Chapter 4: Keres’ Plan
After Two Days
The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Keres’s office, casting long rectangles of pale gold across the dark hardwood floor. The city sprawled beneath her, oblivious and insignificant, a collection of ants scrambling through streets that she owned more than half of.
But Keres wasn’t looking at the view today. She was staring at the door, waiting.
Sandro entered without knocking—he was the only person alive who could do that and keep his job—and walked straight to her desk. His footsteps were heavy but measured, the footsteps of a man who had learned long ago that noise was a weapon and silence was a shield.
In his right hand, he carried a manila folder, thick with papers, its edges slightly worn from being handled during the drive over.
"Boss." He placed the folder on her desk with a soft thud. "This is the information you asked for. About Ms. Asteria Auclair. Third child of the Auclair family."
Keres did not thank him. She did not nod. She simply looked at him—coldly. Her dark eyes cutting through him like a blade assessing whether something was worth killing. Then she turned her gaze to the folder. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment, hesitating in a way that was so subtle, so brief, that anyone else would have missed it. But Sandro noticed. He always noticed. He just knew better than to mention it.
She opened the folder with hostility radiating from every movement. Her fingers flipped through the pages roughly, almost angrily, as if the paper itself had insulted her by existing.
Her eyes scanned each line, each photograph, each carefully collected piece of information. And the more she read, the more her expression twisted into something between confusion and contempt.
The contents inside were nothing harmful. That was the problem. Keres had expected secrets—dirt, scandals, hidden affairs, unpaid debts, something she could use. But there was nothing.
Just a life so small, so ordinary, so painfully unremarkable that it almost seemed fake. And yet, the gaps in the information bothered her even more. Years missing here, a school record missing there. It wasn’t that Asteria Auclair had something to hide. It was that her own family had clearly hidden her first.
Keres leaned back in her leather chair and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don’t know why all of a sudden my parents want me to marry a woman who only finished fourth grade in elementary." She tossed the folder onto the desk with a flick of her wrist, as if the papers inside had personally offended her.
"Fucking shit."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Fourth grade. The woman she was supposed to marry—the woman her parents had chosen to be her wife—had barely learned fractions before being pulled out of school.
It felt like another blow. Another insult. Another piece of evidence that her parents were either playing a cruel joke or had lost their minds entirely. A woman like that would be a liability to her perfect image—a crack in the armor that her enemies would love to exploit.
Keres reached into the inner pocket of her gray vest and pulled out an expensive black cigarette—hand-rolled, imported, the kind that cost more per pack than most people made in a day.
She placed it between her lips, flicked a silver lighter open, and lit it with a practiced motion. The first drag filled her lungs with smoke and heat, and she let it out slowly, watching the gray tendrils curl toward the ceiling as she continued reading.
"She’s thirty-four years old." Keres’s voice was flat, clinical, as if she were reading a grocery list instead of the biography of her future wife.
"Okay."
She turned a page. A photograph stared back at her—a woman with soft features, dark hair, and eyes that looked tired even in a still image. Keres studied it for a moment longer than she wanted to. "Her face is beautiful, at least. That alone is not loathing."
She said it like a concession, like a small mercy in an otherwise unbearable situation. She flipped through a few more pages—medical records, basic information, a list of failed marriages that made her eyebrows rise despite herself.
Three divorces. Three husbands who had returned her like defective merchandise. Keres didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted.
She closed the folder.
Then she picked up her silver lighter, flicked it open, and held the flame to the corner of the folder. The paper caught quickly, the edges curling and blackening as fire ate its way through Asteria Auclair’s life.
Keres watched it burn with detached interest, her cigarette still dangling from her lips, until the flames licked too close to her fingers. She dropped the burning folder into a metal trash bin beside her desk and let it consume itself.
"There’s nothing special about her." Keres’s voice was quieter now, but no less hard. She turned her chair slightly, facing the window and stared out at the city she ruled.
