Chapter 3 The Sanitation

Ivy Heights was more than just an elite enclave; it was a fortress of sin masked in white marble. As the black SUV wound up the long driveway, I watched the massive gates swing open—an iron maw ready to swallow anyone foolish enough to enter. Every lamppost and CCTV camera we passed felt like a judging eye, tracking the very rhythm of my breath.

This was the home of The Sanctum. From the outside, it looked like a prestigious university or a world-class museum. Inside, I knew the truth: it was a factory. A place where living weapons were forged and wrapped in beauty.

When I stepped out, the air hit me with the scent of fresh-cut grass and expensive irrigation. It was too clean. Too quiet. The silence here was deafening, a sharp contrast to the gunfire and screams of the Iron Roots. But as I crossed the grand foyer, the sharp click of the guards’ boots on the marble floor sounded like a fuse being lit in my mind.

The polished floor blurred. In my mind’s eye, the white lights bled into red.

The expensive sandalwood diffusing through the air suddenly smelled like smoke and rotting paper. The silent foyer was suddenly haunted by the ghosts of sirens—that soul-piercing wail of the police that shattered my life ten years ago.

Scandal Day.

I remembered our mansion’s foyer being just as crowded with men in suits, but they weren’t guests. They were vultures disguised as lawmen. I remembered my father’s face. He wasn’t looking at the media cameras swarming the gates; he was looking at me. He was pale, his hands trembling as the cold steel of the handcuffs ratcheted shut around his wrists.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Senator Silas shaking hands with officials, a mask of fake grief on his face while he palmed my father’s gold fountain pen from the desk. It was a betrayal orchestrated by friends, executed by the law, and witnessed by a child who could do nothing but watch.

“Everything will be fine, Margo,” Papa had whispered before they shoved him into the patrol car.

He lied. Nothing was ever “fine” again. Every dream turned to ash; every laugh became a sob, until eventually, my heart turned to stone.

“Move it, girl. Don’t just stand there like an idiot. This isn’t a park for daydreaming,” a guard barked, shoving my shoulder.

Reality snapped back. The sirens vanished, replaced by the suffocating luxury of the Sanctum. But the rage simmering in my marrow was hotter than the fire that had consumed my home.

“Take her to the Prep Room. Madame doesn’t like waiting for dirty assets,” a woman in a sterile uniform ordered. Her voice was flat, robotic.

I was led into a room of glass and steel. It looked like a cross between a high-end lab and an upscale morgue. Two women approached me carrying industrial scrubbers, antiseptic solutions, and chemicals that looked like they were meant for embalming a corpse.

“The Conservator wants her pristine. Every inch must be sanitized,” one said, stripping me of my clothes without a word of preamble.

I stood tall. I let them take my rags—the only armor I had on the streets. As the fabric fell away, the chill of the air conditioning kissed my skin. I felt exposed, not just physically, but spiritually. But I gave them nothing. No flinch, no shame. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, counting tiles to drown out the violation of my privacy.

The high-pressure water was ice-cold. They used abrasive sponges to scour my skin, dragging them across my back and the soles of my feet as if trying to peel the very soul of the Iron Roots off my body. It was brutal; my skin felt like it was on the verge of bleeding under their weight. They doused me in hospital-grade disinfectants before finishing with oils that cost more than a year of my life.

They were trying to erase the last three years. They wanted to wash away the grease of the jazz club, the blood of the men I’d fought in the slums, and the scent of poverty that had become my second skin. But what they didn’t realize was that hate doesn’t wash off. It was etched into my DNA.

As the layers of grime were stripped away, my skin began to glow under the harsh LEDs. It was as pale as the day I watched the news of my father’s arrest. The “muddy” girl was gone, replaced by the porcelain skin of a true Valderama.

“Look at that,” one of the cleaners whispered as she combed through my damp hair. She looked awestruck. “Under all that filth, she’s actually a gem. What a waste if she breaks. Most of them don’t last a month under Madame’s thumb.”

