For a week after she was sold, Aveline waited…
She waited for commands, she waited for chains disguised as "duties"… or the first blow that would teach her the rules of this new life.
It never came.
Instead… Meals arrived.
At first she thought it was a coincidence. A kindness before the cruelty. A brief indulgence before discipline.
But the meals kept coming. Every few hours, a tray.
Morning brought soft porridge rich with butter. Later, vegetables steeped in fragrant meat stock. By the third day, there was roasted meat—tender, salted properly, served with warm bread that steamed when torn apart.
Three proper meals.
And in between, fruits. Nuts. Honeyed pastries. Hot tea.
Warm milk, every night before bed.
By the fifth day, her body had stopped trembling from hunger. By the seventh, her cheeks held faint color again.
And it wasn't only the food.
Dresses arrived. Dresses made with silk and fine linen, embroidered by careful hands.
A new one each day… six now folded neatly in her chest, untouched by anyone else. Yes, she had her own chest filled with dresses and matching jewelry. No mending marks. No stains. No faint perfume of another woman's skin.
They were hers.
That word felt foreign.
Every morning, baths were drawn for her. Steam curled through her chambers. Healing incense burned day and night softly, keeping the air warm and sweet.
And she slept.
Gods, she slept.
At first, lightly, like a soldier in enemy territory. Then deeper. Nightmares still came some nights, but when they did, arms caught her before she could hurt herself; arms that held her still… arms that did not strike.
Theron always left in the mornings but was always there at mealtimes. He would sit across from her or beside her, saying little, watching her eat with a focus that unsettled her.
Most nights, she slept beside him. Sometimes she woke pressed against his chest, his arm heavy around her waist.
But he never touched her beyond that, never demanded, never took, and never reminded her what she owed.
And that confused her most of all.
Am I his mistress… or not?
The question looped endlessly in her mind.
If she were… Why had he not claimed what was his?
If she were not, then what was she?
Another thought began to grow in the quiet spaces of her comfort.
A darker one.
What if this was preparation? What if he was restoring her strength? Feeding her, letting her skin regain softness, letting her blood grow rich again…
Everyone knew Prince Vaelor had strange appetites. Whispers followed his name through court halls. Some said he preferred innocence. Some said he preferred fear.
Some said he liked to drink the blood of virgins.
Was she being fattened for sacrifice?
The thought curled cold and sharp in her stomach despite the warmth around her.
It made sense. Cruel sense.
Why else would someone treat her gently?
Aveline lay on the plush bed, wrapped in the softest fur she had ever touched.
The room glowed faintly with amber light. Her body was warm, full, and rested.
She hugged herself tightly anyway, because comfort had always been the prelude to pain.
And still…
With nothing to fight, nothing to guard against, no footsteps outside her door, and no hunger clawing at her ribs…
Her eyes grew heavy.
And once more… She fell asleep.
Not because she trusted, but because, for now, there was nothing left to survive.
-----
Mortimer Willowgrave nearly ran to the entrance hall.
By the time the horse stopped, his smile was already stretched wide across his face, so wide it hurt.
Young Master Karlos Blumenthal.
He still could not believe his luck.
A week ago, he had a chance meeting in a tavern. A wealthy heir from Greenvale, bored, curious, looking for opportunities in Aurelmont. Mortimer had poured wine, flattered him shamelessly, exaggerated his holdings, spun visions of grain monopolies and border trade routes.
And it had worked.
Karlos Blumenthal, sole heir to the powerful Blumenthal merchant family, had chosen him as his partner in this kingdom.
Chosen him.
Mortimer laughed in his heart. His fortunes had turned the moment that cursed girl left his house. Selling her had been the best decision of his life.
She had always been a stain on his walls. A shadow in his halls. Since the day he saw her in this estate, losses followed. Bad harvests. Failing alliances. Uncooperative investors.
But once she was gone… Opportunity has bloomed. He'd gotten wealthy friends, influential connections across kingdoms, and… fortune.
"Yes," Mortimer muttered to himself as the doors opened. "A curse lifted."
Theron stepped inside.
Draped in gold brocade. Rings flashing. A velvet cape sweeping behind him like liquid fire.
Mortimer bowed so low his back ached.
"Young Master Blumenthal… what an honor," he beamed.
Theron did not return the smile.
He walked past him slowly, flicking his cape over his shoulder as if brushing aside dust.
"I thought you had a larger manor," he said lazily, glancing up at the ceiling as though unimpressed. "Viscount."
The title dripped with disdain.
Mortimer laughed nervously. "Ho ho… please forgive our humble estate, Young Master…"
He led Theron toward the drawing room, barking orders at servants under his breath when he thought the guest wasn't looking.
Theron noticed everything.
The trembling maid. The bruise on a footman's wrist. The way silence fell too quickly.
He said nothing.
Once seated, he withdrew a thick stack of papers from inside his coat. "Here is the grain contract I mentioned," he said coolly. "My father indulges my ventures."
Mortimer reached for them eagerly, but hesitated, confused by the dense legal script.
Theron let the stack slip from his fingers. The papers scattered across the floor.
Then he sighed. Loudly.
Mortimer flushed red and scrambled to gather them, dropping to his knees. He smoothed each sheet carefully before signing wherever indicated, not daring to question a single clause beneath Theron's steady, unimpressed gaze.
Every signature tightened the noose.
"Well," Theron said at last, accepting the signed documents. A small smile touched his lips—sharp and private. "You are going to become very rich, Viscount. You should get yourself a new mansion."
Perhaps, six feet under…
"I will see to it." Theron added.
Mortimer's eyes glittered greedily as he nodded with a chuckle.
Theron rose in one fluid motion, cape swishing behind him.
Mortimer hurried after him.
"Y-Young Master," he called, wringing his hands. "We have arranged a dinner in your honor tonight. Might you bless us with your presence?"
Theron paused.
This was exactly what he needed.
The smile that touched his face was cold and deliberate, but when he turned back, it transformed into polished indifference.
"I have never dined in a manor this small," he said, glancing around as though tolerating something beneath him. "But I will attend."
He stepped closer… close enough that Mortimer instinctively shrank.
"Do not disappoint me."
Then he turned, cape sweeping dramatically behind him, and strode out without waiting for a response.
Once outside, once beyond the gates… The smile vanished.
His expression hardened into something ancient and lethal.
Tonight.
Tonight, she would walk these halls freely and through every corridor.
And you, Mortimer… Today is the beginning of your end.
You never should have touched her.