The stress and frustration were evident in her face—the tightness around her jaw, the furrow between her brows, the way her fingers tapped against the armrest in an uneven rhythm. "I don’t see the reason why my parents chose her for me. Not one single reason."
Sandro stayed silent. He stood still, his massive arms crossed over his chest and his face utterly unreadable. He was not there to offer opinions or advice. He was there to listen, to absorb, and to wait until his boss was finished speaking her mind.
He had learned over the years that Keres did not want solutions to her problems. She wanted witnesses to her frustration.
Keres sighed—a long, heavy exhale that seemed to drain the tension from her shoulders only for a moment. She reached into her drawer and pulled out a sealed white envelope, thick and expensive, with the Eisenthurn family crest pressed into the wax seal.
She tossed it across the desk toward Sandro without looking up.
"There." Her voice was clipped. "Deliver that letter to the Auclair family. I’ll be delaying my meeting with them for a month." She paused, taking another slow drag from her cigarette before adding, almost as an afterthought, "I’m sure that Asteria Auclair can wait. It’s not like she has anywhere else to be."
Sandro caught the envelope effortlessly, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He nodded once, a sharp, silent acknowledgment.
Keres stubbed out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on her desk, grinding the embers into nothing. Then she picked up her pen and returned to signing documents—contracts, invoices, death warrants disguised as business agreements—without missing a beat.
Her hand moved quickly, efficiently, each signature a scrawl of power that meant something to someone somewhere.
"Make sure to make Asteria prepare for me," Keres continued, not looking up from her papers. Her voice was cold, almost bored, as if she were discussing the weather instead of a woman’s future.
"Because for sure, I won’t go easy on her. Even though her profile makes her look harmless." She paused, her pen hovering over a contract for just a moment.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across her lips, "I’ll try to find something that will make my parents hate her. Something real. Something I can use against her."
She signed the last document with a flourish and set her pen down, leaning back in her chair with the satisfied air of a predator who had just figured out how to corner its prey.
Sandro said nothing. He simply turned and walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Keres alone with her smoke and her schemes and the faint smell of burning paper still lingering in the air.
---
The Auclair Household
The mansion loomed in the afternoon light like a tomb dressed in stone and ivy. It was beautiful in the way old things often were—grand, imposing, filled with history that no one bothered to remember.
But inside those walls, beauty meant nothing. Inside those walls, only power mattered. And Asteria Auclair had none.
She was on her hands and knees in the east corridor, a scrub brush clutched in her bruised fingers, a bucket of soapy water beside her. Her body screamed with every movement.
The whip wounds on her back had not been properly cleaned—she had no medicine, no bandages, no one to tend to her except herself, and even that was difficult when she could barely lift her arms.
The cuts had become angry and red, the skin around them hot to the touch, a clear sign of infection that no one in the household bothered to notice or care about. Her face was still swollen from the beating days ago, her left eye still barely open, her split lip now crusted with dried blood that cracked every time she spoke or breathed too deeply.
She had a fever. She could feel it burning behind her eyes and it making the world tilt and sway whenever she tried to stand too quickly. Her head pounded with every heartbeat, a relentless ache that made it hard to think or even focus, hard to do anything except keep scrubbing and hoping that her body would hold out a little longer.
But even so, she was forced to do heavy house chores. No rest and no excuse.
The maids who passed her in the hallway moved like ghosts, their faces carefully blank. Some showed eyes of pity—quick glances, some quickly looked away, as if acknowledging her suffering might somehow infect them.
Others looked disgusted, their lips curling as they stepped around the wet spots on the floor, careful not to get their uniforms dirty. And some were simply neutral, their expressions empty and their hearts locked away behind walls built from years of watching the same thing happen over and over again.
None of them stopped to help. None of them offered a kind word or a glass of water. Asteria was alone, as she had always been alone, scrubbing floors that would be dirty again by morning.
Her arms burned. Her knees ached against the cold marble. Her vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing in her peripheral vision like flies she couldn’t swat away.
She felt like she was going to pass out—her body swaying, her grip on the scrub brush loosening—but she caught herself at the last moment, digging her nails into her palm to force herself awake.
