“Leave us alone, Leandro,” Sebastian ordered, his tone sharp and final.

“With pleasure,” Leandro replied with exaggerated flair. He gave Anastasia a polite bow, then added with a playful grin, “Leandro Bustamante, right-hand man and loyal friend of Sebastian.”

“Leandro!” Sebastian’s voice carried the weight of irritation, his patience thinning.

“Aye, sir.” Leandro raised his hands in mock surrender and walked away, his smile lingering as if he enjoyed provoking his friend.

Anastasia stood quietly, unsure of what to say. The heavy silence in the room pressed against her chest, and her nerves only grew worse under the cold aura Sebastian carried around him. His presence was commanding, unyielding, and she felt her words catch in her throat.

Sebastian turned his head slightly toward her, his face unreadable. “Listen carefully. I will tell you what you must do, and you will pay attention, because I do not like repeating myself.” His voice was deep, calm, yet it carried a sharpness that made her straighten instinctively.

“You must not enter my room without permission. You must not meddle in my private life, and you will never give your opinion unless I ask for it. Your duties are simple but precise. You will ensure my diet is followed exactly, keep everything in my room in order, and prepare my wardrobe each day. I will tell you the colors I prefer, and you will obey without question. You will accompany me to the company and remain at my side for anything I need. You will not work for anyone else. You belong to my service alone. Is that clear?”

Anastasia lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting nervously. “Yes, sir. I will be your eyes.”

The words slipped from her lips with sincerity, but they struck Sebastian’s heart like a blade. For a moment his jaw clenched, bitterness flaring inside him. He despised pity, despised the reminder of his condition, and her choice of words stung.

His voice turned hard. “Be very careful with what you say to me, Anastasia.”

She looked up quickly, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Her voice trembled with worry, but her expression was honest.

Sebastian leaned closer, his tone cold and cutting. “There is something you need to understand very clearly. You will never behave seductively around me. Do you hear me? Never. I do not desire you, and you are not my type. And never in your life should you look at me with pity.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “I despise pity.”

Anastasia swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing on her. She knew it would be difficult not to notice him. His commanding presence filled every space, and even though his personality was cruel and unyielding, there was something about him that drew her attention.

“Yes, Mr. Parrow,” she said softly, forcing her voice to remain steady.

Sebastian straightened, regaining his usual composure. “It is breakfast time. One good thing about our deal is that you will not lack food or shelter. You will eat beside me every morning. Now, walk faster.”

“Yes, sir. As ordered,” Anastasia replied, hurrying after him.

They stepped out into the garden, where the morning light spread across the land. Sebastian had chosen this place to dine, surrounded by the lush greenery and the distant sound of birds. Anastasia paused for a moment, amazed by the beauty of the landscape.

She glanced at him, silently admiring how, despite his condition, Sebastian carried himself like a man untouched by weakness. In that moment, he seemed more human than the cold figure she had seen earlier, though she knew better than to voice such a thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Parrow,” greeted Sara, the maid who always served him breakfast. Her eyes darted toward Anastasia with thinly veiled disapproval.

Sebastian’s voice was calm but firm. “Sara, this is Anastasia. From tomorrow onward, she will take care of my meals and manage the farm. Everything she asks for will be done.”

Sara’s lips tightened, her face betraying her disagreement. “As you ordered, boss.”

“Bring breakfast for both of us,” Sebastian instructed without a second glance.

Sara cast Anastasia a long, hostile look before turning away. Anastasia shifted uncomfortably, sensing the woman’s disdain.

Sebastian noticed. “Ignore her,” he said curtly. “She is loyal, but she forgets her place.”

Anastasia nodded faintly. She sat at the edge of the table, her thoughts drifting for a moment. Her mother’s health was deteriorating, each day worse than the last. Cancer consumed her body, and no matter how much Anastasia tried, improvement never came. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She quickly brushed it away, but Sebastian’s sharp eyes caught the movement. “Why are you crying?” he asked, his tone direct.

