The days following Nicolas's engagement announcement became a blur of calculated cruelty. Each morning, I woke with a heaviness in my chest that made breathing feel like an impossible task. Yet somehow, I continued to function—a mechanical doll wound up to perform for her master's amusement.

One week after the gala, Nicolas summoned me to his office, his expression unreadable as I entered.

"I have a special assignment for you," he said, sliding an ornate box across his desk. Inside lay hundreds of cream-colored envelopes, each embossed with gold lettering—wedding invitations.

"You'll deliver these personally," he instructed, his voice deceptively casual. "Every business associate, every social connection. I want you to hand them over with your own hands."

I stared at the box, understanding immediately the exquisite torture he had designed. "All of them?"

"Every single one." His lips curved into that familiar cruel smile. "Is that a problem?"

I swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Blackwood."

"Good. You'll start today."

And so began my journey through hell. At each delivery—law firms, corporate offices, private mansions—I was forced to smile and accept congratulations for the man who had once promised to be mine. I became the messenger of my own heartbreak.

"Amy! How wonderful to see you," Charles Whitman, Nicolas's lead counsel, greeted me as I entered the law firm's gleaming lobby. "Those must be the invitations we've been hearing about."

I nodded, my rehearsed smile firmly in place. "Mr. Blackwood wanted these delivered personally."

Before I could escape, Nicolas himself appeared, as if materializing from my nightmares. He had scheduled a meeting at the firm deliberately to coincide with my delivery.

"Amy, perfect timing," he called out, his voice carrying across the lobby. "Join us for a moment. We're discussing wedding logistics."

I followed him into the conference room where six attorneys sat around a polished table. Nicolas gestured for me to stand beside him.

"Amy, please share the venue capacity details with the team. They need to understand the scale we're working with."

My throat tightened as all eyes turned to me. "The Grand Ballroom at the Ritz can accommodate five hundred guests for the ceremony and seven hundred for the reception," I recited mechanically.

"And the menu selections?" Nicolas prompted, his eyes never leaving my face, studying each micro-expression of pain.

"A seven-course dinner featuring seasonal specialties. The main entrée options are filet mignon with truffle reduction or pan-seared Chilean sea bass."

As I continued detailing the celebration of Nicolas's love for another woman, I noticed the lawyers exchanging uncomfortable glances. They knew who I was—what I had been to him. Their discomfort was palpable, but no one dared speak against Nicolas Blackwood.

The following week brought new tortures. Nicolas insisted I accompany him and Camellia to venue viewings, clipboard in hand, playing the role of dedicated event coordinator.

At Rosewood Manor, I trailed behind them through gardens where pink and white blossoms danced in the spring breeze. Camellia twirled under a rose-covered arbor, her laughter light and carefree.

"This is perfect, Nicolas," she exclaimed, reaching for his hand. "Can't you just see us exchanging vows right here?"

Nicolas nodded, his eyes finding mine over Camellia's shoulder. "What do you think, Amy? Suitable?"

"It's beautiful," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Camellia turned to me, her smile genuine and kind—which somehow made everything worse. "Amy, you have such good taste. What flowers would you recommend for the arrangements?"

Nicolas's eyes narrowed slightly, watching me with predatory focus.

"White roses," I said, the words scraping my throat. "They... they symbolize new beginnings."

Nicolas's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He remembered, just as I did, the night we'd lain under summer stars, planning our future, when he'd promised me a bouquet of white roses for our wedding day.

That evening, as the office emptied and darkness fell over the city, Nicolas called me to his private office. When I entered, he was sitting at his desk, his computer screen glowing in the dim light.

"Close the door," he instructed.

As I approached, I saw what was playing on his monitor and froze. Security footage from years ago—Nicolas and me in his office after hours, his hands gentle as they caressed my face, my body yielding to him with complete trust and love.

"Do you remember this?" he asked, his voice unnervingly calm as he paused the footage on a frame where I gazed up at him with undisguised adoration.

