Chapter 4: Brother, Your Hush Money Is Too Cheap

Serena's POV

The study was silent except for our breathing.

Documents scattered across the desk, a pen rolled to the edge of the carpet, and the glass window reflected our disheveled silhouettes.

Clothes askew, utterly wrecked.

Julian came to his senses first.

He braced himself on either side of me, looking down, his chest still heaving as the loss of control in his eyes gradually receded.

I sat up slowly.

My uniform was a crumpled mess, two buttons had popped off, and marks he'd left covered my shoulders and neck.

Julian stared at those marks, his expression darkening.

"Fix your clothes," he said.

I looked down and pulled the fabric that had slipped to my elbows back onto my shoulders, fastening the remaining buttons with deliberate slowness. Slow enough that I was draining Julian's patience again.

"Serena." A warning.

I met his eyes. "What?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he looked away. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I asked, knowing perfectly well.

He didn't answer.

I smiled and reached for my shoe on the floor. The moment I bent down, a sharp ache shot through my waist.

I paused for a second before slipping on my shoe as if nothing had happened.

Julian saw it. He instinctively stepped forward, then forced himself to stop.

I smoothed down my wrinkled skirt, glanced at my disheveled uniform, then looked back at him.

"You need to pay up, Young Master."

Julian's face went cold at the title.

I gestured at the shattered glass and scattered documents on the floor. "Besides paying for the sexual services I provided, there's also cleaning fees.

After all, my job today was serving drinks downstairs, not playing janitor."

Julian stared at me. For a moment, his expression was priceless.

Like he wanted to strangle me, or pin me back down on that desk and shut me up.

In the end, he just let out a cold laugh. "You're that desperate for money?"

I smiled back. "And whose fault is that?"

"Three million dollars, Young Master."

I reminded him. "Education, medical expenses, gowns, equestrian lessons, piano, social connections. You itemized everything very clearly."

I bent down to pick up a document from the floor, dusted it off, and placed it back on the desk.

"Every second of my time costs money now."

Julian fell silent, then turned to retrieve a checkbook from the drawer. He tore off a check and tossed it in front of me.

"What happened tonight stays between us."

I picked it up and glanced at the amount. Three thousand dollars.

"Jules," I looked up at him, "is Kincaid family hush money really this cheap?"

Julian's fingers tightened. "I told you not to call me that." He stared at me, then wrote another check.

This time, twenty thousand dollars. He pressed it onto the desk and pushed it toward me. "Is this enough?"

I looked at those numbers. Still far from three million.

But this wasn't about fair compensation. This was about establishing a pattern, proving he'd pay to keep me quiet.

Twenty thousand today meant there'd be more tomorrow. I just needed to know how far I could push before he stopped writing checks.

I folded both checks neatly. "Thank you, Young Master," I said. "Consider this the first installment."

Then I pulled open the study door.

The cold air from the hallway hit me, making me shiver. My legs felt unsteady, each step requiring more effort than it should.

From somewhere downstairs, the sound of the party drifted up, glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the halls.

That's when I saw Chloe at the end of the corridor, her hand raised as if she'd been about to knock on the study door. She froze when she saw me.

"Serena?" she called softly, her voice uncertain. "What are you doing here? I was looking for Julian..."

Her words trailed off as her gaze traveled from my disheveled hair to my wrinkled collar, then landed on the marks along my neck.

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Confusion, then realization, then something harder to name.

I smiled. "Nothing. He's inside if you need him."

As I walked past her, she reached out as if to stop me, then let her hand drop. "Serena," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly, "why do you always have to take what's mine?"

I stopped. For a second, I almost laughed. But when I turned to look at her, I saw the tears gathering in her eyes, the way her hands clenched at her sides.

"Chloe," I said, "you've got it wrong."

I held her gaze. "I'm a victim too."

I didn't wait for her response.

I walked through the hallway toward the servants' back staircase, my footsteps echoing against the marble floor.

The ache in my body sharpened with each step, but I kept my spine straight, my pace steady.

Martha, the head housekeeper and wife of old Butler Bell, stood guard at the stairwell. When she saw me returning with my clothes in disarray, her shrewd eyes filled with contempt.

"Serena, the party isn't even over. Where have you been slacking off?"

She kicked a basket reeking of alcohol and grease toward my feet.

"Have these tablecloths hand-washed by six tomorrow morning. Don't think you can sleep in like before. The Kincaid household doesn't keep freeloaders."

I looked at the basket of filthy linens. The old Serena would probably have thrown that basket in her face. But now all I could do was nod calmly. "Yes, Mrs. Martha."

She seemed disappointed by my lack of reaction, snorted coldly, and waddled away.

I picked up the heavy basket, the rough wicker cutting into my palms.

This was my reality now. I needed money, and fast. Pay back every cent I owe them, then get the hell out of here.

After dumping the tablecloths in the laundry room, I finally returned to my room. I peeled off the wrinkled uniform, ready to shower.

As I turned around, I noticed a paper bag on my bed with no name on it.

Inside was that black lace thong. Washed clean, even folded into a neat little square.

I raised an eyebrow. At the bottom of the bag was a note, the handwriting messy.

"Washed it! Returning your clothes!"

I stared at those words for a few seconds, then couldn't help but laugh.

How obedient.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up my contacts, and typed out a message before hitting send.

"Got the panties. Didn't expect the hockey captain to have such a talent for washing women's underwear."

Less than three seconds after I sent it, the screen showed "typing..."

It blinked for about ten seconds, then stopped.

Two seconds later, "typing..." appeared again. I could practically picture Asher on the other end, fuming, face red, typing out angry responses only to delete them.

A full minute passed before my phone finally vibrated. He only sent two words:

"Shut up."

Even through the screen, I could smell the barely contained rage.

I smiled, locked my screen, and ignored him.

After my shower, I lay down in bed and had just closed my eyes when my phone buzzed.

A notification from Blackwood University's forum.

The headline read: "Fake Heiress Serena Seen Leaving Locker Room in Hockey Captain's Jersey, Suspected Seduction."

The attached photo showed me walking out of the hockey arena wearing that jersey.

I opened the thread. The top post was pinned by the moderators, announcing tomorrow night's charity auction. Volunteers needed. Compensation structure clearly outlined: thirty percent of the winning bid.

Below that, the comments had already devolved into a feeding frenzy.

"Seriously? She's been away from the Kincaids for like three days and she's already this desperate for men?"

"Fake is fake. Played princess for eighteen years but she's trash underneath."

"Asher's standards must be rock bottom. Fine to mess around with girls like her, but don't catch feelings."

"I heard she owes the Kincaids a ton of money. No wonder she's trying so hard."

I scrolled through expressionlessly. Then an anonymous comment appeared, quickly getting pushed to the top by upvotes.

"Think she'll volunteer for the auction tomorrow? She's broke enough. Bet she'd sell herself for pocket change."

The replies were full of mockery.

"If she shows up, I'll bid one dollar."

"One dollar's too much. Fakes should be discounted."

"Don't say that. She used to be a Kincaid princess. She's worth at least the price of a glass of champagne."

I stared at that pinned post about the auction. Volunteers get thirty percent of the sale price. I read it again, then locked my phone.

Thirty percent. That was no small amount.