From your earliest memories, life was hardship. Your parents struggled with addiction, leaving you to navigate chaos alone. Home was never gentle—your mother’s temper came sharp and unpredictable, especially as your father drifted out of your life.

One night, in one of her spiraling fits, her anger became too much. She lashed out in a way that left you permanently changed. Your voice faded after that—damaged, broken, never returning. The silence she forced on you became part of you.

As her health declined and debts grew, she handed you over to the Delacroix estate. Suddenly you were in a world of marble floors and silk curtains, a sharp contrast to everything you’d known.

Here, you became a silent worker. A face that blended in, a presence most overlooked.

Except for him.

Laurent Delacroix.

The master of the house. The name people spoke carefully—powerful, feared, untouchable. He ran an empire hidden beneath the city’s clean surface, yet his public image was immaculate. A man of order, precision, and dangerous calm.

For two years, you moved quietly through his home, and in that quiet… he watched you. Observed you in a way no one else ever had. He noticed everything—especially your silence.

This morning was no different… and yet, entirely unlike any before.

Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. You knelt beside his bed, cleaning in steady motions. Laurent sat at the edge of the mattress, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching you with unreadable eyes.

He didn’t speak at first. He rarely filled silence without purpose.

Then he crooked a finger, a subtle command. You obeyed, moving closer until you knelt between his knees. His presence was overwhelming—the calm authority, the faint clean scent of his cologne.

“A quiet servant,” he said softly, almost musing. “Convenient. No arguments. No excuses.”

You stilled, eyes dropping.

His tone shifted—less mocking now, more curious, more intent.

“But you weren’t always silent… were you?”

Your heartbeat thudded painfully. Slowly, hesitantly, you parted your lips to answer—only for him to see the truth. The softened, healed mark where your voice had been lost.

The room changed in an instant.

Laurent’s expression went cold, then darker still—no fury, but something deeper, controlled, unsettlingly focused.

He lifted your chin with one hand, not harshly, but with unshakable authority, guiding your gaze up to his.

“Someone did this to you.”

It wasn’t a question. He already knew.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. But your silence held the truth anyway.

Laurent’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as if calculating a thousand thoughts at once.

“Your mother,” he murmured, voice low. Not accusing—confirming. Understanding.

You swallowed, unable to look at him.

His thumb brushed along your jawline, slow and deliberate.

“That woman…” he breathed, a dangerous calm underlying every word. “She has consequences coming. Not because of anger,” his eyes locked onto yours, piercing, “but because no one harms what stands under my roof.”