Chapter 1: Betrayed by the Golden Boy

I've been the young heir's personal attendant since we were both kids. Honestly, I've been looking after him since we were both little—trailing after him on sun-warmed porches and through the echoing halls of his family's old house. Always a step behind, always ready with a pressed shirt or a book he left behind. Sometimes, I'd catch him watching me—a flicker of something I couldn't quite read in his eyes—but I never let myself dwell on it. Not back then. Not yet.

When I turned sixteen, he pulled me down onto the living room couch. The afternoon light slanted through those big bay windows, catching dust motes as they floated in the air. He ran his hand down my arm, his voice all slow and lazy, telling me my skin was soft as cream, smooth as fine marble—prettier than any girl he'd ever seen. The words just hung there between us, too heavy, too real. For a second, the hush in the room felt so thick I could barely breathe. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower droned, but all I could hear was my heart, pounding so loud I was sure he could feel it too.

Later, he became valedictorian and was set to marry the mayor’s daughter. The whole town buzzed about it—his perfect grades, his perfect future, the match everyone had seen coming since elementary school. I swear, you couldn't go anywhere without hearing about it. I watched from the sidelines, invisible as always, my heart hollowing out with every congratulatory handshake he got. Sometimes I wondered if anyone even noticed I was there.

I never saw it coming. He personally handed me a glass of poisoned whiskey and sold me off to the Magnolia House. I can still taste the sharp burn of that liquor, the bitter twist of betrayal on my tongue. His eyes didn’t even flicker as he watched me drink—like I was just ticking a box for him, nothing more.

"A pair of arms worth a fortune to rest on, lips worth even more to taste—from today on, this is your second half of life. Don’t blame me. If you must blame someone, blame your lowly status—and that you’re a man!" His words cut sharper than the drink, echoing in my skull long after the glass hit the table. There was no warmth left in his voice, just cold ambition and the tiniest hint of regret he’d never let me see. I just stared at him, numb.

My heart was already dead. I became the mute entertainer of the house. Sometimes I caught myself thinking—how did it come to this? I drifted through the days, a shadow in silk and powder. My fingers danced over piano keys. My lips stayed sealed, locked by poison and fear. The world shrank, the air thickened, until I could barely remember the boy I’d been before all this.

I thought maybe he’d be satisfied. I tried to disappear, to give him the peace he seemed to want. But it was never enough. There was always another demand, another price to pay. Always something more he wanted. I should have known.

Or so the gossip went. I heard that on the night I was taken away by the young Marquis, the newly crowned valedictorian actually coughed up blood right then and there. Folks in town couldn’t stop talking about it. Some whispered it was heartbreak, others said guilt, but honestly, I knew better—he was always too proud to bleed for anyone but himself. Still, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a piece of him left behind.

"You’ve got a face, sure, but so what?" Carter’s voice sliced through the haze, sharp and edged with boredom—something meaner too, something sharp that made my skin prickle. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of a jazz standard drifting in from the next room—maybe "Blue in Green" or something close. Nights like this, anything could happen, and by morning, nobody would remember a thing.

"Is it possible that I, Carter Gresham, am not worthy of a glance from you, little mute? You won’t even speak!" His words rolled off his tongue, half-mocking, half-challenging—like only rich boys can when they're used to getting whatever they want. He flashed a crooked smile, daring me to react.

I was sitting by the table, having just finished playing something slow and sad on the old upright piano—maybe "Misty" or some tune that always left folks a little hollow. The keys were chipped, the sound a bit tinny, but I poured everything I had into that melody. My fingers trembled, but I kept my face blank, eyes glued to the warped wood in front of me.

Because I didn’t answer, I pissed off the young Marquis Carter. His patience snapped, just like that. He leaned back, swirling his wine, his eyes narrowing like he could see straight through me—like he was looking for something to break.

He wore a tailored Italian suit, face striking, gaze lazy but dangerous. The way he sprawled across the chair—he looked like a predator, not a panther, but maybe a coyote, all sharp edges and restless energy, waiting for someone to slip up.

Right then, that spoiled rich kid tossed his crystal wine glass to the floor in front of me. It hit with a sharp crash, the sound echoing off the walls and making everyone freeze for a second. Wine splattered across the faded rug, glinting like blood in the lamplight. My stomach twisted.

