Chapter 3
The silence in the dressing room was absolute, broken only by Sofia’s ragged, breathy sobs. Alexander’s polished leather shoes made almost no sound as he crossed the vast, sunlit space. The cinematic, crisp lighting illuminated the dark, intricate tattoos on his neck, flexing as his jaw clenched with a rage so profound it bordered on lethal.
He crouched down gracefully, his tailored suit trousers creasing perfectly. He did not care about the black shoe polish. He reached out with large, tattooed hands and gently helped Sofia stand up straight.
"I've got you, piccola," Alexander murmured. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, and naturally authoritative. He spoke slowly, with controlled, agonizing pauses between his words, keeping his volume terrifyingly low. "You are safe."
As he pulled her close, Alexander’s sharp, intimidating eyes finally registered the horrifying details. He saw the stiff, humiliating black-and-white fabric. He saw the starched white apron tied tightly around her tiny waist. He saw the thick, greasy black shoe polish completely covering her small, fair hands.
His daughter had been dressed as a servant.
Alexander’s breathing stopped. He slowly turned his head, his cold, dead eyes locking onto Veronica. The thirty-four-year-old woman had folded her arms across her chest, attempting to project a facade of unapologetic confidence, though her fair, rosy skin had gone noticeably pale.
"Explain this," Alexander commanded. Every single sentence sounded measured, cold, and unspeakably dangerous.
"Alexander, do not look at me like that," Veronica scoffed, lifting her chin defensively. "She knocked over a glass of water in the hallway earlier. I decided she needed to learn a lesson about hard work and responsibility. You pamper her too much."
"You put my blood... in an apron," Alexander whispered. The volume of his voice was so low it forced Veronica to lean in slightly to hear him, a terrifying psychological tactic that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
"She should feel proud to polish my high heels," Veronica replied coldly, her arrogance momentarily overriding her survival instincts. "When we are married, she will need to understand that I am the lady of this house. I am merely preparing her for the new reality, Alexander. You should be thanking me."
Alexander remained perfectly still. He looked from Veronica’s smug, defensive face down to the heavy, wooden shoe-polishing stool resting on the pristine marble floor. He looked at the rows upon rows of expensive, glittering designer shoes lining the custom racks along the wall.
"Is that right?" Alexander asked, his raspy voice devoid of all human emotion.
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"Daddy, I didn't want to do it," Sofia whimpered, burying her polish-stained face into the expensive fabric of Alexander’s unbuttoned dress shirt, ruining the crisp white cotton.
"I know, sweet girl," Alexander whispered, his large hand gently stroking the back of her head. "I know."
