The room was a total dump. To hell with breakfast. I had to clean up first; there was no way I could face anyone in this state.
Walking to the window, I threw open the dusty curtains. The sunlight hit my eyes like a punishing sword, exposing every layer of filth. Dust danced in the beams, settling on piles of empty bottles and stale laundry.
I started with the bottles. Methodically, I gathered them and lined them up by the door in perfectly straight rows. Each bottle had to be level with the next, neck to neck. If even one had been out of line, I think I would have snapped. Then I moved on to the clothes scattered across the floor. The stench made my stomach churn and my head throb, but I kept going. Using a small knife, I scraped the dirt from under my fingernails. I scrubbed until they were impeccably clean.
Tidying the room took about half an hour. Looking in the mirror, I noted that despite the paleness and the shadows under my eyes, I looked stunning. It almost sparked a sense of envy—how unfairly handsome Victor was. This piece of trash possessed a gift that he was simply flushing down the drain.
Finally ready, I gripped the bronze handle and swung the double doors open.
The voices in the hallway cut off as abruptly as if they'd been sliced by a razor. A maid, caught off guard, froze with her tray. A servant, who had been leaning relaxedly against the wall, snapped to attention, nearly dropping his rag.
"M-my Lord..." the maid stammered, turning deathly pale.
I didn't grace her with a reply, merely glancing at the line of bottles by the threshold.
"Get rid of this crap. Immediately. Air the room out completely. Burn the bedding. Scrub every crevice of the furniture with vinegar. If I catch even a hint of that old stench, you'll be out of this estate in a heartbeat."
"Y-yes, Lord Hellsworth... right away!" The man scrambled off as if wolves were at his heels.
I turned to the maid. She cowered, pulling her head into her shoulders. She was expecting the usual: a blow, drunken verbal abuse, or a glass thrown at her face. Instead, I pointed to a tiny tea stain on her apron.
"Fix that. There shall be no stains in my house. Not on the furniture, and not on the people."
I walked past them, feeling their gazes on my back—a mix of primal terror and utter confusion. To them, I was a corpse come to life, one that had suddenly found a passion for cleanliness and self-control.
As I descended the stairs, I soaked in the smells: the faint smoke of torches and the aroma of roasted meat from the dining room. With every step, the air felt heavier. Behind those doors sat the people who, in the original story, were meant to be my executioners.
"He won't come, Kyle. And thank God for that. At least one breakfast without his beastly howling." A sharp female voice rang out.
Evelyn. The daughter who, in the future, would burn this very building to the ground.
"Father is awake, but he was... different. Too sober." "Sober?" Evelyn let out a short laugh. "He just hasn't had the chance to hit the bottle yet. Ethan, hide your book before he comes in and burns it along with your hands."
I stopped before the door. I intentionally waited exactly five seconds, steadying the slight tremor in my fingers. Any hesitation meant a death sentence.
Taking a breath, I pushed the doors open.
The clatter of silverware died down. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me. Kyle watched with heavy suspicion; Evelyn with blatant hatred; Ethan flinched so hard he nearly fell off his chair, and little Leon froze with a spoon in his mouth.
As if rehearsing every move, I walked to the head of the table. The chair was crooked—literally an inch further left than it should be. Without a word, I straightened it until it was perfectly symmetrical with the edges of the rug. Only then did I sit.
Scanning the table, I looked at Leon. His napkin was crumpled. The boy turned pale and dropped his spoon. It hit the plate with a loud clang, splashing drops of soup onto the tablecloth. A stain began to spread across the white fabric.
I stared at that stain. The silence grew so thick you could cut it with a knife. Kyle half-rose from his seat, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger.
"Why have you gone quiet? We are here for breakfast, not a funeral. Carry on."
Kyle slowly lowered himself back down, his distrustful gaze never leaving me. Evelyn sat frozen, her mouth slightly open in surprise. She had clearly expected an outburst of rage over the tablecloth.
I reached for the crystal decanter. The children held their breath in unison. In their world, this marked the beginning of the end: the first sip of wine, followed by flying dishes. I poured a bit of the dark red liquid into a glass.
It smelled of alcohol and sourness. Taking a tiny sip, barely wetting my tongue, I paused. Rare garbage. Cheap swill for those who want to forget themselves, not for those who want to enjoy a drink.
With a dry thud, I set the glass back on the table. I pointedly pushed it to the very edge.
"Take this away. And bring me black tea. Five sugar cubes."
Kyle gripped his fork so hard it nearly bent. "Tea?" he repeated, as if it were a curse word. "You... you aren't going to drink?"
"Is there something wrong with your hearing, Kyle?" I shifted my gaze to him. "And change Leon's tablecloth. That stain looks like a challenge to my patience."