Anastasia hesitated. “It’s nothing, sir. Just… thoughts of my mother.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, studying her face. “If you are going to serve me, you cannot allow personal weakness to interfere. Control yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Parrow,” she whispered, lowering her eyes.

Sara returned, balancing a tray of steaming coffee and warm food. She placed the dishes on the table, but as she leaned closer to Anastasia, a cup tipped and hot coffee spilled directly onto Anastasia’s lap.

Anastasia gasped. “Oh, it burns!” she cried, standing quickly and trying to wipe the liquid from her legs.

“I’m sorry, miss,” Sara said quickly, but there was a smile on her lips, cold and unsettling. It sent a chill down Anastasia’s spine, as though the woman had done it on purpose.

Sebastian’s voice rose, irritated. “What is going on?”

Sara bowed her head, though her eyes still glinted. “Forgive me, boss. The coffee slipped. It was not my intention.” She placed the rest of the breakfast on the table with exaggerated care.

Anastasia grabbed napkins, pressing them against her skin. The burn stung, her delicate skin reddening from the heat.

Sebastian pushed his chair back slightly. “Is it serious?” His voice was sharper now, demanding an answer.

She forced herself to smile and speak quietly. “I am fine, Mr. Parrow. Please continue your breakfast.”

Sara’s voice chimed with false concern. “If you like, miss, I can bring something to help with the burn.”

“You are kind, but I will be all right,” Anastasia said, her eyes sharp with anger. She wanted no help from the maid who had spilled the coffee on purpose.

Sara smiled thinly. “Very well, miss.” She left the tray with a stiff nod and walked out.

Anastasia hurried to the sink, her hands shaking. The burn stung badly. She grabbed a towel, then found a small jar of salt. Lifting her dress slightly, she dabbed it carefully on the red skin. The pain eased a little.

“Are you sure you are all right?” Sebastian asked without looking up from his plate. His eyes stayed fixed on the same spot, unblinking, while his fingers moved with practiced precision over the cutlery. The white cane leaned against his chair, untouched, a silent reminder of how he moved through a world he could not see. Yet his calm posture carried the weight of someone who still commanded the room.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. She watched the steady rhythm of his movements, unsettled by how confident he was.

“Stop staring,” he muttered. “I do not like being watched.”

She blinked. He had not looked at her once, yet somehow he knew. “No, sir. I will not stare,” she said quickly, and forced herself to take a bite.

The food tasted wrong. The eggs were too salty. She swallowed, trying to hide her disgust. Even the orange juice had a strange, salty tang. She tried to smile, but her mouth betrayed her and she spat the food into her napkin quickly, embarrassed.

Sebastian’s brows drew together. “What is wrong with you? Are you unwell?”

She swallowed hard and lied. “No, sir. I am just not used to this food. I will eat.”

“You will eat what you are given and do it without complaint,” he said firmly. He did not glance at her, yet his voice cut as if he saw every thought she tried to hide.

Her stomach growled. She had not had more than a few crackers since the day before. Hunger gnawed at her but she kept her voice steady when she asked a question that had been on her mind.

“Sir, may I ask you something?”

He did not nod. He simply lifted his hand in a dismissive wave, a gesture that stopped a little short of the table’s edge. “Ask.”

“Why will your ex not marry you?”

“Why will your ex not marry you?”

The words slipped out of Anastasia’s mouth before she could stop them. The moment they were in the air she wished she could grab them back. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she knew how foolish she sounded. Why had she asked such a thing? But the thought had been gnawing at her since yesterday.

If this powerful, bitter man had once been promised to someone, then why was she here now, pretending to be his substitute wife? Had he been abandoned, left unwanted? Was that why he needed someone to fill the role now, someone who was more servant than partner?

Sebastian’s fork clattered against the edge of his plate. The sound cracked through the still morning air like a stone thrown into still water. His head did not turn toward her, but his lips pressed into a line so sharp it looked carved from stone. His silence was worse than shouting.

