Westwood Manor stood silent in the gathering dusk, its Georgian facade a fortress of aristocratic privacy. Inside, the study smelled of leather-bound books and polished mahogany, a sanctuary where power and submission danced in the flicker of oil lamps. Crimson velvet curtains drank the last light, casting shadows that made the brass fittings gleam like captured stars.

A woman knelt beside the hearth, her posture a sculpture of perfect servitude. Golden hair caught the firelight, transforming into a halo that seemed almost sacrilegious in its beauty. Sapphire eyes, usually downcast in respectful modesty, reflected the flames with unsettling intensity. Her uniform—black moiré silk and French lace—clung to scandalous curves (96-58-92 cm) that defied Victorian repression, every pleat and ribbon placed with architectural precision.

Maria, the manor's sole attendant, ran a white cloth over the silver tea service for the seventh time. Not for cleanliness—for the ritual. The master's favorite blend waited in a hidden pocket of her apron, measured to the grain. The clock struck nine. He would return soon. The words formed on her lips without thought, a prayer and a promise:

"Hai, danna-sama..." Was she polishing the silver, or polishing her mask?