Ethan hurriedly grabbed a napkin and tried to blot the soup, but his fingers were shaking so much he only smeared the mess further.
"That's enough, Ethan. Leave it to the servants; at least their hands don't shake like a decrepit old man's. Eat your breakfast."
Evelyn couldn't take it. She slammed her plate away and stood up, hitting the table with her palm. "I feel sick just being here!" She turned and stormed out of the room. The door slammed with such force that the glassware in the cabinet rattled. Kyle was tense as a coiled spring, ready to jump to his sister's defense at any moment.
"Kyle, your meal will turn into a block of ice soon." "You're... just letting her go? No shouting? No punishments?" "She's full, given she had the strength to announce herself so loudly."
I turned to the maid frozen in the doorway. "Change the young lord's linens. Now. And don't you dare breathe on the food."
The woman dashed to the table, feverishly spreading fresh cloth under Leon's plate. The boy sat motionless, clutching his spoon like his only shield in this mad world.
At that moment, the tea arrived. I took the silver tongs. One by one, I dropped the cubes into the cup. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Slowly stirring the sugar, I watched the swirling vortex. Kyle, Ethan, and Leon remained frozen over their plates. Their father's new behavior likely terrified them far more than his usual rampages.
I took a sip. The scalding, sweet tea slightly eased the tremors in my body.
"What are you planning?" Kyle finally forced out. "Clean clothes, tea... What kind of masquerade is this? If you've decided to mock us before finally disinheriting us, just say it."
"You ask too many questions for someone who hasn't finished breakfast." I raised a hand, cutting off his attempt to argue. The gesture was so natural and commanding that Kyle involuntarily fell silent. "Finish your meal. You are dismissed."
Without giving them another look, I stood and headed for the exit. At the door, my gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on a speck of dust on the handle, but I held back. I stepped out, closing the doors behind me, and only then allowed myself to exhale in the hallway.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, and my lungs desperately pulled in the hallway air.
"Get it together," I whispered to myself, clenching my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. "You can't let them smell weakness. In this house, weakness is a death sentence."
I pushed off the door and straightened my cuffs with a sharp motion. The corridor I walked down seemed endless. The Hellsworth estate, once a majestic nest for aristocrats, now looked like an aging patient mired in debt and filth. The wallpaper was peeling in places, exposing the gray stone of the walls, and the heavy frames of the portraits were covered in layers of cobwebs and dust. I passed the old gallery, where ancestors stared down at me—just as arrogant and likely just as rotten.
I walked slowly along the carpet runner. Once, it must have shone a brilliant crimson, but now it looked like dried blood. I carefully inspected every turn, every corner, checking against the fragments of memory from the book I'd read.
To the right—the small parlor. That was where the "former" Victor drank away the last of the family gold. To the left—the dark maw of the stairs leading to the basements. The rumors that I locked people I didn't like down there made my skin crawl.
A young maid with a basket of laundry was coming toward me. Seeing me, she literally pressed herself into the wall, bowing her head. She was shaking so hard that the clean sheets began to slide from her arms onto the dirty floor.
I stopped directly in front of her, loitering like an icy monolith.
"Your posture. You are a maid in a Great House, not a beaten stray in an alley. Stand up straight." The girl exhaled shakily. "F-forgive me, my lord... I..." "Fewer words," I interrupted, fastidiously adjusting the edge of the slipping sheet with the tip of my finger. "If I see you dragging laundry like it's a sack of manure again, I'll have you wash it in ice water until your hands turn blue. There should not be a single wrinkle on these sheets. Dismissed."
She bolted, nearly tripping over her own feet.
Soon, I reached a wide window at the end of the gallery and stopped. From here, there was a view of the courtyard. The sight was depressing. The garden had turned into a wild jungle. The fountain with the stone gargoyle was overgrown with moss, and the hedges had tangled into an impassable thicket of thorns.
A dump outside, ruin inside. And I was at the very center of this chaos.
I turned and headed toward my study. That was where the ledgers, the promissory notes, and the secrets were kept—the things that could either give me a chance at salvation or finally tighten the noose around Victor Hellsworth's neck.
Right by the door, I noticed an old floor vase. Dead, blackened flowers poked out of it. I grimaced in disgust and, as I passed, intentionally brushed it with my shoulder, making it wobble dangerously.
"It reeks of death." I threw the words at a nearby servant who had frozen in place. "Throw this trash out. And bring fresh ink and paper to my study. Move, unless you want to spend the evening in the stables."
I stepped inside and locked the door.
Now, I had to figure out how much time I actually had left before Evelyn decided it was time to strike the first match against this house.