That night, sleep was a cruel, unattainable thing.

Every time I shut my eyes, the events of the afternoon unraveled in my mind with unforgiving clarity. My breath hitched, my cheeks burned, and an unbearable heat coiled in my chest. No matter how hard I tried to will the memory away, it remained, vivid and merciless.

"Why...why did I have to see that?"

I turned onto my side, then my back, then onto my stomach, burying my face into the pillow as if I could suffocate my own thoughts. But they wouldn't stop.

Duke Cassius Valtier. Standing there. Completely bare. Utterly unbothered.

"Dear god!"

I bit down on the pillow in sheer frustration, my fingers gripping the sheets as if they could anchor me to sanity. What kind of man undressed so shamelessly in front of a mere maid? No—what kind of duke did that? And why, of all people, did I have to witness it?

A fresh wave of mortification crashed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to forget. To erase the image of sculpted muscles and cold, silver eyes that hadn't spared me even a sliver of attention.

But my mind—my traitorous, wretched mind—refused to obey.

"Why is this happening to me?" I groaned, rolling onto my side and curling into a ball.

The night stretched on, endless and unrelenting, as my heartbeat pounded in my ears. Embarrassment burned through me like an unshakable fever, leaving me wide awake with no hope of escape.

By the time dawn's first light crept through my window, one thing was certain.

I was doomed.

*

The following days in the mansion were nothing short of torture. Every task, no matter how simple, felt like walking on glass. I moved from room to room, cleaning, delivering meals, all the while keeping my head down, desperate to avoid making any more mistakes. But this place seemed designed to chew me up and spit me out.

One afternoon, as I entered the grand dining room with a tray of food, my feet betrayed me. I tripped—over what, I still don't know. Maybe it was my own clumsy stride, maybe it was the small rug that hadn't been there yesterday. My heart stopped as I fought to regain balance, but my legs buckled, sending me stumbling forward. The deafening clatter of the plates crashing to the ground echoed through the room like gunshots.

Time seemed to freeze. The sound of breaking porcelain hung in the air like a death sentence. I managed to steady myself before tumbling completely to the floor, but the damage was already done. The maids in the room turned their eyes toward me—cold, ruthless eyes. I could feel their gazes drilling into my skin.

I quickly knelt down, trying to salvage what was left of the shattered plates, my hands trembling so hard I could barely pick up the pieces.

Their whispers sliced through the air like knives. "She's Rosa's niece, that's why she's here. No test, no qualifications. If she had to prove herself, she'd be gone by now."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My cheeks burned, but I forced myself to keep going, pretending not to hear their cruel assessments. But my pulse raced, and the weight of their judgment crushed me with every passing second.

And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did.

Later that day, I was cleaning the grand living room—a vast space filled with expensive furniture and things that probably cost more than my family made in a year. I was being so careful, so careful, moving around a marble table with this delicate antique vase. Blue and white porcelain, probably older than my village.

I was dusting around it when I noticed something odd. The vase was sitting right on the edge of the table—precariously balanced, like someone had moved it there. That morning, I could have sworn it had been in the center, safely away from the edge. But maybe I was remembering wrong. Maybe I was just paranoid.

I reached around it carefully, trying not to touch it at all. But as I stretched to dust the far corner, my elbow brushed against something. The vase wobbled.

No. No no no.

I lunged forward, trying to catch it, but I was too late. It tipped over, crashing to the marble floor with a sound that made my blood turn to ice.

The vase shattered into a thousand pieces, sharp shards scattering across the room like tiny daggers. My breath caught in my throat.

"Oh no..." I whispered, crouching down, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I reached for the broken remnants. The vase was beyond repair. It was gone. And it was probably worth more than I'd ever see in my lifetime.

The other maids stood there, frozen, their eyes wide with something that looked almost like satisfaction. Some shook their heads, others muttered in low tones.

"She's clumsy. Useless," one of them said, not even bothering to whisper. "Just wait...she'll be gone soon. Can't have someone this incompetent here."

