Aria Grace
I should have chosen prison for crimes I didn't commit rather than agreeing to work for Vincent Blackwood.
Just a year ago, I lived a simple, ordinary life. Now, everything has spiraled into something far worse. My name is Aria Grace, and I am paying for sins that were never mine.
It all began a year ago. Back then, I was juggling my university classes while working shifts at a small diner to make ends meet. I didn't come from privilege. My family barely scraped by. My father, who passed away a year and a half ago, had been a security guard. But don't let that title fool you. I didn't shed a single tear when he died. Harsh as it sounds, anyone who lived through what I did would understand.
My father was a violent man, one who wore his cruelty like armor. My childhood is a blur of fists, kicks, and nights spent being hurled against walls. I watched my mother endure the same torment, yet she never left him. She could have. He wasn't even supporting us. It was my mother who worked herself to the bone at two jobs, keeping food on the table for me, my younger sister Ana, and that sorry excuse of a man.
If I didn't run away from that toxic house, it was only because of Ana. Everything I've endured, every decision I've made, has been for her. She's the reason I keep going.
As for my mother, I love her, but our bond is fractured. She wasn't abusive, but she was weak. Neglectful. She never stood up for me, for Ana, or even for herself. And because of that, the gap between us only grew.
I've been working for as long as I can remember. I started with babysitting, then moved on to a bakery. I've been a waitress, and I even worked at a bar, all just to support myself and Ana. Work and studies were always a balancing act for me, but I managed. I've always been a good student, not because I had some great love for studying, but because I saw education as my only escape. If I could get out of the poverty I grew up in, I could take Ana with me.
Ana is five years younger than I am, and she means everything to me. Everything I do, I do to protect her. She's not like me. Where I've learned to face challenges head-on, she tends to crumble under them. I'm her older sister, not her mother, but sometimes it feels like she's my child. I protect her like one, and in truth, she's closer to me than she ever was to our mother.
I've worked many jobs in my life, but never as a maid. Not until Vincent Blackwood forced me to become his personal maid. This job could have been just another form of work, but he made it into something else. Humiliating. Exhausting. Cruel. And all because I took the blame for a crime I didn't commit. And now, because of one terrible twist of fate, I'm shackled to Vincent Blackwood, the man determined to make me pay.
I was so close to finishing school and earning my bachelor's degree in marketing. I had worked my way into a university purely on merit and was studying on a full scholarship. I was a bright student with a future ahead of me. But all of that came crashing down. I had to abandon my studies and instead serve as Vincent Blackwood's full-time personal maid.
And who is Vincent Blackwood?
He is the heir of Blackwood Industries, one of the most powerful and ruthless business empires in the country. Born into generational wealth, Vincent has never known struggle, never known hardship. He is the eldest son of Hans Blackwood, the formidable chairman who built the Blackwood name into a dynasty.
Vincent himself is the picture of power. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that seem carved from stone, he has the kind of cold, arresting beauty that makes people stare but never approach. His dark eyes miss nothing, and his expression is always stern, unreadable, the kind that makes even seasoned executives hesitate. He is impeccably dressed at all times, his presence commanding entire rooms without a single word.
To the world, Vincent Blackwood is brilliant, disciplined, and untouchable. To me, he is something else entirely: my captor, my punishment, the man determined to crush me under the weight of his control.
"Aria?"
I heard my name and turned to see Erica standing at the door of Vincent's study. She was the only kind face in this entire mansion, the one person who treated me with warmth. As head of the maids, she was the bridge between Vincent and the staff. He rarely addressed me directly, preferring to issue his commands through her. Bless her, she truly cared for me and often tried to make things easier, but I always stopped her. The last thing I wanted was for her to get into trouble because of me.
At that moment, I was cleaning his study, completely alone. The room was massive, intimidating in its silence. A wide mahogany desk dominated the space, surrounded by endless shelves lined with hundreds of books. My task was to dust and polish them, one by one. In the corner stood a small bar, where I was expected to wash every glass, every piece of cutlery until it gleamed. There was even a sitting area within the study, with leather chairs and a coffee table, all of which had to be scrubbed and wiped until spotless.
Every inch of the room felt like him. The sharp scent of his cologne clung to the leather and wood, reminding me that even in his absence, he was watching. It was as if the study itself carried his authority, reminding me with every task that I didn't belong here, that this wasn't work. It was punishment. His desk was spotless, but I wasn't allowed to leave a single fingerprint. His shelves were lined with books that looked untouched, yet I was told to polish them over and over as if dusting away sins invisible to me. Washing, scrubbing, dusting, I could handle all of that. I had been used to hard work my whole life. What drained me was the repetition. He made me do it again, and again, and again, until my arms ached and my energy was wrung out of me like dirty water from a rag.
"Yes, Erica?" I asked. My voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. I was so tired I could hardly hear myself. All I wanted was for her to tell me I could rest. I hadn't slept last night, my head throbbed with pain, and my stomach ached from hunger. Rest was all I needed. I didn't even have the strength to feel sorry for myself anymore.
Erica's eyes swept around the study, taking in the spotless shelves, polished desk, and gleaming bar. She gave me a small, tight smile before stepping closer and resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry for all this, Aria," she said softly. Her voice was low, almost hesitant. She swallowed hard before continuing. "I came because… Mr. Blackwood is home. And he's asking for you."
Her tone carried something more than concern. It carried fear... fear not for herself, but for me.