It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The sky was a bruised, ugly purple. The air was thick with humidity.

Emmett wore heavy rubber boots. He stood inside the wooden stalls of the Patterson stables. He held a metal pitchfork. He pushed the dirty hay and horse manure into a wheelbarrow. His movements were slow and steady.

Suddenly, the loud, violent screech of rubber tires tore through the quiet afternoon.

Emmett stopped. He leaned on the pitchfork. He looked through the wooden slats of the stall.

An estate's heavy transport carriage slammed on its brakes in the gravel driveway. The doors flew open.

Angus, the old stable master, ran out of the break room. The brass whistle around his neck was swinging wildly.

"Clear the south lawn!" the security captain shrieked from the courtyard. "Clear the landing pad! We need the fastest physician's carriage now!"

Emmett didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the shadows. He watched the panic erupt outside. His eyes were cold and unblinking.

Two white medical wagons flew through the main gates, their sirens wailing. The estate's emergency alarm system activated. Red strobe lights flashed against the dark sky.

Rory sprinted around the corner of the main house. He ran toward the stables. His face was chalk-white. He grabbed the wooden fence, gasping for air.

"He's dead!" Rory screamed. His voice cracked. "Master Alistair! He fell off his horse! The horse stepped on his neck! He's not breathing!"

Old Angus dropped to his knees in the dirt. He grabbed his gray hair. "The family is ruined," Angus moaned. "We're all ruined."

Emmett dropped his pitchfork. The metal clattered loudly against the stone floor. He forced his eyes wide open. He dropped his jaw, creating a perfect mask of shock and terror.

He ran out of the stall and grabbed Angus by the shoulders, pretending to support the old man.

Half an hour later, the swift medical transport clattered down the road. It took Alistair's broken body away. The manor fell into a dead, heavy silence.

By evening, Elias ordered all lower-tier servants to stay in the underground break room. The room was packed. The air was hot and smelled like nervous sweat.

Moira sat in the corner, violently biting her fingernails. "Without an heir, the Wall Street trust will liquidate everything," she said, her voice shaking. "They'll sell the house. We're all fired."

Rory sat on the floor, holding his head. "My etiquette book is useless! We're going to be homeless!"

Emmett sat in the darkest corner of the room. He held a plastic cup of lukewarm water. He watched them panic like trapped rats.

He took a slow breath. He let his shoulders slump. He made his voice sound hesitant and confused.

"I remember..." Emmett started softly. He paused, acting like he was trying to recall a distant memory. "I think... the Viscount isn't the only bloodline."

The entire room went dead silent. Forty heads snapped toward him.

Rory scrambled off the floor. He grabbed Emmett's arm. His fingers dug into Emmett's sleeve. "What do you know? Tell us!"

Emmett jerked backward. He pulled his arm away, acting terrified of the sudden attention.

"I-I don't know," Emmett stuttered. He looked down at his shoes. "I was delivering files to the main house once. I heard the lawyers talking."

Emmett let the silence stretch for two seconds. Then he dropped the bait.

"The Viscount has a brother," Emmett whispered. "And that brother has a legal son. I think his name is... Kearney Bernard."

Moira stood up. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "You're a footman. You don't know anything about trust inheritance laws. You probably misheard them."

Emmett immediately shrank back. He hunched his shoulders. He looked up at Moira with wide, submissive eyes.

"You're right," Emmett said quickly. "I don't have much formal schooling. I don't understand half those complicated legal words."

He played the stupid, uneducated servant perfectly. Moira rolled her eyes and sat back down, satisfied that she was smarter than him.

But the seed was planted. The name "Kearney" echoed in the quiet room.

The heavy metal doors slammed open. Elias, the head butler, marched in. His face was pale and furious.

"All leave is canceled," Elias barked. "The estate is in a period of mourning. If any of you speak to the press, you will be sued for millions under your NDAs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the servants mumbled in unison. They all stared at the floor.

Elias turned and marched out.

Emmett kept his head down. But beneath his dark hair, his eyes gleamed with sharp satisfaction. His first pawn was on the board.