“What did I tell you?” His voice was sharp when it came, clipped and cold, like frost on steel.

“I am sorry,” she rushed out quickly, her hands twisting in her lap. “I should not have asked. I only wondered because… because we will be close, and I wanted to know what to expect.”

His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he shoved it back. The sound made her flinch. His hand brushed against the cane at his side before resting heavily on the table again.

“Mind your place,” he snapped. His eyes were hard though unfocused, staring past her. “You asked an insolent question.”

“I only meant—” Anastasia began, her voice weak, but he cut her off before she could finish.

“I told you before, I despise repeating myself,” he said. His breath was steady, but his words were edged like a blade. He drew in a sharp breath, trying to cage whatever storm was building inside him.

“It is absurd. You will be nothing more than a substitute wife and a servant. You will do as you are told. That is all. Now finish your breakfast because you will have work.”

Her throat tightened. Still, she could not stop herself. Her voice came out softer, stubborn but shaking. “Sir, please. I need to ask one more thing.”

His head turned toward her voice, eyes blank but full of authority. “What now?”

She laced her fingers together, trying to steady the trembling in her hands. “I know it is too soon, and I am sorry to ask this, but… could you give me an advance? I need money for my mother. She is very sick. I will pay you back, I promise. I will do whatever you ask.”

Silence fell across the dining room. Sara, who had been lingering by the doorway with a tray, froze in place.

“How dare you,” Sebastian said at last. His voice rose then dropped, a cold, disgusted calm filling the air. “You have been in my service for one hour, and already you ask for money?”

“Please, sir,” Anastasia said, her voice breaking as tears pricked her eyes. “I do not have time. My mother’s condition got worse last night. The clinic said they will not admit her unless we pay something now. If you refuse, she may not survive.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the head of his cane until his knuckles turned pale. He shifted his weight, the sharp tap of the cane striking against the polished floor as he began to pace slowly around the dining room, each step taut with restrained anger.

Leandro, who had been half-hidden behind a newspaper, finally lowered it. He studied his friend’s tense shoulders and then looked at Anastasia with something between sympathy and curiosity.

“Sebastian,” Leandro said softly, “what harm would a small advance do? If she is sincere, we can sort the rest later. You promised benefits when you made this arrangement.”

Sebastian stopped pacing, his cane striking the ground once more before he steadied himself. “You think begging for money is sincerity?”

“It is not begging,” Leandro countered. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is desperation. Look at her. Do you think this girl would risk your anger if she was not at the end of her rope? If her mother is truly sick, are we the kind of men to sit and let her suffer?”

Anastasia’s eyes flicked between them, her heart pounding.

Sebastian’s mouth twitched, as though caught between mockery and thought. Slowly, he returned to his chair. His hands brushed along the edge of the table until they found his plate, grounding himself.

Sebastian was silent for so long that Anastasia began to count the beats of her own heart. The air in the dining room grew heavy, so thick she thought it might choke her. The clinking of cutlery from the far end of the house had faded, leaving only the low hum of silence between them.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, measured, but it carried a weight that pressed down on her shoulders.

“You must understand something,” he said slowly. “I don’t give out money just because someone cries for it.”

Anastasia’s fingers curled against the fabric of her dress. She lowered her eyes, even though he could not see them, and answered quietly.

“I know, sir.”

He tilted his head toward her voice, his blind eyes fixed as if they were looking through her.

“The question is,” he continued, “how far are you willing to go to get it? Can you do anything for me in return?”

Her chest tightened, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe. The way he said it, so casual and unhurried, made her throat turn dry. She forced herself to swallow and willed her voice to come out steady.

“Yes. I’ll do anything.”

Sebastian did not move. A faint curl tugged at the corner of his lips, as though her answer amused him.

“Anything?” His tone held a shadow of mockery. “Are you sure you know what that word means?”

“Yes,” Anastasia said quickly, though her voice trembled. “If it means I can pay for my mother’s treatment, then I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I won’t back down.”

