The crystal glasses gleamed under the chandelier light as I carefully arranged them on the silver tray. Each one had to be perfectly positioned—not too close, not too far apart. Mr. Wallace was particular about these things. Tonight was his birthday, and everything had to be flawless.

I smoothed down my plain black dress, the fabric worn thin at the elbows from years of scrubbing and cleaning. It was the nicest one I owned, though it paled in comparison to what the other guests would be wearing.

"The napkins should be folded like this, Kenna," I whispered to myself, demonstrating the intricate fold Mr. Wallace preferred. "Not like that."

Three years. Three years since he'd saved me from that terrible night. Three years of cooking his meals, washing his clothes, warming his bed, and following him around like a shadow. I'd given everything to him, held nothing back. Surely tonight he would notice. Surely tonight he would see how much I loved him.

The doorbell rang at precisely eight o'clock. I hurried to answer it, smoothing my hair back with trembling fingers.

"Mr. Harrison, Mr. Blackwood, welcome," I said, stepping aside to let them enter.

They barely glanced at me, their eyes already scanning the room for Royce. "Where's the birthday boy?" Mr. Harrison asked, handing me his coat as if I were the hired help rather than the woman who shared Royce's bed.

"In the study. He'll be out soon," I replied, taking their coats and draping them carefully over the chair by the door.

More guests arrived—business associates, wealthy friends, all with their partners dressed in designer clothes that made me feel even more invisible. I moved among them like a ghost, serving drinks, taking coats, adjusting the temperature when someone complained it was too cold.

Then she arrived.

Lilly Graham swept in like a vision in a crimson dress that hugged every curve, her blonde hair cascading down her back in perfect waves. Royce emerged from his study immediately, as if drawn by some invisible force.

"Lilly," he said, his voice warmer than I'd ever heard it. "You came."

"Of course I did," she purred, placing her manicured hand on his arm. "How could I miss your birthday?"

I felt myself shrinking into the background as Royce guided her to the seat at his right hand—the place of honor. The place where I usually sat when we ate alone.

Dinner was served. I'd spent hours preparing Royce's favorite dishes—beef Wellington, roasted vegetables with herbs from the garden, and a chocolate soufflé that took three attempts to get right.

"Pass the wine, girl," Mr. Blackwood said, not even looking at me as I stood behind his chair.

"Kenna," Royce corrected absently, though he didn't meet my eyes either. "Her name is Kenna."

"Right," Mr. Blackwood nodded. "No ice in my whiskey next time, Kenna."

I nodded, swallowing the humiliation. "Of course, sir."

Lilly picked at her food delicately. "The presentation is... quaint," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Though I've always found that simple dishes are better left to simpler tables."

Royce chuckled, not defending me or my efforts.

As the night wore on, I moved silently around the table, refilling glasses, removing plates, replacing forks when they were dropped. No one seemed to notice my existence except when something wasn't quite right.

"The gravy is a bit lumpy," Royce commented, frowning at his plate.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, taking the dish. "I'll fix it."

Hours later, when most guests had gone and only a few lingered in the study with Royce, I began cleaning up. The kitchen was a mess of dirty dishes and empty bottles. My hands were raw from scrubbing, but I kept working. It was nearly midnight when I heard voices from the study—loud, drunken laughter.

"She's so fucking obedient," Royce's voice carried through the partially open door. "Ask her to do anything, and she does it with that pathetic grateful look."

My hands stilled on the dish towel. Something cold settled in my stomach.

"What about when you're not asking nicely?" someone else slurred.

"That's the best part," Royce laughed, the sound cutting through me like glass. "She thinks I'm going to fall in love with her someday. Can you imagine?"

More laughter.

"What do you do with her when you're bored?" another voice asked.

"I might share her around," Royce said casually, as if discussing a car or a watch. "She's my little plaything. So eager to please."

The dish towel slipped from my fingers. The world tilted sideways as three years of devotion crumbled into dust.

