The morning started like any other. I stood outside Ambrose's study at six. My back still ached from the basement. The cuts on my wrists had scabbed over. I'd wrapped them in gauze before putting on my uniform.

Ambrose walked past me at seven without a word. Madelynn followed him like a shadow in pale pink silk. She glanced at me. Her eyes were bright. Excited.

Something was coming.

At ten, I was summoned to the east parlor. It was a formal room with tall windows and furniture that cost more than most people's houses. Madelynn sat on the cream sofa. Biscuit was curled in her lap, white fur pristine against the pink fabric.

Ambrose stood by the fireplace. His posture was stiff. Controlled.

"Lennox," Madelynn said softly. "Come sit with me. Biscuit missed you."

I stayed by the door. "I'm on duty, Miss Hicks."

"Please." She smiled. "Just for a moment. Ambrose says I worry too much. I want to make sure you're all right after... everything."

Her voice dripped with concern. Ambrose turned to look at me. His expression was unreadable.

I crossed the room. Sat in the chair across from her. Madelynn lifted Biscuit and placed the cat directly onto my lap before I could refuse.

"There," she said. "See? She likes you."

Biscuit's claws pricked through my uniform pants. I kept my hands at my sides. I didn't touch the animal.

Madelynn reached forward as if to adjust the cat. Her sleeve rode up. In that split second, I saw her drag her own forearm across Biscuit's extended claws. The motion was fast. Deliberate. Four red lines appeared on her pale skin.

She gasped and jerked back. "Ow! Biscuit, no—"

The cat hissed and jumped off my lap. Madelynn clutched her arm. She was breathing hard. Too hard.

"Are you all right?" Ambrose moved toward her.

"I... I think so. It's just a scratch." But her voice was shaking now. She looked down at her arm. The scratches were already swelling. Red welts spreading fast.

Too fast.

"Madelynn?" Ambrose's tone sharpened.

She swayed. Her hand went to her throat. "I can't... I can't breathe..."

Ambrose caught her as her knees buckled. "Call the doctor. Now!"

A maid ran from the room. I stood slowly. Watched Madelynn's face turn blotchy. Watched hives bloom across her neck and collarbone like she'd been stung by a hundred bees. Her breathing turned into shallow, wheezing gasps.

It looked real. It looked terrifying.

Ambrose lowered her onto the sofa. His hands were shaking. "What happened?"

Madelynn's eyes found mine. Even through her distress, I saw the calculation. "Lennox... she pushed Biscuit onto me... the claws..."

"I didn't touch the cat," I said.

Ambrose's head snapped toward me. "You were holding her."

"Miss Hicks placed her on my lap."

"Don't lie to me." His voice was ice. "Madelynn is allergic. Everyone in this house knows that. You deliberately—"

"I didn't."

The doctor arrived. He injected something into Madelynn's arm. Checked her pulse. Within minutes, her breathing eased. The hives began to fade. She sagged against the cushions, tears streaming down her face.

"She tried to hurt me," Madelynn whispered. "She's always hated me. Now she's using Biscuit to—"

"Enough." Ambrose stood. His jaw was tight. He looked at me like I was something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. "You're confined to quarters until I decide what to do with you."

I didn't argue. I turned and walked out.

Behind me, I heard Madelynn's soft, broken sobs. I heard Ambrose murmur comfort. I heard him promise her that I would be dealt with.

Six days left.

That night, I was summoned to the main hall. Every staff member stood along the walls. Rosa. The cook. The groundskeepers. Marcus Chen. All of them silent and stiff.

Ambrose stood at the center of the room. In his hand was a leather strap. It was old. Traditional. Part of the Collins family's archaic disciplinary code that his grandfather had enforced and that Ambrose had never abolished.

Madelynn sat in a chair near the window. She'd changed into a white dress. Her arm was bandaged. She held a teacup in her lap.

"Kneel," Ambrose said.

I knelt on the marble floor. The stone was cold through my uniform pants.

"Remove your shirt."

I unbuttoned it slowly. Pulled it off. My back was still healing from the basement. The cuts hadn't closed yet.

Ambrose saw them. His expression didn't change.

"Thirty-three lashes," he said. "For deliberate harm against a member of this household."

I didn't defend myself. There was no point. He'd already decided.

The first strike split the air. Then my skin. I bit down hard. Tasted copper.

The second landed on top of the first.

I counted in my head. Focused on the numbers. Not the fire spreading across my back. Not the warm blood running down my spine. Not the faces of the staff who wouldn't meet my eyes.

Madelynn sipped her tea.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

Thirty.

Thirty-three.

Ambrose dropped the strap. "Return to your quarters. You're dismissed from duty until further notice."

I stood. My legs shook but held. I picked up my ruined shirt and walked out. Blood soaked into the fabric. Dripped onto the marble.

No one followed me.

In my bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror. My back looked like a lattice. Skin torn in overlapping lines. Some cuts deep. Some shallow. All of them burning.

