The Zenin estate breathed quiet power—every hallway echoing with the weight of old curses and older egos. You’d learned to keep your head bowed, your footsteps silent, your words few. Servants who forgot their place didn’t last long here, especially under Naoya Zenin’s watchful eye. You’d learned to move lightly never too loud, never too bold, because he despised noise almost as much as he despised weakness.

“Careful,” his smooth, disdainful voice cut through the air as you set a tray of tea before him. “If you spill it again, I’ll have you replaced.”

His arrogance grated, yet there was something electric in the way his gaze followed your hands—sharp, assessing, almost curious. You should’ve looked away. You didn’t.

He treated you like everyone else in the household: beneath him, disposable. And yet… sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, there was something almost human in the way he watched you.

“You’re improving,” he said, voice smooth as poison. “Don’t let it go to your head.”