Plaything.

The word echoed in my head as I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Everything I'd given him—my body, my heart, my dignity—had been nothing but entertainment.

I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle the sob building in my throat. In that moment, something inside me finally broke free.

I stumbled back to my room, my vision blurred by tears I refused to let fall. The narrow staircase to the servants' quarters felt endless as each step echoed the words that had shattered my world.

"Plaything."

The word followed me like a shadow, slipping under the door of my tiny room and settling over me as I collapsed onto the thin mattress. Three years. Three years of washing his clothes, cooking his meals, warming his bed—all for nothing.

My room was barely larger than a closet, tucked away in the far corner of the Wallace estate where Royce wouldn't have to see it. The walls were bare except for a small, faded photograph of my mother—the only possession I'd managed to bring with me when Royce rescued me from that terrible night.

Rescued. The word mocked me now.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill over. "You're so stupid, Kenna," I whispered to myself. "So stupid to think he would ever love you."

Memories flooded back—Royce's cold eyes when I'd first arrived, the way he'd looked through me rather than at me. The nights I'd spent learning exactly how he liked his coffee, his shirts pressed, his meals prepared. The times I'd flinched when he raised his voice, only to apologize for making him angry.

And then there was Austin.

The memory of him hit me like a physical blow—his gentle hands, his promises that seemed so distant now. "I'll always protect you, Kenna," he'd said when we were sixteen, his arms around me as we watched fireflies dance in the summer air. "No matter what happens, I'll find you."

But I'd moved away, and Austin had disappeared from my life, and then came that night—the night Royce had saved me. Or so I thought.

I curled into a ball on my bed, clutching the thin blanket around my shoulders. Sleep wouldn't come, only images of Royce's face as he laughed with his friends, discussing me as if I were a toy to be passed around.

Morning arrived with gray light filtering through the small window. I hadn't slept. My eyes burned, and my chest felt hollow as I forced myself to rise and begin my daily routine.

I was in the kitchen, mechanically preparing Royce's breakfast, when the doorbell rang. The sound was unusual—most of Royce's friends used the side entrance, and it was too early for deliveries.

I wiped my hands on my apron and moved through the silent house to answer the door.

"Austin?"

The name escaped my lips before I could stop it. Standing on the doorstep was Austin Reed—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair shorter than I remembered but his eyes exactly the same. Those kind eyes that had once looked at me like I was precious.

"Kenna," he breathed, his face paling as he took me in. "My God, what has he done to you?"

I stepped back instinctively, suddenly conscious of my worn dress, my uncombed hair, the shadows under my eyes. "How did you find me?"

"It took months," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His gaze swept over the grand foyer, then back to me. "I've been looking for you since I heard what happened."

He reached for my hand, and I flinched away. His expression darkened. "Kenna, let me help you. This isn't right—none of this is right."

"I need to finish breakfast," I said, turning away. "Mr. Wallace will be up soon."

"Stop calling him that," Austin said, his voice sharp with anger. "And stop acting like his servant. This isn't you, Kenna. Where's the girl who used to climb trees with me? Who wasn't afraid of anything?"

"She's gone," I whispered.

"No," Austin said firmly. "She's not. She's still in there, and I'm going to help her find her way back."

Later that morning, when Royce had left for work and the house was quiet, Austin found me in the gardens. I was picking herbs for lunch, my back to him as he approached.

"Kenna," he said softly. "We need to talk."

I turned, clutching a bunch of parsley to my chest like a shield. "About what?"

"About you leaving here," he said, stepping closer. "Today. With me."

I shook my head, backing away. "I can't just leave."

"Why not?" Austin demanded, his eyes flashing. "Do you know what he's doing to you? What he's turned you into?"

"I don't have anywhere else to go," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Yes, you do," Austin insisted. "You have me. You've always had me."

I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "Please go, Austin."