“Quiet. We aren’t paid to think or pity,” her partner snapped, dusting me with a powder that smelled of vanilla and jasmine.

They dressed me in a thin, white silk slip. It was nearly transparent, clinging to my damp curves, leaving nothing to the imagination but everything to the power play. It was simple, yet it showcased a body hardened by hunger and battle. They dried my hair until it shone like a raven’s wing, flowing down my back in dark waves.

“She’s ready. Bring her to the Balcony for inspection.”

I was marched through long, white corridors lined with abstract gold-and-black paintings. The Sanctum felt like a shrine dedicated to the worship of beauty and the enslavement of the weak.

We reached the central hall—a vast, hollow space. Above us, on a grand mezzanine of ivory and gold, stood a woman who seemed untouched by time. Madame Viveca Thorne.

“Madame V, the asset is ready.”

Viveca was the definition of lethal elegance. Dressed in a black cocktail dress of liquid silk, her hair was swept into a perfect updo without a single strand out of place. Her eyes were sharp—an eagle watching a rabbit. She looked down at me as if I were a cut of meat she was considering for a banquet.

Beside her stood Julian. He had changed into a fresh suit, hands deep in his pockets. He looked different here—he was the master of this domain, the prince of this twisted castle. He watched me intently, his gaze scanning my clean face, my neck, down to my bare feet on the cold marble.

“So, this is what you found in the mud, Julian?” Viveca’s voice was like a silk cord tightening around a throat. Calm, beautiful, and deadly. “She has the face… a bit too familiar, don’t you think? But does she have the spine to be one of my Proteges?”

My blood boiled. Too familiar. I knew she recognized me. But to her, I was just a useless shadow of the past. This woman—the one who manipulated the courts, who whispered the lies that killed my mother, and who sat on the throne my father built—was looking at me with pity.

I wanted to leap onto that mezzanine. I wanted to sink my nails into her throat until she couldn’t speak another lie. I wanted to scream in her face that I am Margo Valderama, the girl whose life she set on fire.

But I held it in. I channeled that rage into a cold, hard knot in my gut. To kill a snake, you must first let it think you’re just a blade of grass.

I bowed. A perfect, graceful bow—not out of respect, but to hide the fire in my eyes. I summoned the poise and etiquette I had been taught as a child and used it as a mask.

“I am whatever you want me to be, Madame,” I whispered. My voice was soft and melodic, but with an edge I knew Julian would catch.

Viveca let out a small, chilling laugh that echoed through the hall. “Confidence. I like that. It makes the breaking process so much more rewarding. But here in the Sanctum, confidence is the first thing we break. We don’t need girls with minds of their own. We need mirrors—reflecting exactly what our clients desire.”

She glanced at Julian, her eyes full of doubt. “Give her to Tess. Let’s see if she survives the first week of refinement. Start her at the lowest rank. If she fails, throw her back to the Iron Roots—or better yet, to the docks. I don’t waste resources on broken dolls who can’t dance.”

Julian nodded, but his eyes never left mine. There was something in his gaze I couldn’t decipher—regret? Or anticipation?

“I’ll handle her, Mother,” was all he said.

As the guards escorted me toward the West Wing, I felt Viveca’s stare on the back of my neck, as if she were counting every vertebra in my spine. I didn’t look back. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my fear, because I felt none.

All I felt was the weight of the secret I carried. I gripped the silk of my slip—the fabric I used to hate was now the very thing I would use to get close to them.

Madame Viveca thinks she is the master of this palace. She thinks she can “clean” a girl and expect a blank slate. She doesn’t realize she just invited the plague into her home. And I will make sure that by the time I’m done, even the white marble of Ivy Heights will be stained with the color of her blood.

The sanitization was over. The filth was gone. But the real dirt—the secrets, the lies, and the vengeance—was just beginning to settle.

“Welcome to hell, Eris,” the guard whispered, swinging open the doors to the West Wing.

I stepped inside, head held high. Hell is where I’ve been living for years. This was just a change of scenery.