Chapter 4

The sound of shattering glass jolted me awake before dawn. I bolted upright in bed, heart hammering against my ribs, only to find Brenda standing over the remnants of my mother's porcelain music box—the last gift she'd given me before her illness confined her to the hospital.

"How clumsy of me," Brenda said, not bothering to hide her smirk. "I was just dusting your nightstand."

At five-thirty in the morning. With no duster in sight.

I slid from bed and knelt beside the broken pieces, carefully gathering the delicate fragments. The tiny ballerina that once spun to my mother's favorite melody lay decapitated among the shards.

"Don't cut yourself," Brenda said with mock concern. "Though I suppose that would be another way to get attention, wouldn't it?"

I kept my eyes on the broken music box, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing my tears. This wasn't the first "accident" since Ethan had turned against me. My books had been found soaked in the garden after "a surprise rain shower." My few pieces of jewelry had mysteriously vanished, only to reappear in odd places like the kitchen garbage or behind the toilet.

"Your breakfast duties start in twenty minutes," Brenda added, heading for the door. "Don't be late."

After she left, I sat on the floor cradling the broken pieces, allowing myself exactly two minutes to cry before wiping my tears and starting my day.

* * *

Later that afternoon, I spotted Ethan alone in the library. My heart leapt—this might be my only chance to speak with him privately. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me.

"Ethan, please. We need to talk."

He looked up from his book, his expression immediately hardening. "We have nothing to discuss."

"Yes, we do." I moved closer, keeping my voice steady despite my racing pulse. "What happened that night—it wasn't what you think. I would never drug you or take advantage of you. You have to believe me."

"I don't have to believe anything," he said coldly, closing his book with a snap. "The evidence speaks for itself."

"What evidence?" I demanded, frustration breaking through my careful composure. "That you were drugged? Yes, you were—but not by me! Think about it, Ethan. Why would I do that to you? What could I possibly gain?"

Something flickered in his eyes—doubt, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Stay away from me, Vesper," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested."

"It's not a game," I whispered, tears threatening again. "I would never hurt you."

He stood abruptly, towering over me. For a moment, I saw a glimpse of the old Ethan—the one who had protected me, who had made me feel safe. But then his expression shuttered, and the cold stranger returned.

"Consider this your only warning," he said. "Stay away from me, or you'll find yourself without a home. My parents may feel obligated to keep you because of your father, but their patience isn't endless."

The threat hit its mark. Without the Clarks' support, my mother would lose her medical care. I backed away, defeated, and left the library without another word.

* * *

The dinner party was in full swing, the dining room filled with the gentle clink of fine china and the murmur of well-bred conversation. As one of the few staff members deemed presentable enough to serve guests, I moved carefully between tables with a pitcher of water, refilling glasses as discreetly as possible.

Theodora sat at Ethan's right hand, radiant in a midnight blue dress that made her look like she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. She laughed at something he said, placing her hand on his arm with casual intimacy. The sight sent a sharp pain through my chest.

"More water, please," an elderly gentleman requested, holding up his glass.

I moved toward him, focused on not spilling a drop. I didn't notice the puddle until it was too late.

My foot hit the slick surface, and suddenly I was falling, the water pitcher flying from my hands. I crashed to the marble floor with a painful thud, water soaking my uniform as the pitcher shattered beside me. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room.

Through a haze of pain and humiliation, I saw Brenda standing nearby, a cloth and bucket of soapy water in her hands. Her expression of shock might have been convincing if not for the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

As I struggled to my feet, my cheeks burning with shame, Ethan's voice cut through the awkward silence.

"For God's sake, Vesper," he said, his tone sharp with irritation. "Can't you do anything right?"

I froze, the sting of his words worse than the pain in my hip where I'd landed.

"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice barely audible. "There was water on the floor—"

"There's water everywhere now," he interrupted coldly. "Clean it up before someone gets hurt."

Theodora placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Ethan, darling, don't be too harsh. Accidents happen." She turned to me, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Are you all right, Vesper? That was quite a fall."

Her false concern was almost worse than Ethan's open contempt. I knew she was playing the role of the gracious, forgiving lady of the house—the perfect future Mrs. Clark.

"I'm fine," I said stiffly, kneeling to gather the broken pieces of the pitcher.

"This is exactly the kind of attention-seeking behavior I was talking about," Ethan said to Theodora, not bothering to lower his voice. "Always playing the victim."

Tears burned behind my eyes as I picked up shards of glass with trembling fingers. The room had gone uncomfortably quiet, the guests pretending not to notice the drama unfolding before them.

"Let me help," a kind voice said, and I looked up to see Dylan kneeling beside me, napkin in hand to mop up the water.

"You don't have to," I whispered, mortified.

"I know," he replied simply, continuing to help.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan watching us, his expression darkening. For a moment, something like pain flashed across his features before his mask of indifference slipped back into place.

As Dylan helped me to my feet, his hand gentle on my elbow, I caught Theodora observing Ethan's reaction with calculating interest. The look in her eyes sent a chill down my spine—not of fear, but of dawning realization.

She wasn't just trying to win Ethan. She was deliberately trying to destroy me in the process. And judging by the contempt in Ethan's eyes as he watched me leave the dining room, she was succeeding brilliantly.