Chapter 1
"Sir, Ms. Blair said if you defy Mr. Brown again, she'll have me break your legs," Addison Bates, the butler, said.
He stood on the steps, looking down at me, his voice steady like he was reciting house rules. "This is your meal for today."
A plate of spoiled pasta was set at my feet, the sour stench making me dizzy. "If you dare spill it, you will have no food for the next three days," he added.
I kept my mouth shut.
Two bodyguards stood behind him, hands shoved in their suit pockets, eyeing me like I was some stray dog locked up in the yard.
He turned to leave.
I suddenly let out a laugh. "Wait."
He turned back, but before he could even speak, I slapped him right across the face.
He looked stunned, like he couldn't process what just happened.
In the next instant, my knee slammed into him, forcing him to the ground.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I snarled, grabbing his head and smashing it against the wall. "How dare you raise your voice at me? Who gave you the guts?"
From upstairs, a cold voice cut through the chaos. "Jeff Arnold, have you lost your mind?"
I looked up and saw my wife, Kyla Blair, standing under the light, her eyes full of disgust.
*****
Addison stood above me, flanked by two bodyguards, looking down like he owned the place.
He was on the steps, and I was below. The light behind him poured down, casting me in shadow.
"Sir, Ms. Blair said if you show Mr. Brown any disrespect again, she'll have me break your legs. For real," he said it in a flat, almost bored tone, like he was just reciting some house rule he'd memorized ages ago.
"Suit yourself. You brought this on by crossing Ms. Blair," he tossed in.
I kept my mouth shut.
It was not that I didn't want to fire back. I'd just gotten used to it by now.
He bent down and placed a plate of pasta at my feet. The rim clinked softly against the tiles.
The sour smell hit me right away.
The pasta was gray, the veggies slimy, and a layer of grease floated on top—one look and one knew it had been sitting out all night.
Addison wrinkled his nose, like the stench was beneath him.
"This is what you get to eat today," he said.
Then he added, "If you spill it again..."
He paused, glancing at the two bodyguards behind him.
"For the next three days, you can just eat air," he said.
I stared down at the plate of pasta.
My fingers slowly curled into a fist.
This wasn't the first time.
Ever since I moved into the Blair family's mansion, I couldn't remember the last time I had a hot meal.
It was always either stone cold or so rotten it made me gag.
At first, I used to complain, remind them, tell them my stomach couldn't handle it.
But after a while, I just stopped saying anything.
Eventually, I didn't even bother to look at what they served me anymore.
In their eyes, I was never really Kyla's husband.
I was just an outsider they allowed to stay under their roof.
Just a thing they could kick out whenever they wanted.
Addison turned to leave, his heels clicking sharply on the floor.
Suddenly, I let out a laugh.
My voice wasn't loud, but in the empty hallway, it echoed clear as day.
"Wait," I called out.
Addison froze mid-step.
He turned around, giving me a look like he'd just seen a dog start talking.
"What?" he asked.
I stood up straight.
My back was still sore from getting pushed down the stairs a few days ago, but right now, that pain was nothing.
I walked toward him, step by step.
I stopped right in front of him.
I raised my hand.
I slapped him across the face.
The smack rang out loud.
He froze, his head snapped to the side, glasses hanging crooked.
Before he could even react, I drove my knee up and rammed it right into his stomach.
There was a heavy thud.
Addison let out a sharp, pained grunt, his face going ghost-white as he doubled over, completely out of control.
With a loud "bang," he dropped to his knees right in front of me.
I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the wall.
One slam.
And another.
The wall shook, dust rained down all around us.
"Fuck," I growled.
I pressed my mouth to his ear, my voice barely above a whisper. "An old dog like you dares to bark at your owner?
"Tonight, I'm going to cripple you for good."
The two bodyguards finally snapped out of it and rushed at me, trying to pull me off.
I looked up at them.
They froze in their tracks.
It wasn't because I was some kind of fighter.
It was the look on my face.
I didn't even realize it myself, but in that moment, there wasn't a trace of hesitation in my eyes.
It was like I'd already made up my mind—whatever happened next, I didn't give a damn.
Addison was pinned against the wall, his breathing ragged, blood already trickling down his forehead.
"Jeff!" A woman's voice echoed from upstairs, cold, sharp, and dripping with annoyance.
Didn't even have to look—I knew exactly who it was.
Kyla Blair.
My wife.
The real owner of this mansion.
I let go of him.
Addison slid to the floor like a heap of limp rags, clutching his stomach and gasping for air—he couldn't even manage a curse.
I turned away, heading for the stairs. "Tomorrow, I'll be taking some of my things out. The rest is your problem."
Kyla stood behind the second-floor railing, wearing perfectly fitted home clothes, her hair not a strand out of place.
Her eyes showed no surprise as she looked at me.
Just pure annoyance.
Like she'd just spotted something filthy that someone had dragged onto her pristine table.
"What are you making a fuss about now?" she said coldly.
Kyla's gaze swept over my face, lingered for a second on the blood smeared across my knuckles, then moved on.
"You really had to lay hands on a servant?" she said, her voice icy.
"Have you forgotten what your status is now?"
I didn't answer.
Suddenly, something hit me.
Never once, the whole time, did she ask what I'd eaten.
She never asked how I was getting by.
She never bothered to ask why I was even standing here.
All she cared about was that I'd made her staff lose face.
She came downstairs.
Her heels clicked against the stairs, each step steady and unhurried.
She stopped right in front of me, her gaze sharp as ever.
"Jeff Arnold, I don't care what set you off today," Kyla said, her voice icy.
"There are rules in this house. You'd better remember them."
She pointed at Addison, who was still sprawled on the floor.
"He does what I say.
"If you don't like it..." She met my gaze, her tone flat, not a hint of emotion. "Then you can leave."
I looked at her.
I've stared at that face for seven years.
Back when she was the Blair family's shining princess, and now, when she was Ms. Blair—calling all the shots, holding all the power.
I used to think her icy attitude was reserved for strangers.
But I was wrong.
Her coldest moments were always for me.
"Are you done?" I finally broke the silence.
My throat was a little dry.
Kyla was clearly taken aback.
She probably didn't expect me to respond.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kyla shot back, her tone icy.
I stooped down and grabbed the plate of sour pasta off the floor.
The bottom was still slick with old grease, like nobody even bothered to clean it.
I shoved it right in front of her face.
"This is your so-called 'house rules'?" I sneered.
Kyla glanced at the plate, her brows furrowing.
She scoffed, "Quit playing the victim."