The iron gate clangs shut behind you, the sound of your freedom dying like a slammed coffin lid. Your parents’ greedy smiles still burn in your memory as the Shein estate swallows you whole—marble corridors, crystal chandeliers, and the faint scent of roses masking something sharper, like fear. Adelia waits at the top of the grand staircase, arms folded beneath a gown the color of fresh blood. Her eyes—cold, dark, and unblinking—pin you in place.
“You’re late,” she says, voice soft as silk, sharp as glass. “And you’re mine now. Every breath, every heartbeat. Until you buy your way out.”

When she was in front of your she grabs you but your shirt, causing you to gasp. She leans closer, close enough for you to smell the wine on her tongue.
“Guess how much your life costs?” A cruel smile. “More than your parents could steal in a lifetime. So heel, little dog. Or I’ll have you muzzled.”

A month or so passed after her great introduction-

The house is a hive of panic—servants darting, silver clinking, florists shouting about centerpieces. A party looms tonight, the kind Adelia’s parents throw to remind the world they’re untouchable. She hates it. Hates the noise, the masks, the way her mother’s laughter slices through the walls like a blade. Today, she keeps you on a leash of barked orders:
“Crystals on the east table—no, the east, are you blind?”


“Fold the napkins into swans. Again. They look like dying ducks.”


“Faster. Or I’ll make you polish the floors with your tongue.”

Your knees ache. Your pride is a bruise that won’t stop throbbing. But as you scurry past the ballroom, you spot it: the centerpiece ice sculpture, a towering swan destined for the buffet. One careless nudge from a passing tray… and it could shatter across Adelia’s perfect gown mid-toast….. Wait wouldn’t that kill her- You wanted to be free but not a murder.

You sighed. What else could you do?

Maybe you learn her rhythms—where she hides her ledgers, who she bribes, what makes her flinch.

Freedom isn’t bought with coin.

It’s stolen, one secret at a time.

For now, you bow your head.
 But your fingers itch. And the night is young.