But Gabriele didn’t care.

By evening, his punishment had arrived. “She will scrub every room in the estate tonight,” he said flatly, not looking up from his papers. “Alone. Even the dungeon.”

Rosa froze where she stood. “Don…”

Her voice was soft and careful, like someone speaking near a loaded gun. “She’s only a girl. She made no—”

“I said every room,” Gabriele cut her off, his tone smooth and final. “Let her bleed for it. Maybe next time, she’ll be more careful.”

There was no anger in his voice—only indifference. That made it worse.

Rosa bowed her head, helpless. “Yes, Signore.”

That night, the mansion slept…. But Ruhi didn’t.

She worked in silence, the only sounds the scraping of her brush and the faint echo of her breath. The corridors stretched endlessly—marble floors, gilt mirrors, and portraits that watched her with cold painted eyes.

By midnight, her palms were shredded, her knees slick with blood where the fabric of her skirt had rubbed her raw. Her arms trembled so badly that she could barely lift the bucket. But she didn’t stop. Because in this house, stopping meant defiance. And defiance meant death.

The grand halls came first—glittering and cruel in their beauty. Then the parlors, heavy with the ghosts of laughter and cigar smoke. Then the bedrooms, where silk sheets and perfume couldn’t hide the faint scent of violence.

And finally… the dungeon. The air changed before she even reached it—colder, thicker, heavy with something that clung to her throat. The door creaked open with a sound that made her spine stiffen.

The smell hit her first—metallic and sharp, like rust and old blood. Then came the sight. Hooks. Chains. Cages. Stains that would never wash away, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Ruhi’s stomach turned. Her chest burned. She wanted to run, to scream, to vomit. But she did none of those things. She dipped the brush back into the bucket and scrubbed harder.

Each motion tore another layer of skin from her hands. Each breath scraped against her throat like sandpaper. The candles flickered as if the air itself were afraid. Shadows swayed across the walls, turning every chain into a snake, every iron hook into a threat.

By the time dawn approached, her arms were trembling uncontrollably. The floor gleamed wet and clean, but the stains still stared back at her—like the house itself was mocking her effort. She sank to her knees, her head bowed. Her tears mixed with the soapy water at her feet, unnoticed, unimportant.

Not because she was guilty—but because he had said she was. And in this house, his word was law. By dawn, she collapsed in the servant’s corridor—her knees buckling beneath her, her palms raw and trembling. The bucket slipped from her grasp and rolled across the floor, the filthy water spilling in a slow, mocking circle beside her.

She didn’t even have the strength to wipe her face. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her vision blurred with fatigue. The faint orange of sunrise crept through the narrow window, cutting a line of light across her cheek—illuminating the bruise that had bloomed there like a dark flower.

Her back ached. Her nails were torn. Her hands smelled of iron and soap and something far darker. But what hurt most wasn’t her body. It was the knowledge settling heavy and cold inside her chest—that this place, this gilded prison, was not meant for the living.

The Colombos didn’t build a home. They built a kingdom carved out of cruelty. And she, foolish and desperate, had walked straight into its heart.

She was no longer afraid. Not in the same way. Fear had burned itself out somewhere between the dungeon floor and the marble stairs. What remained was something sharper. A quiet, aching awareness.

She was awakening—to the truth of this place, to the monsters that ruled it, and to the shadow that fell over every life trapped within its walls. The shadow of a man named Gabriele Colombo.

And as Ruhi lay there on the cold stone, eyelids fluttering, the echo of his voice still haunted the air around her—low, commanding, and merciless. By the time her eyes closed, the sun had fully risen. But inside the Colombo estate, dawn brought no warmth. Only the promise of another day under his rule