Days bled into weeks—until Ruhi stopped counting them altogether. Morning and night became the same shade of gray.

She scrubbed marble floors streaked with dried blood, the red turning brown beneath her hands. The stains never quite went away—no matter how much bleach she used. She ironed crisp shirts that reeked faintly of smoke and gunpowder, each fold sharp as a warning. She changed bedsheets heavy with the scent of perfume, sweat, and something darker—desperation, perhaps, or guilt disguised as pleasure.

Sometimes, while dusting the long, dim corridors, she’d hear sounds coming from behind locked doors—muffled voices, moans, the scrape of a chair, and the echo of a slap. Not the kind born of love. But of power.

Once, a door had been left slightly ajar. She’d heard a man’s low voice—smooth, commanding, cruel. “Stai zitta… non parlare… solo piacere.” (Shut up… don’t speak… just pleasure.)

Ruhi had frozen mid-step, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then she’d hurried past, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Later, she saw the woman who had been inside stumbling down the hallway, lipstick smeared, mascara streaking down her face. A diamond earring hung from only one ear. The woman caught Ruhi’s gaze for half a second—her eyes hollow, her mouth trembling in a smile that didn’t reach anywhere near her soul.

And Ruhi understood. Cruelty was not punished here. It was performed. Laughter was a weapon, and silence was the only shield.

She learned to keep her eyes low and her steps light. She endured the whispers, the snickers, and the names that dripped like venom from Bianca’s tongue. She learned the rhythm of the mansion—the sound of boots echoing in the hall before danger arrived, the hush that fell before midnight when secrets were buried and debts were collected.

Each night, she returned to her narrow bed in the basement—cold mattress, paper-thin blanket, and the tiny Ganesh idol hidden beneath her pillow. She’d close her eyes, pressing it to her chest, and whisper the same prayer: Keep Aarav safe. Just him. That’s all I ask.

Because she was no longer Ruhi Rawat, the girl who once dreamt of saving lives. That Ruhi had been left behind in another country, another lifetime. Here, she was just a shadow—silent, invisible, surviving. A servant in a mansion built on sin and silence.

And somewhere above her, at the very top of this gilded prison, ruled the man everyone whispered about but never dared to name aloud—Don Gabriele Colombo.

She hadn’t seen him yet…. But she felt him.

In the way Rosa’s voice lowered when giving orders. In the way the guards stood straighter when passing certain doors. In the way every maid froze when footsteps echoed from the upper floor—slow, deliberate, and heavy with power. His presence clung to the air like the scent of smoke after a fire—invisible, but inescapable.

A few days later,

The afternoon sun slanted through the open courtyard, spilling across the lines of wet laundry fluttering in the breeze. The scent of detergent and damp cotton filled the air as Ruhi worked methodically, wringing out each shirt, her palms rough from soap and cold water.

It was one of those rare quiet hours—when the mansion above slept, and the maids below could breathe. Or so she thought. A sound drifted through the corridor…. Low. Breathless... A soft moan—followed by a man’s voice, speaking Italian in tones that needed no translation.

Ruhi froze… The sound came from one of the storage rooms—the one that was always locked. Her heart hammered. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But curiosity—or perhaps fear—made her fingers tremble toward the half-open door.

She pushed it slightly, and then she saw…Divya.

Pressed against the wall, her dark hair loose, her lips swollen, her dress half-slipped off her shoulder. And with her—a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his shirt open at the collar, his voice a low rumble of command. He wasn’t one of the guards. His suit was too fine, his shoes too polished. His presence… too powerful.

When he finally stepped back, buttoning his shirt with lazy confidence, he glanced at Ruhi for a fleeting second—a look so sharp it made her spine lock. Then he muttered something in Italian and left, the door slamming behind him.

Divya straightened her dress, her breathing uneven. For a moment, silence. Then she turned—and her eyes met Ruhi’s.

“You… what did you see?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Ruhi hesitated. “Nothing. I didn’t mean to—”

Divya gave a short, shaky laugh. “You saw enough.” She leaned back against the wall, brushing a hand through her tangled hair. “His name is Luca Colombo...Gabriele’s younger brother.”

Ruhi blinked. “Colombo?”

Divya nodded, a strange pride flickering in her eyes. “He’s wanted me for months. I tried to resist, but… look around, Ruhi. What else do we have here? A name, a face, a little attention—that’s all it takes to survive.”

Ruhi stepped closer, voice soft. “Don’t say that. Don’t… use such a word for yourself.”

Divya’s smile curved, bitter and knowing. “You mean a whore?”

Ruhi’s throat tightened. “You’re more than that. You can do much greater things, Divya.”

Divya’s laughter cracked through the air, low and sharp. “Greater? Here? You think anyone here gets to be more than what the Colombos allow?” She turned away, gathering her shawl. “Luca can never marry me. I know that. But until he finds his next toy—I’m his. His mistress.”

She said it almost proudly now, as if defiance could disguise despair. “Do you know what that means, Ruhi? A room of my own. Good food. Dresses. Protection. All the benefits of belonging to someone powerful.”

Ruhi looked at her—really looked. At the faint red mark on her neck, at the trembling of her fingers that didn’t match her words. And in that moment, she understood something bitter and cruel about this place. Everyone here was owned by someone. The only difference was the price they agreed to pay.

Ruhi whispered, “Not everything that shines is safety, Divya.”

Divya turned, her eyes glossy. “And not everything that’s safe keeps you alive, Ruhi.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them—two women, two paths, both trapped under the same roof of sin and silence. Outside, the wind caught the drying sheets and made them billow like ghosts.