I stood in Nicolas's penthouse kitchen, my hands trembling slightly as I arranged delicate canapés on a silver serving tray. The staff bustled around me, their movements efficient and practiced, while I struggled to maintain my composure. Tonight was another calculated move in Nicolas's psychological chess game—a dinner party where I would serve him and his fiancée alongside the household staff.

"Amy, the appetizers need to go out now," Helen, the head housekeeper, instructed. Her eyes held a hint of sympathy she'd never dare express aloud.

I nodded, straightening my crisp white uniform before pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. The conversation hushed momentarily as I entered, and I felt Nicolas's gaze tracking me like a predator.

"Ah, perfect timing," he said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "Camellia was just saying how famished she is."

I approached the table, keeping my eyes downcast as I offered the tray first to Camellia, who sat at Nicolas's right hand. She looked radiant in a pale green dress that complemented her delicate features.

"Thank you so much," she said warmly, selecting an hors d'oeuvre with manicured fingers. "These look absolutely divine."

Her genuine kindness was like salt in my wounds. It would be easier if she were cruel or arrogant—someone I could hate. Instead, her gentle nature made me feel even more insignificant, a shadow beside her light.

"Amy has always had an eye for presentation," Nicolas remarked, his tone casual yet loaded with meaning only I could understand. "She's quite... skilled with her hands."

I felt heat rush to my cheeks as several guests chuckled, oblivious to the cruel subtext. Only Nicolas knew how those words twisted the knife deeper.

Throughout dinner, I moved between kitchen and dining room, serving courses and refilling wine glasses. Each time I approached Nicolas, my heart raced with anxiety, waiting for the next barb, the next subtle humiliation.

It came during the main course. As I leaned between him and Camellia to serve the roasted duck, Nicolas shifted suddenly, causing his wine glass to topple. Rich red liquid splashed across my pristine white uniform, drawing gasps from the guests.

"Oh my goodness!" Camellia exclaimed, reaching for her napkin. "Let me help—"

"No need," Nicolas interrupted smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Amy knows how to handle... messy situations. Don't you, Amy?"

"Yes, sir," I managed, the stain spreading like a wound across my abdomen. "I'll change right away."

"Such a clumsy accident," he continued, addressing his guests. "Amy, use the staff quarters downstairs to change. There should be spare uniforms."

I retreated from the dining room, the weight of humiliation pressing against my chest. In the narrow hallway leading to the service elevator, I finally allowed myself a moment of vulnerability, pressing my palm against the wall for support as tears threatened to spill.

Before I could compose myself, footsteps approached from behind. I knew who it was without turning—six years had attuned me to the sound of his stride, the subtle shift in air pressure when he entered a room.

"Such a shame about the uniform," Nicolas said, his voice low and dangerous. "White has always been so... impractical."

I turned to face him, pressing my back against the wall. "The dinner guests—"

"Are enjoying their dessert," he finished, stepping closer. "Camellia is entertaining them with stories about her charity work. So noble, isn't she?"

He placed one hand against the wall beside my head, effectively trapping me. His cologne—sandalwood and bergamot—filled my senses, triggering memories I'd fought to suppress.

"Remember when you used to beg for my touch, Amy?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "How you'd tremble when I merely looked at you?"

I closed my eyes, willing myself to remain steady. "Please, Nicolas. Let me pass."

"Camellia never begs," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "She doesn't have to debase herself for my attention. Unlike you."

I tried to push past him, but he blocked my path, his body inches from mine. "What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

His eyes darkened as he studied my face. "Everything," he said simply. "And nothing."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—a ghost of the boy I'd once loved, trapped behind the mask of the man who now tormented me. Then it vanished, replaced by cold calculation.

"Change your uniform," he ordered, finally stepping back. "You have five minutes before you're expected to serve coffee."

As he walked away, I slumped against the wall, wondering how much longer I could endure this exquisite torture—and whether there would be anything left of me when it finally ended.

But then a thought rose, sharp and terrifying, making my heart tremble: what if I… walked away from him?