I could feel the weight of their stares, their barely concealed glee at my failure. It clawed at me, suffocating me. The sting of their words bit deep into my chest, but I couldn't let myself break.

I wiped away the tears threatening to spill, swallowing my humiliation as I continued to gather the shards. But deep inside, the knot of fear and frustration only grew tighter.

I had no choice but to press on. Even if the mansion itself was trying to destroy me, even if every day felt like a test designed for me to fail.

*

A few days later, I was assigned the task of serving dinner in the main dining hall—a responsibility that made my stomach churn with anxiety. The head chef was already pacing in the kitchen, his face red with impatience.

"Hurry up!" he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "You've got only a few minutes. Get moving!"

My heart pounded as I hurriedly pushed the serving cart, its delicate dishes clinking with every jolt. I focused on the path ahead, but once again, trouble found me. Several maids were moving through the hallway, their pace oddly slow. Every time I tried to pass, one of them would suddenly stop to adjust something, or step aside at the exact moment I moved in that direction.

It felt deliberate. Too coordinated. But maybe I was just being paranoid again. Maybe they were just doing their jobs.

The seconds ticked by, each one feeling heavier than the last, and by the time I reached the dining room, sweat was beading on my forehead. I knew I was late. I could feel the pressure rising in my chest as I stepped inside, my eyes darting nervously around the room. And then, I saw him.

Duke Cassius Valtier sat at the head of the table, his eyes already trained on me. His gaze was like ice, cutting through the air with a sharpness that made my breath catch. He didn't have to say a word. The raised brow said everything—the unspoken accusation that I had failed him. Again.

I stopped in my tracks, frozen under the weight of his stare.

"You're late," he said, his voice flat, but the chill in his tone made every nerve in my body tense. There was no fury, no harsh reprimand, but something far worse—a cold disappointment that felt like being dropped into freezing water.

"I-I'm sorry, Your Grace," I stammered, my mouth dry as I tried to explain. "I—" But he cut me off before I could finish.

"There's no need," he interrupted, his voice detached, like I wasn't even worth the effort of his anger. "I won't be having dinner tonight. Leave."

His words hit me like a slap, and I felt my throat close up. The weight of his disappointment was crushing, an invisible force that made my chest tighten painfully. Yet, his gaze remained icy, unyielding, a silent command to get out of his sight.

I lowered my head instinctively, my face burning with shame. There was nothing I could say—nothing I could do. I stumbled backward, my legs unsteady as I turned to leave, every step echoing in the tense silence.

As I retreated, I could feel his eyes on my back, the sense of failure sinking deeper with each passing second. The walls of the grand dining room felt like they were closing in, and all I could think was how completely I was screwing this up.

*

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual, determined to redeem myself after yesterday's disaster. I scrubbed my skin in the shower, trying to wash away the remnants of shame that clung to me like smoke. After drying off and preparing, I reached for my black-and-white maid's uniform, expecting it to fit as it always had.

But as I slipped the dress on, I froze. Something was wrong. The fabric felt too tight, uncomfortably so, pulling across my chest and squeezing my waist in a way that was both restrictive and unnatural. Panic surged in my chest as I looked at myself in the mirror. This wasn't my usual uniform. The fit was all wrong. The buttons strained against my skin, and the hemline felt far too short.

What the hell?

I cursed under my breath, knowing I didn't have time to investigate who had messed with my uniform. I had to keep going. I couldn't afford another mistake. Swallowing my unease, I tugged at the fabric, praying no one would notice how it clung to my figure in all the wrong ways. The last thing I needed was more attention.

But as I walked down the long corridor, dread tightened in my stomach when I spotted Madam Veronica at the far end. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw me, her eyes narrowing in disgust.

"Lana!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. The words were sharp, accusatory, and they echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of every maid nearby. "What are you wearing?"

"I—" My throat tightened, but I managed to stammer, "I think my uniform was switched, Madam."

Her lip curled in disgust. "Excuses. Do you think this is a brothel? Dressing so...inappropriately!" Her voice was rising, and I could feel the eyes of the others on me, their judgment already thick in the air.