Chapter2

Thirty-seven custom Louis Vuitton trunks lined the estate's paved driveway.

"Move them all to the guest rooms in the East Wing," Valentina ordered, stepping out of a luxury sedan. "And watch your hands. Scratch a fraction of that leather, and you couldn't cover the cost with a kidney."

Her stilettos clicked sharply against the asphalt. The flared crimson dress she wore acted as a loud, arrogant declaration to the entire estate: she was the future lady of the house.

Whispers had already swept through the servant quarters—the Rossi family was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. This marriage was a desperate, all-in gamble to save her bloodline. And as a nameless, bottom-tier maid, I was the most convenient stepping stone for her to establish dominance upon her arrival.

I didn't dare hesitate. Gritting my teeth, I hauled the heavy luggage up the grand staircase. By the time I dragged the final trunk into the second-floor corridor, a violent wave of dizziness hit me. I clamped a hand over my mouth, leaning heavily against the flocked wallpaper as an unbearable urge to heave clawed up my throat.

Footsteps stopped right behind me. A crisp, chilling scent of cedarwood instantly enveloped me.

"Are you sick?"

The deep, masculine voice drifted down from above, carrying a faint trace of concern.

I snapped out of my daze and turned. Asher's dark gray eyes were fixed on me, his brows knit tightly. His gaze swept over my trembling shoulders before locking onto the hand I had subconsciously curled over my stomach. A fleeting flicker of scrutiny and tension crossed his eyes.

In an estate swarming with informants and rival spies, he never exposed a vulnerability. But that unhinged night three months ago had been his one disastrous exception. Seeing my reflexive, protective posture must have triggered a subconscious, almost instinctual question from him.

He took a half-step closer. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"

I froze, my heart violently skipping a beat.

In this house, servants were nothing but disposable tools to him—pawns to be sacrificed for the family's gain without a second thought. He was never one to care.

But before I could scramble for an answer, his private phone rang. The screen lit up in his palm, and Valentina's name flashed glaringly bright.

She was a crucial alliance; there was absolutely zero room for error.

The brief anomaly in Asher's eyes vanished instantly. His tone settled into a practiced, gentle familiarity: "Val, I'm heading down now."

He turned away abruptly, his broad shoulder brushing past mine, stripping me of every ounce of his attention.

The fleeting, ridiculous warmth that had bloomed in my chest turned ice-cold.

I scoffed at myself. How could I harbor even a shred of hope in a ruthless, cold-blooded mafia boss? He didn't have a soft spot for anyone; that brief question was nothing more than an aimless instinct.

By eight o'clock, the welcome banquet was in full swing.

I carried a tray loaded with champagne flutes, pressing myself deep into the shadows of a marble pillar, desperate to erase my presence. The dull, persistent ache in my lower abdomen was a constant reminder of the lethal secret growing inside me.

I rested my free hand gently against my stomach, a sudden, unprecedented surge of fierce protectiveness rising from within.

I used to only care about my own survival. But ever since those two red lines flashed on that plastic stick, this tiny life had become my sole anchor in this nightmare—and my ultimate weakness. I couldn't die here, and neither could my baby. Every indignity I swallowed, every shadow I hid within, was to protect the child I carried.

"Asher, is this the diligent maid you mentioned?"

Valentina approached me, her arm intimately linked through Asher's. Her posture was elegant, but the hostility radiating from her was unmistakable.

Asher stood under the chandelier, clutching a glass of whiskey. His expression was completely detached, his gaze washing over me as if quietly validating all of Valentina's words.

Valentina's perfectly manicured fingers tapped lightly against the edge of my silver tray.

"Asher actually brought you up before. He said you're his most trusted servant... that you always keep your head down in his study, never looking, never listening."

She dragged out the syllables with a deliberate sneer. "He said you were such a 'good girl'."

Clang.

A silver cocktail fork slipped off my tray and hit the marble floor. My throat instantly went tight with a bitter, acidic sting.

I vividly remembered that dead of night three months ago. Drugged and spiraling, he had pinned me helplessly to the rug. His feverish, heavy breaths had seared my ear as he rasped out that exact phrase: You're such a good girl.

I had been absurd enough to think that, in the chaos of his chemical high, he had shed his icy mafia-boss exterior—that for one split second, he had actually looked at me, desired me. I had selfishly hoarded that pathetic little tremble in my heart like a lifeline in hell.

But in reality, those breathless, midnight whispers were just a cheap, recycled compliment meant for a bottom-feeder servant.

I looked up at Asher. He lowered his eyes, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. He didn't deny a word of it.

In that moment, the last, ridiculous illusions I clung to shattered into ash.

"I apologize, Miss. My hand slipped," I said, bowing my head to bury the devastation in my chest.

Valentina scoffed, waving a hand in pure disgust. "Stay away from me. Don't let your poverty stink up my gown."

I stayed silent, clutching the tray as I bowed and backed away, stepping out of the glaring, suffocating noise of the banquet hall.

It wasn't until I crossed into the dim, secluded service corridor of the prep kitchen, totally cut off from the party's sightlines, that my legs gave out. I bit down hard on my lower lip and fiercely hugged my stomach. Don't be scared, baby. Just wait a little longer. Mommy won't let anyone hurt you. You're my only way out now, my only reason to keep breathing.

I leaned my back against an industrial water pipe, dragging in deep gulps of air to suppress the physical nausea and the crushing despair.

"You don't belong here washing dishes."

A steady, aged female voice echoed sharply behind me.

My heart violently seized as I whipped around.

It was the Madame—Mrs. Vance, Asher's mother. She lived out her days secluded in the rear courtyards, notoriously detached from estate affairs, practically never setting foot in the main house. Yet here she stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, draped in thick black velvet. Her gaze was chillingly calm.

Panicking, I jerked my hands away from my abdomen and clumsily tried to mask my stance. "Madame Vance... I... I'm just having some stomach pain."

She didn't step closer. Those deep, penetrating eyes—identical to Asher's—glided over me. They took in my bloodless, pallid complexion, then drifted down to lock onto the barely suppressed tension around my midsection. She paused there for a long, heavy moment.

She had survived decades of mafia turf wars and internal bloodbaths. She had personally witnessed the brutal, agonizing lengths women in syndicates went to, hiding pregnancies just to survive. My pale face, the frequent dry heaving, the instinctual guarding of my core—those erratic details seamlessly pieced together a crystal-clear truth.

After what felt like an eternity, she slowly spoke. "You have the exact same look in your eyes that I did, decades ago. It is the look of a woman who will stir up monumental trouble, yet finds herself hopelessly cornered by fate."

Cold sweat instantly pooled in my palms.

She knew.

The matriarch didn't offer another syllable. She simply turned and disappeared into the shadowed corridor.

I slid down the wall until I hit the tiled floor, completely drained of strength.

The Code Red lockdown was still in full effect. The electronic gates were dead-bolted, all exits highly restricted. No one could move freely. Outside these walls, Asher had unleashed a $100,000 bounty to hunt down the faceless woman who had "climbed into his bed and shamed the family," promising a merciless execution.

Ahead of me was the iron-fisted Godfather who wanted me dead; behind me was his fiancée, who already viewed me as a thorn in her side. And I was carrying a forbidden secret with absolutely no way out.

The lockdown still had three brutal days remaining.

Before the net fully tightened and this secret exploded into the open, I had to take my child and fight my way out of this cannibalistic hellscape.