Chapter 3 No.3

The days bled into one another, a gray smear of servitude and silent suffering.

Anastasia moved through the mansion like a shadow. Scrubbing, polishing, serving.

She caught glimpses of Courtland and Kinsley together. Laughing in the garden. His hand resting on the small of her back. Whispering by the fire.

Each image was a fresh wound.

Kinsley delighted in tormenting her. She would "accidentally" drop her fork at dinner, forcing Anastasia to kneel and retrieve it while Courtland watched, his face impassive.

She would praise Anastasia's work with a sickeningly sweet tone. "Oh, the floors are just sparkling, Anastasia. You have a real talent for this."

It was a constant, public reminder of her fallen status.

One evening, they had guests for dinner. Important business partners of Courtland's. Anastasia was serving the meal, her eyes downcast, her movements silent and efficient.

One of the men, a Mr. Sterling, watched her with a greedy glint in his eye.

"She's a beautiful woman, Courtland," he remarked, his voice loud enough for the whole table to hear. "A shame to have her serving tables."

Kinsley let out a small, nervous laugh. "Oh, Anastasia doesn't mind. It's... therapeutic for her. After her time away."

The table fell silent. The implication was clear. She was damaged goods. Unstable.

Anastasia felt a flush of heat crawl up her neck. She kept her head down, her hands steady as she poured the wine.

Later, as she was clearing the dessert plates, she heard Kinsley speaking to Courtland in a low, conspiratorial whisper.

"She looks at you in such a strange way, Courtland. It's not healthy. It's an obsession."

Anastasia froze just outside the dining room door.

"She's always been like that," Kinsley continued, her voice filled with feigned worry. "Ever since you took her in. She never understood the boundaries. She thought your kindness was... something more."

A cold dread washed over Anastasia.

Courtland's voice was low, cutting. "She has been reminded of her place."

"But is it enough?" Kinsley pressed. "Sometimes, I worry. For you. For us."

The next morning, Courtland summoned her to his study.

He was standing by his desk, his back to her.

"Kinsley is worried about you," he began, without turning around.

"She thinks you are harboring unhealthy attachments."

Anastasia remained silent. Her hands were cold.

"She thinks you confuse gratitude with something else. A delusion you've held onto for years."

He turned to face her. His expression was cold, clinical. Like a doctor diagnosing a sickness.

"I am your guardian, Anastasia. Nothing more. My only duty now is to ensure you do not cause any more harm. To Kinsley, or to yourself."

He picked up a small, ornate box from his desk. It was the music box he had given her on her sixteenth birthday. It played her favorite Debussy piece. It had been her most treasured possession.

He had once told her it was as delicate and special as she was.

He handed it to Kinsley, who had just entered the room.

"I believe this belongs to you now," he said, his voice soft as he spoke to her. "A token of affection, given to the right person this time."

Kinsley took the box, her eyes shining with triumph. She looked at Anastasia and smiled. "Oh, Courtland. It's beautiful. Thank you."

It was the final, brutal negation of everything they had ever shared.

That evening, during dinner, Courtland made an announcement.

"Kinsley and I have set a date. We'll be married next month."

He raised his glass. "To our future."

The staff murmured their congratulations. Eleanor looked ecstatic.

Anastasia stood by the wall, holding a heavy silver platter. The weight of it was nothing compared to the weight in her chest.

She had to get out. She had to get to Aspen. Now.

She excused herself from the room, her movements stiff.

She walked out the back door, into the cold night air. The rain had started, a fine, chilling mist. She didn't have a coat.

She walked down the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching under her thin shoes.

She didn't know where she was going. She just knew she had to leave.

She was finally, completely, an outsider.