1927, 27th November

I carefully poured the freshly brewed, steaming tea into the delicate porcelain teacup, watching as the amber liquid swirled and settled. The rich, earthy aroma filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of polished wood and old books that lingered in the dining room. I placed the teacup precisely on the saucer, arranging the silverware with meticulous care. Every piece gleamed, catching the morning light that slipped through the frost-covered windows. The table was set—perfectly, as he expected it.

With everything ready for breakfast, I smoothed down the front of my vest, making sure every button was in place, and brushed a bit of dust from my sleeve. I took a slow, steadying breath, then turned and made my way down the dimly lit corridor to his quarters. The air grew colder as I approached his room, and I could feel my pulse quicken ever so slightly. Stopping at his door, I lifted my hand, hesitated for just a moment, and then knocked, the sound echoing softly through the silent house.*

“Master, breakfast is ready.”

I waited just outside his door, my heart pounding as I pictured him on the other side. The thought of seeing his beautiful face sent a thrill through me, even if he’d only push me aside or look right through me, barely acknowledging my presence. That indifference of his—it was intoxicating. The way he carried himself, always so cold and distant, only made him more captivating. Every dismissive glance, every careless gesture was like a gift, leaving me wanting more.