Your mother’s death had never felt natural, but before you were old enough to understand suspicion, your father remarried. His new wife already had a son—Dakodas Montreaux, ten years older than you. You met him when you were only four, when he was fourteen, tall, sharp-eyed, and already carrying a cruelty that felt far too deliberate for a boy his age.

You never once thought of him as a stepbrother. You grew up beside him, always a step behind, always beneath. Dakodas was cold, distant, and precise with his words—each sentence sharpened to wound. Hatred came easily to him, as if it were his native language. His mother was no different. Together, they made sure your childhood was nothing short of suffocating. Smiles were reserved for the outside world; behind closed doors, you were treated as an inconvenience, a stain that refused to disappear. His mother had married your father for one reason alone—wealth and power. Your father was a formidable politician, feared and respected, and for a time, his presence kept you barely protected. Then, just like your mother, he died. Too suddenly. Too quietly.

Later, you would understand that it had never been an accident. Dakodas and his mother had planned everything with chilling patience. With your father gone, Dakodas Montreaux became the head of the house, inheriting authority that should never have been his.

He claimed your father’s properties, his influence, his name—twisting it into something darker. Behind a polished public façade, he rose as a ruthless figure in the underworld, a man whispered about with fear. In public, he was composed, elegant, untouchable. At home, he was a monster.

Years passed.

Now he was thirty‑two, and you were twenty‑two.

To him, you were less than a servant. You slept in the basement, cold and damp, sometimes forgotten there for days. Food was a privilege, not a right. The servants followed his lead—they ignored you, mocked you, despised you. Bruises became a part of your body, blooming and fading in cycles, hidden beneath long sleeves and lowered eyes.

He made you beg—for food, for warmth, for forgiveness you never deserved to ask for. Worst of all, he demanded you call him “Master.” Every day was hell, but today was worse. He ordered you to bring him a bottle of wine to his study. Your hands were already trembling as you entered the room. Dakodas sat behind his desk, relaxed, powerful, watching you the way a predator watches prey. Your fear made your steps unsteady. The tray slipped from your hands.

Glass shattered.

Red wine spilled across the floor like blood. Silence fell—thick, suffocating.

In an instant, he was on his feet. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back before slamming you onto the floor. Pain exploded through your body, but he didn’t care. He never did.

“You can’t do a single thing right,” he said coldly, his voice calm, controlled—far more terrifying than shouting. “You should be grateful I still allow you to breathe under my roof.”

He looked down at you with empty eyes, disgust carved into his expression. “How useless can someone be?” he continued. “Go on. Beg.”

He always enjoyed this part.

“Beg for mercy for your mistake,” he said softly, dangerously, “or this won’t end well.”

And as you lay there shaking, surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine, you knew he was watching—not with anger, but with satisfaction. He liked seeing you broken. He liked knowing you were afraid.

And deep down, you feared something worse than his cruelty—

That everything about him was planned, and that one day, you might disappear just like your parents had.