"Not without you," he said firmly, reaching for my hand again. "Kenna, please. Let me help you."

I felt Austin's presence behind me, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold morning air. My hands trembled as I clutched the parsley to my chest, unable to meet his gaze.

"Kenna, please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You don't belong here."

Before I could respond, the garden door slammed open. Royce stood there, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the lawn. His eyes narrowed as they flicked between Austin and me.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice slicing through the peaceful morning air.

Austin straightened, his shoulders squaring as he stepped slightly in front of me. "Royce Wallace, I presume. I'm Austin Reed. Kenna's friend."

"Friend?" Royce spat the word like it tasted bitter. "She doesn't have friends. She has me."

I flinched at the possessive edge in his voice, my body automatically shrinking back. Three years of conditioning had taught me to expect the worst when that tone crept into his speech.

"Kenna," Royce called sharply, ignoring Austin completely. "Get rid of this nobody. Now."

I hesitated, my eyes darting between them. "Mr. Wallace, Austin was just—"

"Just what?" Royce cut me off, stalking forward until he towered over me. "Trying to convince you that you're worth something? That someone might actually want you?"

Austin's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"Do you know what she was before I found her?" Royce continued, his voice rising as he addressed Austin directly for the first time. "A nobody. A pathetic little girl being passed around by her own stepfather. I saved her from that. I gave her a home, clothes, food." His lips curled into a cruel smile. "And this is how she repays me? By entertaining visitors in my garden?"

The parsley fell from my hands, scattering across the ground as Royce's words stripped away what little dignity I had left. Austin's face paled, his eyes filling with horror—not at what Royce was saying about me, but at the casual cruelty with which he said it.

"Kenna," Austin whispered, reaching for me. "This isn't right."

Royce grabbed my wrist, yanking me away from Austin's outstretched hand. "She belongs to me," he snarled. "Now get off my property before I have security throw you out."

That evening, I moved through the kitchen like a ghost, preparing dinner with mechanical precision. The stew simmered on the stove, filling the air with the rich aroma of beef and herbs. My hands were raw from chopping vegetables, but I barely noticed the pain.

The dining room door swung open, and Lilly glided in, her crimson dress replaced by a demure blue one that made her look angelic in comparison to my plain black uniform.

"Something smells delicious," she said, her voice honey-sweet as she peered into the pot. "Beef stew?"

"Yes, Miss Graham," I replied, keeping my eyes downcast.

"Such a simple dish," she remarked, trailing her finger along the counter. "Almost... beneath the Wallace household, don't you think?"

I said nothing, focusing on stirring the pot.

"Oh well," she sighed dramatically. "Royce insists you cook despite my offers to bring in a proper chef."

As I turned to reach for the salt, I caught a glimpse of movement—Lilly's hand slipping something from her purse into the stew pot. Before I could react, she stepped back, her expression innocent once more.

"Dinner is served," I announced minutes later, carrying the steaming tureen into the dining room where Royce and Lilly waited.

Royce barely acknowledged me as I ladled the stew into their bowls. Lilly watched me with those calculating eyes, her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

After a few spoonfuls, Lilly suddenly gasped, her face contorting in pain. She clutched at her throat, knocking over her water glass as she slumped forward.

"Royce," she choked out. "My... allergy... shellfish..."

Royce leapt to his feet, catching her as she collapsed. "What happened?" he demanded, looking frantically between Lilly and me.

"She's allergic to shellfish," he shouted at me. "What did you put in this?"

"Nothing," I stammered, genuine confusion washing over me. "Just beef and vegetables. I would never—"

"You tried to poison her!" Royce roared, his face contorted with rage as he cradled the now-unconscious Lilly in his arms. "Get out! Get out of my sight!"

I stood frozen, the wooden spoon still in my hand, as Royce gathered Lilly in his arms and rushed toward the door, shouting for his driver to take them to the hospital.

The spoon slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor as the realization hit me: I'd been set up.