My hands shook; the rules I’d learned at Magnolia House kicked in before I could think. I dropped to my knees, palms flat on the cool floor, head bowed low. It was automatic, drilled into me by months of fear and survival. I hated how easy it was now.

"Got guts, don’t you!" Carter sneered, his lips twisting up on one side, the smile more of a baring of teeth than anything friendly. His eyes glittered, cold and calculating.

"Nobody in this city’s got more backbone than you, huh?" The sarcasm in his voice was thick. The other guests shifted in their seats, pretending not to watch, but I felt their eyes anyway. I felt everything.

The way I knelt just pissed Carter Gresham off even more. He started drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, the sound sharp and impatient. I could feel the anger rolling off him in waves.

For a split second, I saw it coming—but not fast enough. Carter raised his foot and kicked me, sending me sprawling across the floor. The blow knocked the wind out of me, pain flaring bright and hot in my chest. I gasped, eyes watering.

Pain shot through my chest, and I sucked in a ragged breath, just lying there, not even trying to get up. The world spun around me, edges blurring. I pressed my cheek to the rug, fighting the urge to cry out. All I could do was breathe and wait for it to pass.

Laurel, who was with another guest, saw things going sideways and darted in front of me, grabbing Carter’s sleeve and practically begging him to back off. She was always braver than she looked, voice shaking but steady enough to get his attention.

"Young Marquis, please, calm down. It’s not that Jamie’s brave, it’s just… he got sick as a kid and lost his voice—he can’t talk." Laurel’s words tumbled out fast, almost tripping over each other, her desperation plain as day. I could feel her fear for me in every syllable.

"I hope you’ll spare him, sir. He’s really got it rough." She glanced back at me, her eyes wide with worry. For a second, I wanted to reach out and tell her I’d be okay. But I couldn’t.

Laurel tugged my sleeve, trying to help me up, urging me to bow to Carter Gresham. Her hands were gentle but insistent, and I could feel her own hands trembling as she tried to steady me. I wanted to thank her, but all I could do was nod.

Carter asked, "Really?"—voice flat, but his eyes just a little too interested. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve, or maybe just break.

I nodded, fast and desperate. My heart was thundering in my chest, my hands shaking so hard I could barely keep myself upright. I couldn’t look at him.

My eyes were rimmed red, hair a mess, my pale face showing only my lips and the corners of my eyes—like all you could see of me were the parts that still hurt. I looked more like a ghost than a person.

Seeing Carter reach for me, I was so scared real tears slid down my cheeks. I tried to hold them back, but I couldn’t. The humiliation was too much. Please, just let this end, I thought.

A flicker of surprise crossed Carter’s eyes. He hesitated for a split second, like he didn’t think I had it in me to actually cry. Maybe he thought I was tougher than that.

"Never played with a mute before. Today, let this be your apology!" His voice was almost playful, but his smile was sharp, like a knife. There was nothing soft in it, nothing safe.

He yanked me up by the arm and pulled me onto the couch. His grip was bruising, fingers digging into my skin. For a second, the world went quiet—just the sound of my heartbeat and the feel of the room closing in.

Laurel tried to step in, but Carter shot her a glare that made her freeze on the spot. She didn’t even try to argue—just shrank back, eyes wide.

"You gonna get in my way?" Carter’s voice was low, dangerous, and the tension in the air made my skin crawl. Everyone in the room knew not to cross him.

Laurel forced a shaky smile. "No, sir. I wouldn’t dare." She backed away, hands up, never taking her eyes off me. I could see the worry in her face, the helplessness.

"Get out!" Carter barked, and the room emptied in a rush—people tripping over chairs, someone whispering "damn" under their breath as they hurried out. The door slammed shut behind them.

Laurel caught my gaze, her eyes brimming with worry. She mouthed, "Hang in there," her lips trembling. It was all she could give me.

I gave her a small, fake smile—the best I could manage. It was a silent promise that I’d be okay, even if we both knew I was lying.

A pair of arms worth a fortune to rest on, lips worth even more to taste. The words echoed in my mind, a cruel chorus I couldn’t escape.