She couldn’t pass out. Passing out meant punishment and punishment meant more wounds. More wounds meant more infection. More infection meant—
She didn’t let herself finish that thought.
Asteria continued scrubbing, her movements slow and mechanical, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The soapy water in her bucket had turned gray from the dirt and dust of the corridor, and her own reflection stared back at her from the surface—a ghost with hollow eyes and bruised skin.
And then, without warning, a group of maids walked directly through the section she had just cleaned.
Their shoes left dirty prints on the wet marble, smearing the soap and water into muddy streaks. One of them—a tall woman with sharp features and colder eyes—stepped right in the middle of Asteria’s work, leaving a trail of footprints like a direct disrespect.
Asteria did not make any complaints. She didn’t speak or even look up. She simply pushed herself to stand, her muscles screaming in protest, and wrapped her hands around the handle of the heavy bucket.
The water sloshed inside, threatening to spill, but she gripped it tighter and tried to lift it, tried to move it out of the way so she could start over.
That was when another maid—younger, crueler, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—intentionally bumped into Asteria’s shoulder.
The impact was small, almost gentle. But Asteria was weak, her body already pushed past its limits, and her fingers slipped. The bucket tilted. The water spilled—gallons of gray, dirty water cascading across the freshly cleaned floor, spreading in a wide, dark pool that seemed to mock her.
"Oops." The maid’s voice was light, almost playful, her hand pressed to her mouth in a gesture of fake surprise. "I’m so sorry."
She laughed. They all laughed—a chorus of cruel giggles that echoed through the corridor. They stood around Asteria like wolves circling a wounded deer, their amusement sharp and hungry.
Asteria couldn’t help it. Her knees buckled, and she sank down into the puddle of dirty water, the cold soaking through her thin clothes immediately. She grabbed the rag from the bucket—the only tool she had left—and began scrubbing again.
From zero. All that work, all that pain, and she was back where she started. Worse, even, because now the floor wasn’t just dirty—it was soaked, and she had to make sure it was dry before anyone slipped and blamed her for it.
"What now?" The tall maid stepped closer, her shadow falling over Asteria’s trembling form. Her voice dripped with mockery. "Go on and cry, little princess. Go on. We’d love to see it."
More laughter.
But Asteria stayed silent. She kept scrubbing, her head bowed, her tears falling silently into the dirty water and she didn’t respond. She didn’t defend herself.
She had learned long ago that words were weapons she was not allowed to touch. Every protest, every plea and every explanation had been beaten out of her years ago. Silence was survival. Silence was the only thing that had kept her alive this long.
And that silence pissed the maids off.
The tall maid’s smile twisted into something uglier. She stepped forward and kicked the bucket—hard. The plastic cracked and the remaining water splashing across Asteria’s dress, the bucket skidded across the floor until it hit the far wall with a hollow clatter.
"Hey!" The maid’s voice was sharp now, all pretense of playfulness gone. "Who the fuck do you think you are?! You’re not going to answer us, huh?!" She crouched down, grabbing Asteria’s chin and forcing her head up. "You think you’re too good to talk to us? Want us to beat you too, huh? Don’t you know your place?!"
Another maid stepped forward, jabbing her finger hard into Asteria’s temple. The pain was sharp, immediate, and Asteria flinched but made no sound.
Another poke. Another jab. They took turns showing her who was the boss, who was in a higher position, who had power and who had none.
"You should remember," the tall maid said, her face inches from Asteria’s, her breath hot and sour, "you’re not a young miss of this household. You’re not a daughter. You’re not even a servant. You’re their punching bag. Their pet. Their toy." She spat the words like venom, each one landing harder than the last.
"You’re lower than a dog in this house. At least the dogs get fed without getting beaten first."
Asteria sobbed silently, her shoulders shaking, her tears dripping onto the wet floor. She tried to look away—to find somewhere, anywhere, to rest her gaze that wasn’t filled with cruelty—but another maid cupped her chin and forced her to look back.
