The car rolled to a stop before tall iron gates. My breath caught when they swung open with a groan, revealing a mansion lit by lanterns that shimmered like fireflies.
"Out," the driver muttered.
I hesitated, clenching my fingers to my lap, before forcing my legs to move. A man stood waiting by the steps. Straight-backed, trimmed beard, eyes sharp. Mr. Dorian Steele.
"Riya," he said smoothly. "You've arrived."
I kept my head low. "Yes, sir."
"Come inside." He didn't wait, just turned on his heel.
The mansion swallowed me whole. Gold-framed paintings, polished wood floors, chandeliers spilling light across velvet carpets. It was too much, too clean and too rich.
I whispered, "It's… beautiful."
He glanced back. "It is functional. Beauty is for the guests, not the staff. Remember that."
My lips pressed shut.
He led me up a staircase, his boots clicking against marble. "Your father walked these halls," he said suddenly. "He dined here, laughed here. He was not a customer to me; he was my very good friend."
A tremor went through me. "Then why…"
"Why you are here?" He didn't slow. "Because friendship does not erase debt. Debt survives death."
I swallowed the words that wanted to claw their way out.
At last, he stopped before a wooden door, opened it, and gestured me inside.
"This is yours."
I stepped into a small but warm room. A bed, neatly made. A vanity with a clear mirror. A chest in the corner. My breath hitched.
"It's…" The word slipped out before I could stop it. "It's better than what we had in Darkmoon Valley."
For a moment, his gaze softened. "I imagine it is."
A maid entered quietly, carrying folded uniforms. Black and white cloth, plain but clean. She lowered her head, placed them on the bed, and hurried out.
"Wear these at all times," Dorian said.
"Yes, sir."
He waved a hand as if brushing away dust. "Try them later. Come, I'll show you the restaurant."
We walked again, heavy silence between us.
"Tell me," I asked carefully, "was my father truly your friend? Or is that just something you say?"
Dorian slowed, looking at me. "Your father was a man of dreams. He wanted Nightfang to flourish, wanted his people to taste the world beyond their valley. We spoke of trade, of wine, of building bridges between realms."
"And yet… here I am. Serving in his place."
He didn't answer, only pushed open a tall door.
The dining hall stretched before me like another world. Chandeliers glittered. White linens draped each table, silverware gleaming. Laughter and music floated through the air. Perfume and roasted lamb tangled in the scent of wine.
I whispered, "It's… enormous."
"My empire," Dorian corrected. "Elites travel far and wide to dine here. Kings, dukes, merchants. Even your father sat at these tables."
I stared. "Yeah! He spoke of you sometimes."
He smiled, then turned to me sharply. "Do not scorn honest work. You will serve. You will polish, pour wine, carry dishes. Do it well, and you'll live decently. Fail, and you'll regret it."
My voice was small. "And if I do regret it?"
His eyes narrowed. "You won't. Because you are his daughter. And I will not let his memory be stained by your weakness."
My hands shook. "You speak of him like he still sits here."
"Do your best. Put the past behind you and start fresh." He looked me in the eye then continued, "Put everything behind you and start afresh."
A waiter passed us carrying a tray. Dorian shouted at him, "Straighten your back and keep your eyes forward."
The man stiffened at once. "Yes, Mr. Steele."
Dorian flicked his hand, dismissing him, then looked back at me. "Discipline. That is why this place thrives. Remember that."
I nodded quickly.
"Come." He moved toward another door. "The kitchen waits."
Heat and noise crashed into me as we entered. Voices shouted over the hiss of boiling water. The smell of garlic and roasting meat pressed in.
"This," Dorian said, "is the heart. Without it, the hall is nothing but empty chairs."
A chef bowed low. "Mr. Steele."
"Carry on," he ordered, his tone cold. Then to me, gentler: "You will work here too. Cleaning, cutting, serving. Make sure to watch and learn a little."
"Yes, sir."
We walked between shelves stacked with spices and barrels of wine. My fingers itched to touch the jars, the loaves of bread.
He stopped by a door. "Beyond this are private dining chambers. Kings dine here. Merchants have sealed fortunes. This restaurant is not just food, Riya; it is history. Power."
The word stung. "And I…" My voice cracked. "I'm grateful for your kindness."
He studied me, expression unreadable. "Now you get it, now you do, girl."
I didn't say a word. Dorian paused at the doorway, his hand on the frame.
"Now," he said, his voice urgent, "you'll freshen up and have something to eat."
I blinked. "Eat?"
"Yes." His eyes narrowed. "No worker begins hungry in my restaurant." He beckoned, and a chef hurried forward, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"Take her," Dorian ordered. "Sit her down and feed her well."
"Yes, Mr. Steele." The chef gestured toward a wooden bench tucked near the ovens. "Come, miss."
I followed. The air was thick with spice and smoke, and my stomach twisted with both hunger and dread.
The chef placed a tray before me, steam rising from a plate of golden cushions stuffed with herbs and meat.
"Eat," Dorian said simply. "Enjoy."
I hesitated, my fingers trembling on the fork.
His gaze sharpened. "Go on."
I lifted a piece, tasted it. The flavors burst, rich, warm. My throat closed around it.
"Good," Dorian said. "Finish, then go and freshen up. Tomorrow, your work begins."
He turned sharply and strode out. The door shut behind him.
The kitchen shifted. The silence he left behind cracked open like a shell.
One cook leaned close to another. "He wouldn't focus on his life, right? Always searching for someone to drag into servitude."
Another hissed back, glancing toward me. "I hear he's not really human. That's why he takes in werewolves too. Like her."
The first snorted. "Keep your voice down."
A third worker muttered nervously, "I don't know anything about that; don't put me into trouble."
Their whispers tangled with the clatter of knives and the hiss of pans until I couldn't tell if I was still hungry or just afraid.