The dining room was a cavern. A mahogany table, long enough to seat twenty people, dominated the space.

Arnulfo sat at the head of the table. He was dressed in a charcoal suit now, crisp and immaculate. He looked like a king on a throne.

He didn't look up as Erline entered. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of black coffee steaming near his hand.

"Sit," he said.

A place was set for her at the complete opposite end of the table, five meters away. The distance was intentional. It was a canyon.

Erline sat. The silverware was heavy, pure sterling silver. It felt cold against her fingers.

The double doors to the kitchen swung open. A short, round man in a chef's uniform bustled out pushing a cart. He was sweating. This was Chef Pierre.

"Madame," Pierre murmured nervously. He placed a plate in front of her.

It was foie gras. A large, fatty lobe of liver, seared, sitting in a pool of dark reduction. Truffles were shaved over the top.

The smell hit Erline instantly. Rich, oily, and metallic. Her stomach, already churning from the stress and the residual drugs, lurched.

She stared at the plate. She saw the pink veins in the liver.

She didn't pick up her fork.

At the other end of the table, Arnulfo lowered the newspaper. The rustle of the paper was deafening in the silence.

"Not to your liking?" he asked. His voice carried effortlessly across the distance.

Erline shook her head slightly. She picked up the fork, her hand trembling. She tried to cut a piece, but her hand wouldn't cooperate. She put the fork down.

Arnulfo slammed the newspaper onto the table.

"I don't like waiting," he said. "And I don't like picky eaters."

He turned his gaze to the chef. Pierre was wringing his hands in his apron.

"Is this your Michelin standard, Pierre? Food that makes my wife look like she's going to be sick?"

Pierre went pale. "Monsieur Bond, it is the finest grade, flown in this morning from..."

"Shut up," Arnulfo said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"You're fired. Get out."

Pierre's eyes widened. "Sir, please. My mortgage... my daughter is in university..."

Arnulfo snapped his fingers. Two security guards materialized from the shadows of the hallway. They grabbed Pierre by the arms.

"No!" Pierre cried as they dragged him backward. "Please, Mr. Bond!"

Erline stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She reached out a hand, her mouth opening to protest. She couldn't let a man lose his livelihood because she was nauseous.

Arnulfo looked at her. His eyes were ice.

"Sit down."

Erline froze.

"If you don't eat it," Arnulfo said, gesturing to the plate, "the trust that pays for your Aunt Meredith's care will find itself under... immediate review. For fiscal irresponsibility."

The threat hung in the air. Collective punishment. It was the tactic of a dictator.

Erline slowly sank back into her chair. She looked at the foie gras. She thought of Aunt Meredith, helpless in that hospital bed.

She picked up her knife and fork. She cut a large piece. She stabbed it.

She put it in her mouth. The texture was soft, coating her tongue in warm grease. She chewed once and swallowed. It felt like swallowing a stone.

Arnulfo watched her, his chin resting on his hand. He looked fascinated by her misery.

"Good," he said. "Lesson one: Your actions have costs. Usually for other people."

He stood up and buttoned his jacket.

"I'm going to the office. I'll be back this evening to inspect your... performance."

He walked out without looking back.

The moment the front door slammed, Erline bolted from her chair. She ran to the nearest decorative trash can in the corner of the room and retched.

The silence that followed Arnulfo's departure was short-lived.

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She wasn't wearing her mask of servitude anymore. Her face was twisted in ugly triumph.

"Since the Master is gone," Higgins said, her voice grating, "as the mistress of the house, you have duties. The wine cellar needs inventory."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and marched toward the basement door.

Erline wiped her mouth with a napkin and followed. She knew this was a power play, but she had to learn the layout of the house anyway.

The wine cellar was two levels down. The air grew colder with every step, smelling of damp earth and old cork. It was dimly lit by flickering bulbs in wire cages.

Rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into the darkness. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in alcohol.

"Count them," Higgins ordered, pointing to a wall of crates. "If one bottle is missing, I will tell Mr. Bond you drank it."

Erline looked at the wall. It would take hours. She didn't argue. She stepped forward and began to count, her finger hovering over the bottles.

Higgins didn't leave. She stood on the bottom step, watching.

"Don't think wearing Chanel makes you anything other than what you are," Higgins spat. "You're just a whore he bought to breed with. A mute whore."

Erline's hand paused over a bottle of 1982 Bordeaux. She took a breath and continued.

Higgins, emboldened by the lack of reaction, stepped down. She walked up behind Erline and shoved her hard between the shoulder blades.

"Are you listening to me?"

Erline stumbled forward. She crashed into the wooden rack. A bottle wobbled and tipped over.

Reflex took over. Erline lunged, catching the bottle by the neck just before it hit the stone floor.

But as she caught it, the back of her hand scraped violently against the rough, unfinished wood of the rack. A splinter tore through her skin. Blood welled up instantly, bright red against her pale skin.

Higgins saw the blood and smiled. She reached out and grabbed Erline's injured arm, digging her nails into the wound.

"Does that hurt?" Higgins whispered. "I can make it hurt more."

Pain shot up Erline's arm. Her eyes went cold.

She shifted her weight. She knew Krav Maga. She knew exactly how to grab Higgins' thumb and snap it backward to break the joint. It would take one second.

She tensed her muscles, ready to strike.

Step. Step. Step.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs above. Leather on stone.

Erline released her tension instantly. She let her body go limp. She allowed herself to fall to the floor, curling in on herself, clutching the bottle to her chest like a shield.

Arnulfo appeared at the top of the stairs. He had come back.

He stopped. He took in the scene. Erline on the floor, bleeding. