Nights in the Colombo Estate were never truly silent. Silence, here, had its own kind of noise — a suffocating hum that lived in the walls. The servant quarters were buried deep beneath the mansion, their thin plaster walls trembling with every echo from above.

Ruhi would lie on her narrow cot, staring at the cracked ceiling, and listen. The sounds came in fragments — distant gunshots that made her flinch even when they were muffled by the stone floors, the coarse laughter of men who never learned the meaning of restraint, the sharp staccato of heels pacing the marble corridors. Then the doors — slamming, again and again, as if the house itself was angry.

And sometimes… sometimes, she’d hear the worst of it — the faint, broken sobs of women. Voices that pleaded softly in languages she couldn’t understand. Beds creaking. Then silence again….Heavy, haunted silence.

She would curl tighter under her blanket, pressing the edge of her pillow to her ears, whispering quiet prayers to the small Ganesh idol by her bedside — the only remnant of her old life. It had been barely three weeks since she’d arrived. Twenty-one days of endless work, sleepless nights, and quiet dread. And already, everything felt wrong.

There was a rhythm to this place — one she couldn’t quite grasp but could feel pulsing beneath her feet. Every look, every command, every hurried whisper between servants carried a strange weight. The cooks avoided certain corridors after sunset. Guards exchanged glances when a particular car pulled into the driveway.

No one ever said his name aloud after dark….Don Gabriele Colombo.

Ruhi didn’t know him. But she knew his power. It lived in the air — thick and sharp as smoke. Even the chandeliers seemed to tremble when his footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had come here believing she was trading her freedom for stability — a job, a salary, something to send back home to Aarav. But now, as she watched the shadows shift along the damp walls, she wasn’t so sure she’d made a bargain with survival.

She sat on her cot, back curled, hands clenched tight in her lap. The thin mattress sagged beneath her, its metal frame creaking every time she breathed.

In her palm lay a tiny photo — corners worn, edges soft from being touched too many times. Aarav….Her baby brother…sixteen years old, dressed in his school uniform, collar slightly crooked, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. His eyes — wide and bright — carried that same fragile hope she used to live on.

Ruhi ran her thumb gently over the photograph, tracing the outline of his face. The gesture was instinctive, almost like a prayer. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the weight of his head on her shoulder, hear his voice calling her Didi, smell the faint soap from their tiny bathroom back home. Her throat burned.

“Did you eat?” she whispered into the quiet. “Did you sleep alright? Did mama(uncle) remember to pack your lunch?”

Each question fell into the stillness, unanswered. Only the dim buzz of the overhead bulb replied — flickering weakly, casting shadows that made the room feel smaller. The air carried the sour tang of bleach and damp cloth, sharp enough to sting her nose.

Ruhi blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back. She couldn’t afford them. Not here. Not when weakness was noticed — and punished. She folded the photo carefully and slid it under her pillow, the way she used to tuck Aarav in before bedtime. Her fingers lingered there for a moment, unwilling to let go.

Then she whispered, “I’ll send money soon, Aarav. Just a few more days.” Her voice trembled. “I’ll make it work.”

But deep down, she knew the truth — money wasn’t the only thing she owed him. She owed him a childhood she could never give back. And every day she spent in this cold, foreign prison of marble and fear, that guilt grew heavier.

She leaned back against the wall, her eyes tracing the cracks above her cot. The night hummed faintly with distant sounds — footsteps, laughter, the growl of a car engine somewhere far above. And as she drifted between exhaustion and grief, one thought anchored itself in her chest — she had come here to save him. But she wasn’t sure who would save her.

“Still awake?”

The voice came from the doorway — low, smooth, and edged with fatigue. Ruhi looked up to see Divya standing there, wrapped in a pale silk shawl that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Her hair was loose tonight, falling over one shoulder, and there was a faint trace of lipstick still clinging to her mouth — a reminder of where she’d been, or with whom.

“I— I’m sorry,” Ruhi stammered, straightening up on her cot. “I was just—”

Divya waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. I’m not here to catch you doing something wrong. God knows, if sleeplessness were a crime in this house, we’d all be in chains.”

Ruhi gave a small, uncertain smile. Divya stepped inside and sat on the edge of the opposite cot, folding her shawl neatly in her lap. For a moment, she just studied Ruhi — really studied her, her tired face, her trembling hands, the small Ganesh idol on the side table.

Then she asked softly, “Why, Ruhi?”

Ruhi blinked. “Why what?”

“Why would a girl like you leave everything — your country, your people — to come here?” Divya’s voice was calm, but her eyes were searching. “You could’ve cleaned houses back home too, no? At least there, you’d understand the language.”

Ruhi hesitated. No one had asked her that before. Not with such raw curiosity.

She looked down at her hands — cracked from detergent and cold water — and drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to,” she whispered. “I left because there was nothing left.”

Divya tilted her head slightly but said nothing.

“I was married,” Ruhi began, the words tasting strange after being buried so long. “When I was nineteen. My parents thought it was a good match. The man promised he’d take care of my brother, Aarav. He said he’d support my studies. I wanted to be a doctor.”

Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “But dreams don’t matter in poor homes.”

Divya’s expression softened — the kind of softness that comes from knowing pain too well. “What happened?” she asked quietly.

Ruhi’s fingers tightened in her lap. “He never loved me. Said it straight to my face — that I was ugly, fat, not worth looking at. I stayed anyway. Because I thought maybe he’d change. Because Aarav needed the roof over our heads.”

