"I need the upstairs bathroom scrubbed."
I looked up from the book I was reading in the east parlor, heart slamming at the voice behind me.
Emilia, the head maid, stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, gently placing the book down.
"Master Moretti said you'd help with the staff until further notice."
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"He said…" her voice dropped, uncomfortable now, "...he doesn't want his wife sitting around doing nothing. Said if you wanted to stay in the house, you'll work for your keep."
Silence fell like snow.
Not heavy, but deadly.
I stood slowly, heart pounding as I followed Emilia through the west hallway and up the spiraling stairs that led to the guest bathrooms.
Two hours later, I was on my knees scrubbing imported tiles in silence.
No gloves.
No mask.
Nothing.
Soap suds clung to my knuckles as I scrubbed, the chemicals burning faintly against the split in my skin where my fever had cracked it.
My stomach twisted. My body screamed for rest.
But I stayed on my knees.
Wife.
Servant.
Ghost.
Later, in the hallway, I passed Alessandro.
He didn't glance at me.
Didn't stop.
Only said coldly, "Next time, don't leave streaks on the mirror."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to spit blood at his shoes.
Instead, I said: "Yes, sir."
His mouth twitched…but not into a smile.
No. It was disgust.
Or something worse.
That night, I stood in the kitchen.
Alone.
Cooking.
Because Emilia said he'd asked for homemade risotto. "From her hands only."
I stirred in silence, the steam from the pot curling around me like a noose.
When I brought it to the study, Alessandro barely looked up.
"Leave it on the desk."
I did.
He didn't eat immediately.
He waited until I stood there long enough for my hands to start trembling.
"Sit," he said, eyes still on his laptop.
I hesitated.
"Sit. There."
He pointed to a cushioned stool by the bookshelf…where the maids usually sat when waiting on orders.
I sat.
He didn't look at me for the next twenty minutes.
Didn't eat.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
I sat there like a statue, my body screaming to lie down, to breathe, to sleep.
"Leave," he finally said.
I stood up, barely able to walk straight.
"Wait."
I froze.
He looked up slowly. "Next time, add more saffron. You're not just useless…you're bland."
The next morning, Claudia Moretti showed up unannounced.
I heard the clack of her heels before I saw her, moving through the corridor like a duchess coming to inspect a neglected estate.
"Where's Anastasia?" she asked the maid.
"She's… in the laundry room, Madame."
The what?
Claudia arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
When she entered the laundry room, I was on my knees again…this time scrubbing Alessandro's shirts, my sleeves soaked, my lungs burning faintly from detergent.
She stared at me like I was a hallucination.
"What on earth are you doing?"
I stood slowly, flushed. "He asked me to…"
"To what? Play housemaid?"
My throat felt tight.
"I don't mind," I lied.
"You should." Her voice was sharp now, indignant. "You're his wife, not the help."
"I'm what he needs me to be."
Claudia watched me carefully.
Then, softly, she said, "You look like your mother."
I froze.
"My real mother?"
Claudia said nothing more. She just turned and walked away.
Later that evening, Alessandro came home with three guests…two men and a woman. All powerful. All clean suits and slicked-back smiles.
"Join us," he said flatly to me. "Since my wife is so eager to serve, maybe she'll entertain."
At the table, the woman leaned forward. "You're the girl from the Vetrova family, yes? The… second daughter?"
"Adopted daughter," Alessandro corrected without emotion.
The men chuckled.
I smiled politely. "And yet still the one who ended up his wife."
She blinked. "Interesting match. You don't… look like his type."
"Cruel, loud, and forgettable?" I tilted my head. "No. I'm not."
One of the men laughed.
Alessandro's jaw tightened.
"Anastasia," he said, slowly, "refill the wine."
I did.
"Careful with the bottle. You're shaking," one of them said.
"I haven't eaten all day," I replied.
"That's no excuse," Alessandro snapped.
The cork slipped as I poured.
A drop of wine splashed onto the table.
Alessandro's hand shot out, gripping my wrist.
I flinched.
Hard.
Silence fell.
He released me after a second.
"Clean it," he said.
I did.
With my sleeve.
Like a maid.
Not a wife.
Not a woman.
Not a human.
I went to bed hungry.
Feverish.
A small stain of blood on my pillow from the cough I'd tried to suppress at the table.
The ceiling spun softly above me.
My hands clutched the sheets as I whispered the only words that mattered anymore.
"I won't break. Not yet."
The next morning, I woke up to find the curtains already open and Emilia standing at the edge of the room.
"Madam," she said cautiously, "Master Moretti asked you to tend to the garden today."
I blinked, sitting up slowly, head pounding.
"The… garden?"
She nodded, eyes guilty. "The front lawn. The roses. He said he wants the weeds removed. With your hands."
I stood.
Without another word.
I didn't ask for gloves.
I didn't ask why.
By noon, I was on my knees in the dirt, pulling weeds with raw fingers while the sun baked my spine. Every tug made my bones ache. My lips were dry. My arms burned. Passersby watched from behind the gate.
Some whispered.
Others laughed.
"Is that the new Moretti bride?"
"She's working the soil like a servant."
"I heard she's terminal. Maybe he's trying to speed it up."
I didn't flinch.
I didn't cry.
Because crying was for people who still believed someone would come to save them.
I was long past that illusion.
When I finally walked back into the villa…sweaty, broken, barely able to breathe…Alessandro was waiting in the foyer, dressed in fresh clothes, his hair slicked back, phone in hand.
He glanced up.
Paused.
His eyes raked over my dirt-covered skin, the cracked blisters on my palm, the sunburn blooming down my neck.
He said nothing.
Just put the phone to his ear and turned away.
"I'll be home late," he murmured to whoever was on the other line.
Then, before walking out the door, he added under his breath…
"Try not to embarrass me next time."
The door slammed.
I stood in silence.
Then slowly walked up the stairs to my room.
Stripped.
Bathed.
And stood in front of the mirror.
The girl who stared back at me wasn't crying.
She wasn't breaking.
She was plotting.
With blood on her lips.
And rage in her bones.