I cleaned them with water and antiseptic. Wrapped what I could reach. Then I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out the burner phone.

I didn't call Marcus Reid. Not yet. I just stared at the screen.

Day One was done.

Six more to go.

Biscuit died on a Tuesday morning.

I heard Madelynn scream from three rooms away. The sound was sharp and high, like glass breaking. By the time I reached the sunroom, half the staff was already there. The white Persian lay on her velvet cushion. Still. Stiff.

Madelynn knelt beside the cushion. Her hands hovered over the cat but didn't touch it. Her shoulders shook. "No. No, no, no..."

Ambrose stood behind her. His hand rested on her shoulder. His face was stone.

"What happened?" I asked.

Madelynn's head whipped toward me. Her eyes were red. Wet. "You," she whispered. "You did this."

"I didn't."

"Liar!" She surged to her feet. Stumbled. Ambrose caught her. "You hated her. You were jealous because Ambrose spent time looking for her instead of—instead of—" Her voice broke into sobs.

Ambrose's jaw tightened. "Marcus. Search Lennox's quarters. Now."

Marcus Chen nodded once and left. I stood there. Watched Madelynn cry into Ambrose's chest. Watched him stroke her hair and murmur things I couldn't hear.

Twenty minutes later, Marcus returned. He held a small glass vial in a gloved hand. And a pair of my work gloves.

"Found these in her nightstand," he said. His voice was flat. "The vial has residue. Looks like rat poison."

My stomach dropped. "I didn't put those there."

Ambrose looked at me. Really looked. His eyes were cold. Empty. "You're saying someone planted evidence in your locked quarters?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I couldn't say it. Not without proof. Not when he'd already decided.

Madelynn lifted her head. Her face was blotchy. Ruined. Beautiful in its devastation. "She strangled her," she said softly. "I know she did. Poison wasn't enough. She wanted Biscuit to suffer."

"There are no marks on the cat's neck," I said.

"Then she used the poison. Either way, she killed her." Madelynn's voice turned to steel beneath the tears. "She killed the only thing I had left of my mother."

That was new. I'd never heard about Biscuit being a gift from her dead mother. But Ambrose's expression shifted. Softened at the edges.

"I didn't touch your cat," I said.

Ambrose stepped toward me. "You've been hostile toward Madelynn since the engagement. You undermined her in front of staff. You refused to follow her requests. And now this."

"I protected you for five years."

"And I paid you for five years." His voice was quiet. Lethal. "That doesn't give you the right to hurt what's mine."

What's mine. Not who. What.

He turned to Marcus. "Take her to the freezer."

Marcus hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. Then he nodded.

The walk-in freezer was in the basement near the kitchen. Industrial size. The kind restaurants used. Marcus unlocked it and pulled the heavy door open. Cold air poured out like a living thing.

"Inside," Ambrose said.

I looked at him. At the man I'd knelt in the rain for. The man whose spine I'd helped rebuild with my own hands during physical therapy sessions that left us both shaking. The man I'd loved so completely I'd forgotten how to love myself.

"How long?" I asked.

"Until you remember what you are."

I stepped inside. The cold hit me like a fist. Ambrose slammed the door shut. The lock clicked.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I don't know how long I lasted before the shaking started. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. The cold seeped through my uniform. Through my skin. Into my bones.

My back screamed where the whip wounds cracked open against the frost. I curled tight on the metal floor. Pulled my knees to my chest. Wrapped my arms around my stomach.

I didn't know why I did that. Not consciously. But my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.

I thought about the basement. About the mercenaries. About Ambrose leaving me there for a cat. I thought about Madelynn's smile. About the way she'd dragged her arm across Biscuit's claws. About the vial that had appeared in my nightstand like magic.

I thought about seven days.

Five now. Five more days.

I could survive five more days.

I had to.

Sometime in the night, I started counting my heartbeats. Focused on the rhythm. On the proof I was still alive. Still here.

The door opened at dawn. A maid I barely knew—young, terrified—stood in the doorway. She didn't say anything. Just stepped aside.

I crawled out. My legs wouldn't hold me at first. She helped me to the service stairs. Disappeared before anyone saw.

I made it to my quarters. Changed into street clothes. My hands were clumsy. Numb. I pulled on a coat and boots and walked out the service entrance.

No one stopped me.

The clinic was in a part of downtown where people didn't ask questions. I paid cash. Used a fake name. The doctor was older. Tired. She ran the tests without small talk.

When she came back, her expression was careful. Neutral.

"You're pregnant," she said. "About eight weeks."

I stared at her.

"Do you want to see?" She turned the ultrasound screen toward me.

A grainy black-and-white image. A small shape. Barely there. But there.

I couldn't breathe.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked.

"I need a printout."

She handed it to me. I folded it into a tiny square. Tucked it inside the lining of my boot where no one would find it.

Outside, the city was loud. Bright. Normal. I stood on the sidewalk and felt the world tilt.

Five more days.

But now I wasn't just surviving for me.