Chapter 2

The next morning, Ainsley's presence was everywhere.

Her expensive perfume, a cloying floral scent, clung to the air in the west wing, a stark contrast to the sterile, medicinal smell that usually dominated Dorian's private space. She had spent the night.

A maid whispered that Ainsley's luggage had been moved into the suite adjoining Dorian's. The space that had always been kept empty, reserved for... well, I had never known for what. Now I did.

I went about my duties, my face a carefully blank mask. My main job, besides being on call for Dorian's seizures, was to personally oversee his meals and his rooms. Eleanor Steele, his grandmother and the family matriarch, insisted on it. She trusted no one else to be that close to her precious heir.

I remembered Ainsley's voice from last night, the soft laughter and murmured words I'd heard through the door as I cleaned up the mess. I remembered the sound of their bedroom door closing, a definitive click that had shut me out completely.

When I entered the dining room with Dorian's breakfast tray, she was already there. She was sitting in my chair.

It wasn't officially my chair, of course. But for years, it was the one I always sat in when I had to supervise Dorian eating, making sure he took his medication. It was the chair closest to him.

Ainsley was wearing one of Dorian's silk shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It hung loosely on her frame, a clear statement of intimacy. She looked up at me as I approached, a lazy, triumphant smile playing on her lips. A dark mark, a love bite, was visible just above the collar of the shirt.

A fresh wave of pain, sharp and sickening, washed over me.

I placed the tray on the table, my hands steady despite the tremor I felt inside. I had prepared his favorite, a simple omelet with chives, the way he'd liked it since he was a boy.

"Good morning, Dorian," I said, my voice quiet and professional.

He didn't look at me. His attention was entirely on Ainsley.

"Kira, why don't you join us?" Ainsley purred, gesturing to the empty chair across the table. It was a clear taunt. She was the hostess now. I was the guest. Or worse, the help.

My emotions churned, a volatile mix of grief and anger. My hand trembled as I poured Dorian's coffee, and a few drops splashed onto the pristine white tablecloth.

I froze, my eyes darting to Dorian. I expected a sharp reprimand, a cold glare. It was the kind of mistake he never tolerated.

But he didn't even notice. He was too busy laughing at something Ainsley had whispered in his ear.

He finally turned his gaze toward me, but it was distant and cold. "Just leave it, Kira. You're making a mess."

My name on his lips sounded like an insult.

I pressed my lips together, fighting back the sting of tears. I took a napkin and began to dab at the coffee stain, my knuckles brushing against the hot porcelain of the cup. The heat seared my skin, and I flinched, pulling my hand back.

A thin red line appeared on my knuckle. A tiny, insignificant wound in the grand scheme of things, but it felt monumental.

My blood, on his table.

My eyes fell on the gilded engagement announcement that lay next to his plate. Dorian Steele & Ainsley Sandoval. My blood was staining the corner of it. How fitting.

Dorian's eyes flickered to my hand. For a split second, I saw a flicker of concern, the old, instinctual reaction of a patient toward his cure.

"Are you hurt?"

Hope, that stupid, stubborn weed, sprouted in my chest.

But then his gaze met Ainsley's, and the concern vanished, replaced by a cool indifference.

"Go put a bandage on that," he said, his voice flat. "I don't want you bleeding all over the place."

He said it as if I were a leaking pipe, an inconvenience. As if my blood wasn't the very thing that kept his heart beating.

Dirty. The word echoed in my mind. He had called me that once before, years ago, after I'd scraped my knee and tried to tend to one of his cuts. He had pushed me away, disgusted. "Don't touch me, you're dirty."

I had thought he'd grown out of that childish cruelty. I was wrong.

"Oh, you poor thing," Ainsley said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. She pulled a silk handkerchief from the pocket of the shirt-his shirt-and held it out to me. "Here. You should be more careful. People from your background aren't used to handling such fine china."

The insult was clear. I was clumsy, common, unworthy.

I remembered a time when Dorian had bandaged my hand himself. I'd cut it on a rose bush in the garden, and he had been so gentle, his touch surprisingly soft. "My brave Kira," he had said. "Always getting into trouble for me."

That memory felt like a lie now. A story from a different life.

I ignored Ainsley's handkerchief. I didn't want anything from her.

Dorian reached over and took the silk square from her, his fingers brushing against hers in a casual caress that made my stomach clench.

He didn't give it to me.

He used it to wipe the spot of blood from the invitation, his movements precise and uncaring. Then, he tossed the blood-stained handkerchief into the fireplace, where it was instantly consumed by the flames.

He was erasing me. My pain, my blood, my very existence.

"Go," he said, not even looking at me. "You're dismissed."

He and Ainsley turned back to each other, resuming their conversation as if I had never been there. As if I were just a ghost that had briefly troubled their perfect morning.

I stood there for a moment, my burned hand clenched into a fist. The pain was a sharp, grounding reality.

I turned and walked out of the room, my back straight, my head held high. I did not let them see the tears that were now streaming down my face.

I would leave. I had to leave.

I picked up the blood-stained invitation from the floor where it had fallen. I would take this with me. A reminder.

A reminder of what I was running from.

And I swore to myself, in the silent, empty hallway, that I would never, ever let him hurt me again.