Leandro, who had been watching in silence, leaned back in his chair and gave a low laugh.

“Careful, girl,” he warned, his accent thicker when his tone grew serious. “You don’t even know what he’s asking yet.”

Anastasia turned her head sharply toward him, her eyes burning. “I don’t care. My mother is lying in pain right now. If I have to scrub floors, cook, serve, or even stand here all night, I’ll do it. If I have to give up sleep, I’ll do it. I can’t let her die.”

Leandro lifted his brows, his expression softening despite himself. But Sebastian remained silent, unmoving, listening to her every word.

The quiet stretched until Sebastian tapped his cane lightly against the floor. The sound was sharp, almost like a gavel striking wood.

“You sound desperate,” he murmured.

“I am,” Anastasia whispered, her throat tightening around the words.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his presence looming over her despite the table between them. “Then remember your words. You said anything. Don’t take them back later.”

Her chin lifted, tears swimming in her eyes but her voice steady now, almost defiant. “I won’t take them back.”

Leandro shifted again, uneasy. “Sebastian,” he said quietly, “don’t play too hard. She’s just a girl trying to save her mother. Not one of your business deals.”

Sebastian ignored him. Instead, his head tilted as if he were listening to the quiver in Anastasia’s breath. His blind eyes, cold and distant, locked in her direction. For a second, Anastasia had the frightening thought that he could see her, that he was looking straight into her soul.

She wanted to look away, but something in his stillness held her in place.

Just then, the sound of footsteps broke the moment. Sara reappeared then, carrying a fresh set of napkins. She placed them down with more force than necessary, her eyes flicking toward Anastasia with thinly veiled disdain. Yet her voice came out oddly soft when she said,

“If you need anything, miss, tell me. I will help where I can.”

Anastasia managed a nod, though she doubted Sara’s sincerity.

Sebastian’s head turned slightly toward the faint sounds of the kitchen, then further, toward the road beyond the walls. His posture shifted as if he could see something neither of them could.

“Very well,” he said. “Come to my officetomorrow morning. We will draft the agreement.

“Yes, sir,” Anastasia said, rising quickly. Gratitude, shame, and fear tangled together in her chest.

But just as Anastasia turned to leave, a loud buzzing broke the silence in the dining room. The sound was sharp, almost startling against the stillness. It came again, steady and insistent.

Sebastian froze. His whole body stiffened as if someone had pressed a hand to his chest. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, his movements precise, careful. His fingers closed around the phone, pulling it free.

The vibration rattled against his palm, and for a moment he stood completely still, his head tilted slightly as if listening harder.

He was blind, yet nothing about him ever seemed unsure, until now. Sebastian never received calls. People didn’t dare. They sent reports through his assistants, forwarded messages, or waited until he reached for them. But not this. Not someone calling him directly. It was so out of place that even he seemed caught off guard.

The phone buzzed again, harder this time. His jaw clenched, but he did not press the screen. He held it as though the weight of the device had suddenly doubled.

Anastasia felt the air change. Something about the sound unsettled him, and she could sense it. Leandro straightened in his chair, his shoulders tightening as he abandoned the easy posture he had been in only seconds ago. Sara, who almost never let her emotions show, flicked her eyes toward Sebastian, curiosity sparking before she could hide it.

Sebastian turned his face first toward Anastasia, then toward Leandro. His eyes were blank, as always, but his head moved slowly, deliberately, as if he could see them. He said nothing. His grip only tightened on the phone.

The buzzing didn’t stop. It kept rattling against his hand, louder with every vibration, like whoever was calling refused to be ignored.

Anastasia clutched her skirt, her breath caught in her throat. Whoever was on that phone mattered.

He let the phone ring, ignoring it completely. In his mind, no one ever dared call him directly, and if it was truly important, they would know better than to disturb him—they would send a message through the proper channels.

The ringing finally stopped. Sebastian set the phone aside and turned his face toward Anastasia, his expression carved in stone. His voice was cold, final.

“We will discuss this later.”