Ruhi served his plate last. Her hands were steady by habit, not by courage — toast, eggs, grilled vegetables, a small carafe of fresh orange juice. No chillies. Madame Rosa’s voice still rang in her ears: Not a speck of spice. His food is inspected.

She stepped back into the shadowed corner, the tray empty now, breath shallow and fingers sticky with butter. The table lowered into the soft, practiced murmur of rich people eating. Crystal chimed against porcelain. Leather whispered as knees shifted beneath the linen.

Gabriele lifted his fork, polite in the way a guillotine is polite before it falls. He chewed once, twice. Then his face changed — not surprise so much as annoyance made physical. His throat worked. A coughing fit seized him, raw and sudden, sharp as a slap. Conversation cut off like a rope being severed. Silence fell so absolute Ruhi could hear the tick of an ornamental clock three tables away.

The butler was at his elbow in a blink. 

“Signore, tutto bene?”( “Sir, are you alright?”) he asked, voice the practiced calm of someone who walks the blade of anger daily. Gabriele wiped his mouth with an expensive napkin; his fingers were steady, but the vein in his neck pulsed like a warning light.

Then the words came — low, cold, and edged with pleasure at the power they carried. “Chi cazzo ha preparato la mia colazione?” (“Who the fuck prepared my breakfast?”)

No one answered. No one dared. The butler’s face, usually smooth and composed, went slack for a heartbeat; he swallowed and pointed with a trembling hand. “She… she was assigned to prep your dish this morning, Don Gabriele.” He indicated Ruhi.

Every head turned. The air seemed to push against her from every polished surface. Heat rushed to her face. Her legs felt like cotton. She could have been a statue — placed there for spectacle.

“Vieni qui.”( “Come here.”)

The words cracked through the silence like a whip. Ruhi didn’t know much Italian — just enough to understand commands. And this one, she understood all too well. Her legs felt like they’d turned to stone, but they moved anyway. Each step toward him felt heavier than the last.

Ruhi moved as if underwater. The tray slipped from her fingers and smashed against the marble with a sound that tore through her like a physical thing. She hit the floor — the world tilting — the taste of blood metallic and immediate when her lip split on her teeth. Shame joined the pain in an ugly, hot ribbon.

He stood over her with the casual menace of a man who knew that laws, men, and morality itself bent to his will.

“Questa vacca,” he said in low, venomous Italian, each word like a blade, “ha preparato questa colazione di merda, eh?” (This cow prepared this bullshit breakfast, huh?)

The way he said it made everyone at the table shrink. Even the guards shifted — from rigid obedience to something darker, almost eager. No one breathed. No one moved. Ruhi’s fingers trembled against her scarf. She didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough — the disgust, the contempt in his tone.

Before she could stammer an excuse, his hand struck her. It was not a careless blow; it was deliberate and practiced. The slap rang off the marble like a judge’s verdict. She crumpled, palms seeking the cold floor, skin tingling where it had burned. Blood welled in her mouth, hot and sudden. Around the table, the silence grew teeth.

The butler’s face went white, as if he’d been forced to smell something foul; Bianca and the other women glanced away, their lips tight. A guard’s jaw clenched; another’s fingers tightened on his holster — for a moment, human instinct warred with fear. No one moved to help. No one offered a hand. That was part of the lesson the house taught: power isolates, and silence protects the powerful.

Gabriele leaned down so his voice was a whisper that only she could hear. “Next time,” he told her, the words slow, almost tender with menace, “check before you cook for me, or I’ll make you eat what I feed my dogs.”

He straightened as if nothing had happened, as if he’d corrected a misfiled folder. Laughter, brittle and nervous, began again at the far end of the table, a sound that tried and failed to fill the void his cruelty had made.

Divya’s face was a study in motion frozen — her lips pressed so tight the skin whitened. Madame Rosa stood like stone; for a moment her hands clenched so hard her knuckles showed white under the lamps. The butler smiled a practiced, horrified smile and retreated, carrying a new plate as if nothing had occurred. The guards shifted, eyes on the door and, more importantly, on orders. No one touched Ruhi. She remained on the floor, cheeks burning, blood in her mouth, breath coming in small, shocked gasps.

A hushed tension fell across the table. No one looked at her. No one offered a hand. The room had gone still — like air before a storm. Even the clinking of cutlery had stopped.

Ruhi stayed where she had fallen, the marble cold against her palms, her heartbeat echoing in her skull. The taste of iron coated her tongue. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint hum of music from another room, absurdly out of place in the silence that followed violence.