He knew how fast rumors spread in the servant quarters. When Kearney finally arrived, the servants would already be expecting a new master. And Emmett would be the one pulling their strings.

It was past midnight. The second floor of the main house was brightly lit. Emmett walked down the hallway. His feet sank into the thick, expensive Persian carpet.

He carried a massive silver tea tray in his hands. It was incredibly heavy, but his arms didn't shake.

At the end of the hall, the heavy oak doors to Viscount Corbin's study were shut closed. From inside, the violent sound of glass shattering echoed through the wood.

Two senior footmen stood outside the door. They looked terrified. When they saw Emmett walking toward them with the tray, their shoulders dropped in relief. They didn't want to go inside. They pointed at the door, silently telling Emmett to take the hit.

Emmett lowered his eyes. He nodded obediently. He balanced the heavy tray on his left hand. He raised his right hand and knocked softly on the wood.

"Get out!" Viscount Corbin roared from inside. He sounded like a wild animal.

Emmett didn't flinch. He kept his voice perfectly smooth and flat.

"Sir, your sedatives and hot tea," Emmett said.

There was a two-second pause. Then, Lady Leonora's exhausted, raspy voice called out. "Let him in."

Emmett pushed the heavy door open. He stepped inside.

The study was destroyed. Pieces of a shattered antique vase covered the floor. White papers were scattered everywhere like snow.

Viscount Corbin sat slumped in his leather chair. His tie was ripped open. His eyes were bloodshot. He gripped a telegraphed document from a city law firm so hard the paper was tearing.

Emmett kept his eyes straight ahead. He walked carefully, stepping over the broken glass. He set the heavy silver tray on the edge of the mahogany desk.

Lady Leonora sat on the velvet sofa. Her expensive makeup was smeared down her cheeks. She was nervously tearing a silk handkerchief to shreds with her manicured nails.

Emmett picked up the silver teapot. He poured the hot liquid slowly. He made no sound. He became invisible.

"Alistair was a fool!" the Viscount screamed, slamming his fist on the desk. "With him dead, the trust inheritance chain is broken! The city vultures will liquidate the estate by tomorrow morning!"

"That was your son!" Lady Leonora shrieked. "And all you care about is your money!"

"Without money, we can't even pay the maintenance on the yacht!" the Viscount snapped back. "How will you survive the social season without my unlimited line of credit?"

Emmett pushed the teacup toward the Viscount. He dropped a white sedative pill next to the saucer. He bowed slightly and took a step back. But he moved his feet very slowly.

The Viscount grabbed the cup and drank. His eyes darkened. A crazy, desperate look crossed his face.

"There is one way to keep the money," the Viscount whispered.

Emmett stopped near the door. He turned his back to them. He pretended to fold the white linen napkins on his cart. He focused all his attention on their voices.

"Kearney Bernard," the Viscount spat the name out like poison. "That bastard is the only male heir left in this generation."

Lady Leonora gasped. She looked disgusted. "That gloomy freak? He doesn't know our rules! He's a savage!"

The Viscount smiled coldly. "Exactly. He's stupid. He'll be easy to control. We just need Philippa or Beatrice to marry him..."

"Are you insane?" Lady Leonora stood up. "Philippa is already married! Beatrice will never marry a country bumpkin!"

"Then Clara will do it!" the Viscount slammed his hand on the desk again. "As long as the money stays in this family, I don't care who spreads their legs for him!"

Emmett froze. His hands stopped moving on the napkin. His lungs stopped taking in air.

Clara.

A slow, freezing smile stretched across Emmett's face. The corners of his mouth pulled up so hard it hurt.

The Viscount looked up. He noticed Emmett standing by the door.

"What are you still doing here?!" the Viscount roared.

Emmett instantly dropped his smile. He spun around. He widened his eyes in pure panic. He bowed so low his back was parallel to the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir! I'm leaving right now!" Emmett stuttered. His voice shook with fake terror.

He practically ran out of the room. He grabbed the heavy brass handles and pulled the oak doors shut.

The heavy click of the lock sealed the screaming inside.

Emmett stood in the quiet hallway. The fake terror vanished from his face instantly. His heart pounded with a dark, twisted excitement.