Her voice faltered. “He came to me once a month… like a chore. Just to try for a child. And when I didn’t conceive, he blamed me.”

Divya’s brows knitted. “Men always find someone to blame.”

“The doctor said I can’t have children,” Ruhi murmured. “I’m barren. So he gave me divorce papers and left. I didn’t even fight.” She drew in a trembling breath. “And that same night… my parents were on their way to take me home.”

Divya froze, her breath catching.

“They never made it,” Ruhi whispered. “A car accident. Both gone before morning.”

The room fell into heavy silence. Only the bulb above them flickered, its faint buzz filling the hollow space between words.

“I had no job. No money. Just Aarav. sixteen. Hungry. Scared. And me… I couldn’t even cry properly. There wasn’t time.”

Divya swallowed, her gaze darting away. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“So when a friend — your friend, actually,” Ruhi continued quietly, “told me about this job which paid a good amount… I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t care who I was working for. I just said yes.”

Divya’s eyes widened. “Ishita?”

Ruhi nodded faintly. “She said you were here. She said it was hard, but safe. She was wrong about that last part.”

Divya exhaled slowly, guilt flashing across her face. “I told Ishita to send someone strong, but… I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Ruhi interrupted softly. “I’m not blaming you. I came here on my own feet.”

Divya looked at her — really looked — and for a fleeting moment, the usual sharpness in her eyes faded. What replaced it was something else. Something close to sorrow.

She reached out, hesitated, then placed her hand gently over Ruhi’s. “You don’t belong in a place like this, Ruhi,” she said quietly. “You still… believe in good things. That’s dangerous here.”

Ruhi smiled weakly. “Maybe. But if I stop believing, what’s left?”

Divya’s eyes didn’t blink. “How old is your brother?”

“sixteen,” Ruhi whispered.

“You’re raising him alone now?”

She nodded. “He’s in India. With my uncle. I send every cent I earn here back to him.”

Divya leaned back against the cot’s metal frame, silent for a long time. Then she exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh.

“I get it,” she murmured. “More than you think.”

Ruhi looked up, startled. “You do?”

Divya gave a small nod, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling. “I came here when I was eighteen. Fresh out of nursing school. Thought I was coming to work for a rich Italian family as a caretaker.” Her mouth curled in a hollow smile. “Turns out I was just another maid. Another body for the Colombo house to use.”

Ruhi frowned softly. “You’ve been here long?”

“Almost ten years now,” Divya said. Her tone carried no pride — only quiet exhaustion. “And I’ve seen more in this place than anyone should. Men dragged in bleeding. Women leaving in tears. Deals made over blood and champagne.”

She paused, eyes narrowing. “There’s no leaving the Colombos, Ruhi. Not alive, at least.”

Ruhi felt her chest tighten. “Are they… really that dangerous?”

Divya looked at her for a long moment before replying. When she spoke again, her voice was low, deliberate. “This house isn’t a home. It’s a graveyard dressed in marble. And the man who rules it…” — her expression darkened — “you haven’t met him yet, have you?”

Ruhi shook her head hesitantly. “Don Gabriele?”

Divya’s lips tightened. “Gabriele Colombo,” she said, each word sharp as glass. “He’s not a man, Ruhi. He’s a storm in human skin. Raised by a father worse than the devil, taught that mercy is weakness. Gabriele killed his first man when he was fourteen — shot him through the head. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.”

Ruhi’s stomach churned. “He… killed someone at fourteen?”

“Someone?” Divya scoffed softly. “Many. Since then, he’s never stopped.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes steady on Ruhi’s. “He doesn’t love. Doesn’t trust. Doesn’t forgive. He was born into violence and shaped by it. Women are just... ornaments to him. Things he owns for a while before discarding.”

Ruhi’s voice was barely a whisper. “Then why do people still stay near him?”

“Because he’s beautiful,” Divya said simply. “Because power is seductive. Because people mistake danger for depth. He’s the kind of man who looks at you once, and you think he’s seen your soul — but he’s only measuring how fast he can break it.”

She leaned back slowly, a bitter smile ghosting across her lips. “That emptiness in him — it pulls people in. But if you get too close…”

Her gaze turned distant. “You fall. And he doesn’t catch.”

A long silence followed — only the faint hum of the flickering light filled the space between them. Ruhi pulled her shawl tighter around herself, a chill crawling down her spine.

“Stay away from him, Ruhi,” Divya warned softly. “Do your work, keep your head down, and be invisible. He doesn’t notice most maids. Don’t give him a reason to notice you.”

Ruhi nodded, her voice trembling. “I don’t want trouble.”

Divya’s smile was small and sad. “No one does. But in this house, trouble doesn’t knock — it tears the door down.”

She stood and walked to the doorway, adjusting her shawl. For a second, the light caught her face — revealing something raw, almost haunted beneath her calm.

“I meant what I said,” she murmured. “I’ll watch your back for as long as I can. But never forget where you are, Ruhi.”

She lifted her chin toward the marble ceilings above them.

“You’re standing in a house built on blood. You can mop the floors, scrub the stains, pray all you want… but the blood always finds its way back to the surface.”

Then she turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Ruhi sat in the silence that followed, staring up at the cracks in the stone ceiling.

She had always believed her pain was her own — something singular, unshared. But now she understood. Every person in this place was running from something — a past, a sin, a promise broken. And in this kingdom of monsters, even the servants carried ghosts.