The cry of birds outside nudged her awake. Cerise groaned, buried her face deeper under the blanket and tried to crawl back into the dream.

Don’t let it end.

In the dream she had been unstoppable—ripping through the Lyons household with a strength she’d never known. The taste of that furious power clung to her throat like something she might never taste again. The alarm insisted otherwise. The digital clock blinked: 6 a.m.

She slapped it silent and fumbled a hand to her eyes, the room resolving slowly from gray to cold blue.

Dang it…another day serving this wretched family. Why won’t I just wake up dead?

For a second she lay there, letting the afterglow of the dream die. Then she pushed the blanket away and sat up. Thin winter light spilled through the single window; her little room by the shed felt smaller than ever in that light.

This was the only place they had given her to stay. For as long as she could remember, she had always been here since she was a toddler, a child. It was a miracle how she was able to grow up despite their wickedness.

A normal child would’ve died from their kind of abuse. They fed her, gave her a place to stay, but there was never a sign of affection.

So even as a child, she never knew love and what it felt like to be loved at all.

And the worst part? She had always had these suicidal thoughts. Yet, she was forced to live.

Why am I feeling so emotional now? She then shook her head, snapping herself away from her thoughts.

The chill crawled over her. She pulled a sweater over her shoulders and hugged herself, the motion half comfort, half armor.

Serving the Lyons was a chore that never ended: breakfast, lunch, the horse stalls, the endless cleaning until dusk.

Escape had been tried more than once. Neighbors had called—she’d called. She had even planned something final once, convinced it was the only way out and failed. The failure felt like another chain.

If only, she thought, folding the blanket into a neat square, if only I could get my hands on them. The fantasy flared, bright and furious, then died under the weight of reality: the Lyons had influence.

They had money. They had friends in the right places. Run and someone would find her and drag her back.

Cerise was practically living in hell—in prison.

“Tsk…”

She shoved the thought away and went through the motions, because motion was safer than despair.

If she didn’t move, then she would succumb to the thoughts that would just anger and sadden her.

She lit a small stove, measured coffee by muscle memory, wrapped yesterday’s bread in a cloth to warm it. This was her breakfast, the only thing she could eat since she would often have no appetite after cooking for them.

Routine was the only map she had. After eating breakfast, she moved through the rooms tidily and efficiently. Sweeping, folding, stuffing the worn bedding under the rafters while her mind rehearsed the list of chores the way a soldier might rehearse a drill.

By the time she stepped out of her room near the shed then toward the mansion, the day had cleared a fraction. The gates yawned open as if they’d been waiting for her with an appetite.

She squared her shoulders and walked into the place she both served and hated. There was no glamor here—only work.

But the memory of the dream lingered like a promise: a life where she was not afraid, where she wielded the power she only half-remembered in sleep.

Cerise kind of hoped it was a premonition of some sort. If it was, she hopes when it will come true. If so, she wished it happened sooner than later.

She would keep that memory. She would file it away like a weapon for the day when taking back her life stopped being a fantasy and started being a plan.

Cerise always thought a rich family like the Lyons could easily hire an army of maids. But no. They wanted her, and only her, to do everything.

They had had maids and butlers before, but because of their cruelty, most of them had escaped despite the fat paychecks. Cerise found it unfair that they were able to escape, when she’d always attempted to escape but couldn’t.

Why didn’t they want to take her with them when they left? Didn’t they pity her? She always felt their pity because most of them were nice! But still…

She was left alone.

As if that wasn’t punishment enough, she also had to endure their cruelty: the bruises, the mocking words, the way they treated her body like theirs to own.

So, as always, she drowned herself in the only thing that gave her peace: cooking.

She yanked out flour, eggs, and bacon from the fridge, her hands moving as though on autopilot. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Classic, simple. While she whisked the batter, she tossed in a pot of noodles she’d made last night. The Lyons would need pasta for their lunchboxes today.

Her jaw tightened. Of course I cook for them, clean for them, break my back for them. And for what? To be their punching bag? Their plaything?

She cracked an egg, a little too hard, crushing it like it was Charlotte’s head instead.

“Fuck that bitch.”

School had been her only escape, but even that had been stolen from her. Graduation year, and she barely even attended anymore. Teachers mocked her for missing activities. And her classmates? They followed Charlotte’s lead.

Rich girl power always won.

She wanted to distract herself from her thoughts. The first pancake hit the pan when she felt someone behind her and her body stiffened.

“Cerise,” a voice drawled, breath hot against her ear. “Knew you’d be up this early.”

Her blood ran cold. Reflex kicked in. She spun around and smacked him across the face hard.

Julian Lyons laughed. Laughed. His cheek burned red, and she gripped the whisk like a weapon.

“Stay the fuck away from me, Julian,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Or I’ll burn you.”

He only grinned, still half-naked from his jog, sweat clinging to his chest. He was supposed to be in the shower—supposed to be anywhere else that’s not here, not breathing down her neck.

‘Great. He’s bored. That’s worse. Why else would he be here?’

Before she could back away, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The whisk clattered uselessly to the floor. Cerise winced as he yanked her closer, his other hand sliding up under her shirt.

“No! Stop it!” she snarled, thrashing against him.

Julian didn’t flinch. He loved this game—her struggle, her fury. He thought he could break her. He thought she’d give in like she had no choice.

But Cerise wasn’t weak. She always fought.

Her eyes burned holes into him as she bared her teeth. “Try me, Julian. One move more and I swear to every god and demon listening I’ll make you regret it. You think I’m scared of prison? My whole life is already a fucking prison.” Her chest heaved, rage sparking hotter than fear.

One day, Lyons. All of you. I’ll flip the game. And when I do…

“Shut up.” He cut her off mid-thought and yanked her hand, forcing it down where she didn’t want it. “I’m bored. Let me have some fun.”

Of course. Julian always got what he wanted. Eldest son, heir to Edward Lyons III, entitled to everything. Blood didn’t matter. Half-sibling didn’t matter. Their mentality is sickening. To them, she was just the maid.

Anonymous, disposable.

He crashed his mouth on hers. Cerise fought back the way she always did. When his tongue pushed into her, she clamped down on it hard, like a trap.

“Shit!” He staggered, a metallic taste between them. Both tasted iron. “Fuck!”

He wiped his mouth, more annoyed than hurt. That was the thing about him. Her fire irritated him and somehow, thrilled him.

When he lunged again, she moved first. She snatched the nearest knife from the counter and leveled it at him, chin high, pulse racing but voice steady.

“Take one more step and I’ll castrate you myself.”

Julian laughed, the sound ugly. “Wait till my mother hears about this,” he taunted her.

“Go ahead,” Cerise said, lips curling. “Tug on her skirt, mama’s boy. See how that works out for you.”

His face went hard. He backed off without another word. Too pissed to argue, too careful to risk her spilling his blood. He stalked away, leaving the room heavy with his retreat.

“Hmph.”

Only when he was gone did she let herself falter. She leaned on the counter, both palms pressed hard into the wood as her knees threatened to fold. Tears stung hot at the corners of her eyes. Rage shook through her like a fever.

“Damn it.”

Now she knew who’d come next. The list never ended.

But she also knew this: she’d bite, she’d threaten, she’d survive.

And when the time came, she’d make them pay.