In his past life, Clara had sent him to the gallows to protect her family's wealth. In this life, she was going to be sold like a cheap prostitute to Kearney Bernard.

Emmett grabbed the handle of his cart. He pushed it down the hallway. He couldn't wait to watch them tear each other apart.

It was the morning after Alistair's funeral. The underground kitchen was boiling hot. Steam rose from massive metal pots. It felt like an industrial boiler room.

Emmett was assigned to help carry heavy food deliveries. He took off his gray jacket. He wore only a white button-down shirt. He rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, exposing his forearms.

In the corner of the kitchen, a skinny girl with freckles was struggling. It was Agnes, the old stable master's niece. She was trying to lift a massive heavy wooden bucket of raw potatoes onto the steel counter. Her face was bright red.

Her hands slipped on the wet plastic. The heavy bucket tipped backward, falling toward the hard tile floor.

Emmett moved fast. He stepped forward and shoved his hand under the bucket. His bicep flexed tight against his shirt. He caught the full weight of the potatoes with one hand.

Agnes gasped and jumped back. She looked up at Emmett's face. Her cheeks turned dark red.

"Th-thank you," she stuttered.

Emmett didn't smile. He didn't flex to show off. He just lifted the bucket easily and pushed it onto the steel counter.

"Split it into two trips next time," Emmett said. His voice was calm and flat.

"Agnes! Peel those potatoes now!" Chef Fabre screamed from across the kitchen.

Agnes flinched. She pulled her shoulders up to her ears like a scared rabbit.

Emmett picked up a small paring knife. He stood next to her. He grabbed a potato and started peeling. The knife moved in fast, sharp circles. The skin fell away perfectly. He didn't say a word, he just helped her work.

Agnes looked at him with wide, grateful eyes. "Are you Emmett?" she whispered. "The one who knows about the inheritance laws?"

Emmett's knife stopped for a fraction of a second. The rumor had reached the kitchen. Perfect.

He turned his head. He looked at Agnes with a soft, self-deprecating smile.

"Don't listen to Rory," Emmett said gently. "I don't have much formal schooling. I don't understand half those complicated legal words."

Agnes looked at his clear, honest eyes. She instantly believed him. She smiled back, thinking he was just a nice, simple man.

Emmett looked at her innocent smile. A dark memory flashed in his brain.

In his past life, he used his good looks to flirt with every maid in the kitchen. He thought he was charming. He thought his handsome face made him special. That stupid arrogance made him the perfect target for Clara. She played him like a toy and threw him away.

Emmett's eyes turned pitch black. A wave of self-hatred hit him so hard his stomach rolled. He gripped the handle of the knife. His knuckles turned white.

He took a sharp breath. He tossed the peeled potato into the sink. It hit the water with a loud splash. The sound cut off the memory.

Moira walked into the kitchen. She swayed her hips as she walked toward Emmett. She stopped right next to him. She leaned in, trying to press her shoulder against his arm.

"You're pretty strong, Emmett," Moira purred.

Emmett didn't look at her. He shifted his weight and took a half-step to the left. Moira's shoulder hit empty air.

"Do you need me to carry something for you?" Emmett asked. His voice was polite, but it was freezing cold.

Moira frowned. She crossed her arms. "No," she muttered. She turned around and grabbed a breakfast tray. "You're as boring as a brick wall," she complained as she walked away.

Emmett went back to peeling potatoes. He needed to be a brick wall. Until Kearney arrived, Emmett had to be completely invisible. He had to hide every sharp edge.

Elias walked into the kitchen. The room went quiet. Elias looked around. He saw Emmett quietly peeling potatoes, ignoring the girls, just working hard. Elias nodded slightly. He liked obedient workers.

Elias cleared his throat. "Prepare the grand menu. Lady Philippa is returning to the manor this afternoon with her husband, Baron Pembroke."

The kitchen exploded into chaos. Pans clattered. People yelled.

Emmett put the knife down. He wiped his wet hands on a towel. He stared down into the dirty water in the sink.

Philippa was coming back. The venomous older sister. The war for the money was about to begin. Emmett stared at the water, ready to watch them drown.