Madame Rosa stepped in, her face as pale as flour.

Rosa stepped forward, trembling. “Mi dispiace, Don. È nuova. Non lo sapeva.” (“I’m sorry, Don. She’s new. She didn’t know.”)

Gabriele’s chair scraped back, slow and deliberate. He wiped his hands with a linen napkin, every motion precise, composed — as if the slap hadn’t been rage but routine. “She’s lucky I didn’t shoot her,” he muttered, voice low, more to himself than anyone else.

Ruhi’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t said it to frighten her. He had said it because he meant it.

Madame Rosa stepped closer, her hands clasped tight in front of her apron. “She knows you’re allergic to chillies, Signore,” she said, forcing calm into her tone. “I checked the dish myself. Every ingredient. There was nothing wrong.”

The words hung there — heavy, dangerous. Gabriele’s fork stilled. He turned his head slightly, the faintest narrowing of his eyes — a predator scenting something off in the air. “Then someone’s lying.”

The room froze all over again.

One of the men at the table — Luca, his younger brother — gave a short laugh, too loud, too forced. “Come on, Gabriele. It’s breakfast, not a war.”

Gabriele didn’t even glance at him. His gaze swept over the servants lined along the wall — the butler, the cooks, the maids — until it landed briefly on Ruhi, still on her knees, head bowed. Then on Rosa. Then back to his plate. The silence was so tight it hummed.

Gabriele picked up his coffee, took a sip as if the conversation had ended, and gestured lazily with two fingers for the meal to continue. The rest of the family obeyed instantly — forks lifted, laughter resumed, voices rose in false normalcy. But the sound was brittle, hollow.

Ruhi stayed frozen until Rosa’s hand closed around her arm and lifted her up, not roughly, but with an urgency that said move before he changes his mind.

“Come,” Rosa murmured under her breath. “Before he decides to make an example of you.”

As they walked out of the hall, Ruhi didn’t dare look back. But she felt it — his gaze, following her. Not because he cared. Not even because he was angry. But because in his world, she had become a name. A face. And that was far more dangerous than being invisible.

Ruhi stood shakily, pressing her scarf against her bruised cheek. The skin throbbed where his hand had struck — a hot, pulsing ache that made her vision swim. Her eyes brimmed red, but she said nothing. She didn’t cry.

Madame Rosa’s hand found her arm, firm but trembling, guiding her toward the side door. The sound of laughter resumed faintly behind them — as if the violence at that table had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

In the narrow corridor, Rosa finally let out the breath she’d been holding. “It wasn’t your fault,” she hissed under her breath, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one followed. “You followed everything I told you.”

Ruhi said nothing. The world around her felt distant — a muted hum of clattering dishes, hurried footsteps, whispers that stopped when she passed. Her cheek still burned, her pride more so.

Rosa turned her around gently, inspecting the mark on her face. Her jaw tightened. “Animals,” she muttered. “All of them.”

Ruhi’s throat worked, but no words came. The only thing she could manage was a small nod.

By evening, the truth came out. The kitchen was chaos — pots clanging, voices raised, Rosa demanding to see every ingredient, every hand that had touched the dish. The head cook swore he’d seen nothing. Then a younger maid — pale, jittery, eyes darting everywhere — broke under the pressure.

“She— she left the tray for a minute,” the girl stammered. “To fetch the cutlery. I just… I thought—”

“You thought what?” Rosa barked.

The girl burst into tears. “He— he only ever praises the ones who serve him perfectly. I just wanted him to notice my work! I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to get her killed?” Rosa’s voice cracked like a whip. “You could’ve destroyed her!”

The girl sobbed harder, covering her face. But no one comforted her.

Rosa turned to Ruhi. Her fury melted into something heavier — pity. Guilt. “I’m sorry, bambina,” she murmured. “It was jealousy. Nothing more.”

Ruhi just stood there — still, small, silent — the corners of her eyes glistening. She didn’t cry then either. She only nodded once, slowly. Quietly. As if taking the weight of someone else’s sin onto herself.

That night, when she lay on her cot, the sting on her cheek had dulled — but inside, it felt like something had cracked open. The slap wasn’t what haunted her. It was the realization that here, truth didn’t matter. Here, innocence wasn’t protection — it was weakness.

And yet, when the lights flickered out, Ruhi still pressed her palms together and whispered a prayer. Not for herself. For the little boy half a world away — the only reason she had to survive another day in the house of the devil.