Chapter 6

The doorbell woke me the next morning.

When I opened my eyes, the sky outside was just beginning to lighten, the guest room's curtains drawn tight, letting only a sliver of light slip through.

I rubbed my throbbing temples, got up, and opened the door.

Paul, the estate's butler, stood there, holding a piece of paper, his face uneasy. "Madam, Mr. Rossi asked me to give you this. It's... Miss Visconti's care instructions."

I took the paper and unfolded it, revealing two densely packed pages.

The first item read, "Prepare warm milk every morning at 7 a.m., no sugar, temperature exactly 40 degrees Celsius." The second demanded, "Breakfast must be whole-grain bread with avocado, flown in from Solara that day, no blemishes." The list went on: "Afternoon tea at 3 p.m. with freshly baked scones and cream from Devonvale," "Lights out at 10 p.m. with no noise," even specifying which direction Sophia's towels should face.

My fingers whitened as I gripped the paper.

These weren't instructions. They treated me like her servant.

"Madam?" Paul hesitated, watching me. "Mr. Rossi said to start today. Miss Visconti needs her warm milk this morning."

"Got it." I crumpled the paper, tossed it into the trash, my voice cold as ice. "Go. I'll handle it."

Paul sighed and left.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the empty hallway, took a deep breath, and headed to the kitchen.

I knew now wasn't the time to fight. I had to endure, wait until I had enough evidence, until I could strike back.

The kitchen gleamed, stainless steel appliances spotless.

I opened the fridge, stocked with luxury ingredients-Aurian wagyu, Lucentian tuna, rows of pristine fruit.

I found the milk, poured it into a pot, and measured the temperature meticulously until it hit exactly 40 degrees.

Then I poured it into a cup and carried it to the master bedroom.

The door stood slightly ajar.

Through the gap, I saw Sophia propped against the headboard, Vincent sitting beside her, reading from a book.

Sunlight streamed through the window, framing them in a cozy scene that stung my eyes.

"Come in," Vincent called.

I pushed the door open, set the milk on the bedside table, and turned to leave without looking at them.

"Wait," Sophia said suddenly. She lifted the cup, took a small sip, then frowned, setting it aside. "This milk's too cold. It'll upset my stomach. Elena, did you do this on purpose?"

I stopped, turning to face her. "I measured it with a thermometer. It's exactly 40 degrees, as you asked."

"You're talking back?" Sophia's voice rose. She looked at Vincent, her eyes instantly welling up. "Vincent, see? She doesn't want to care for me properly. I know I'm in the way, but I have no choice..."

Vincent set the book down, his gaze meeting mine with a hint of disappointment. "Elena, heat another cup. Make it warmer this time."

"Vincent!" I couldn't believe my ears. "She's obviously picking a fight!"