speak. Not to observe. Just to exist.
He walked past her while she was polishing the grand stair banister. Dressed in all black, tall and immaculate, he descended the steps with the silence of a shadow. Aurelia stopped, cloth in hand, freezing mid-polish.
He didn’t look at her.
Didn’t acknowledge her.
As if she were truly just another servant.
Something in her cracked.
She stood, still gripping the rag, and called out, “Is this what you wanted?”
Lucien paused.
He didn’t turn to face her. “What I want is silence,” he said coolly. “If you’ve finished your work, return to your quarters.”
“I haven’t eaten.”
“You didn’t work hard enough.”
“I worked until my hands bled.”
“Then work better.”
His voice was as smooth as glass, but it cut her like a knife. He walked away, leaving her with her shame.
---
By the fifth day, her legs ached constantly. Her palms were wrapped in cloth to prevent open wounds from worsening. She cleaned silverware, ironed sheets, swept endless floors, and served tea to empty chairs in an effort to preserve protocol.
Lucien never spoke to her again.
Not directly.
Only once did she catch him in his study, through a crack in the open door. He sat in the shadows, sipping something dark from a goblet. He did not read. He did not write. He simply sat there—as if waiting.
Or mourning.
Or planning.
She didn’t know.
That night, she cried quietly beneath the covers.
---
It wasn’t until the seventh day that she collapsed.
It happened in the hall outside the greenhouse. The head maid had sent her to fetch firewood from the shed beyond the garden. It was a cold morning, frost still clinging to the windows. Her fingers were numb.
She didn’t even feel herself fall. One moment she was carrying a basket of kindling, the next her knees gave out, and she slumped against the cold stone floor.
The basket hit the ground with a clatter.
Footsteps came fast—heels on marble.
Mrs. Adeline appeared over her, face pale.
“You didn’t eat again?”
Aurelia shook her head weakly. “He said not to.”
“I told you to sneak something from the pantry.”
“I didn’t want to be caught.”
The older woman exhaled, eyes full of regret.
“You’ll die if this continues.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants.”
“No,” said a third voice—cold, regal, and terrifying.
Lucien.
Aurelia’s heart jumped.
She forced herself upright, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Her head spun from dizziness. Lucien stood at the end of the hall, arms behind his back, the faint glow of the fireplace behind him casting his features in half-shadow.
He walked forward.
She didn’t flinch.
“You’re fragile,” he said simply.
“You made me a servant.”
“I made you useful.”
Her lip trembled. “I am not an object to use.”
“Everything is useful or discarded,” he said. “And you’ve lasted longer than I expected.”
Mrs. Adeline’s eyes darted between them, then she turned away, retreating into the corridor.
Aurelia remained on the floor.
Lucien studied her like a scholar observing an insect under glass. Then, to her surprise, he crouched. His fingers touched her chin—cool, firm, commanding.
“You haven’t broken yet,” he said. “That’s... impressive.”
“I’m not here to impress you,” she whispered.
His fingers left her face.
“Then why are you here, Aurelia?”
She didn’t answer.
He rose to his full height.
“Eat tonight. Then return to work.”
Her eyes widened.
“Just like that?” she asked.
Lucien’s expression remained unreadable. “Don’t mistake mercy for change. I still expect perfection. But I don’t require you to die for it. Not yet.”
Then he turned and vanished again, like a specter in the wind.
---
That night, Mrs. Adeline brought her a tray of food—warm, if plain: bread, boiled eggs, and a small bowl of chicken broth. It tasted like heaven.
“You should have taken food sooner,” the older woman chided.
“I wanted to keep my pride.”
“Pride is heavy,” she said, placing a hand on Aurelia’s shoulder. “Especially in a place like this.”
Aurelia looked up from her tray. “Why does he hate me?”
Mrs. Adeline’s eyes darkened.
“He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t understand you.”
“That’s worse.”
---
By the tenth day, Aurelia stopped waiting for things to return to how they were.
She swept. She cooked. She mended torn tapestries. She began learning the hidden paths of the castle—the tunnels behind the walls, the ancient staircases beneath rugs, the ways the chandeliers could be lowered from the ceiling.
She learned because she had no choice.
And slowly, despite her exhaustion, something within her sharpened.
Not bitterness.
Not submission.
But quiet resolve.
If Lucien Virell expected her to break, he would be disappointed.
---
- Writer