"Remember your place." The maid’s voice was low, dangerous, a whisper that cut deeper than any scream. "You’re nothing. Get it?"
Asteria sniffled. Her nose was running, her eyes were burning, her entire body was one raw, exposed nerve of pain and humiliation. But she nodded frantically.
Her chin bobbing up and down as she agreed to anything, everything, whatever they wanted her to agree to.
"Mmmm~ y-yes." Her voice cracked, barely audible, a thread of sound wrapped in tears. "I... I get it."
The maids held her chin for a moment longer, enjoying her submission like a fine wine. Then they let go.
The tall maid drew her hand back and slapped Asteria across the face—a sharp, stinging blow that reopened the cut on her lip and sent fresh blood dripping down her chin.
"Go and clean that," the maid ordered, gesturing to the mess of water and soap and mud. "Make sure you finish it on time. Or else."
They walked away, their laughter fading slowly, replaced by the sound of their footsteps retreating down the corridor.
And then there was silence again—the heavy, suffocating silence of a house that had never been a home.
Asteria continued to sob quietly, her chest heaving, her breath hitching, but no noise escaped her lips. She picked up the wet rag and started cleaning again, her hands trembling so badly she could barely hold onto the cloth.
Then someone knelt down beside her.
Asteria flinched—a violent, full-body jerk, expecting another blow, another insult, or another cruelty.
But instead of pain, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up, her one good eye wide with fear, and saw Tessa.
Tessa was a young maid—not much older than Asteria herself—with kind eyes and a gentle smile that seemed out of place in this house of sharp edges and colder hearts.
She didn’t say anything at first. She just picked up a dry rag from the bucket and began helping Asteria clean the floor, her movements quick and efficient.
"T-Tess." Asteria’s voice was barely a whisper. "D-Don’t. T-They might—"
Tessa shook her head, her smile soft but firm. "It’s okay, Miss Asteria." She called her Miss. She treated her like a lady. Like someone worthy of respect. She was the only servant in the entire household who did.
Asteria stared at her, tears streaming down her swollen cheeks. "W-Why are you being kind to me?" The question came out broken, confused, as if kindness was a foreign language she had forgotten how to speak.
"Miss Asteria." Tessa paused in her cleaning and looked directly into Asteria’s eyes. "I am here to help. That’s all you need to know. Don’t worry, okay?"
Asteria shook her head frantically, her damp hair sticking to her face. "You’re putting yourself in danger." The words tumbled out, desperate and frightened.
"They’ll hurt you too. They’ll—they’ll make you—"
"Don’t worry." Tessa chuckled softly, a small, warm sound that tried to make the atmosphere lighter. "I am used to everything in this house. I’ve been here longer than most of them. I know how to survive."
She squeezed Asteria’s hand once—briefly, gently—and then returned to cleaning. For a few precious minutes, Asteria was not alone. The weight on her chest eased, just a little.
The tears slowed, just a little. And for the first time in days, she felt something that wasn’t pain or fear or exhaustion.
It felt almost felt like hope.
But hope, like everything else in the Auclair household, was short-lived.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—the footsteps of someone who had authority and knew it. Asteria looked up, her heart hammering in her chest, and saw the Auclair family assistant approaching.
He was a tall, thin man with hollow cheeks and eyes that never seemed to look directly at her. He stopped a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable.
"Asteria." His voice was flat and emotionless. "You have to come with me."
Asteria’s blood ran cold. Her hands went numb. Her stomach clenched into a tight, painful knot. She didn’t know what she had done wrong this time—maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe just existing was crime enough.
She tried not to show how scared she was, tried to school her features into something neutral, but her lower lip trembled and her eyes were still wet with tears.
She pushed herself up from the floor, her body screaming in protest, and slowly followed the assistant down the corridor. Her footsteps were unsteady, her vision swimming at the edges, but she kept moving. She had no choice. She never had a choice.
Behind her, Tessa watched her go, her hands still gripping the wet rag, her smile finally fading into something sadder and more worried.
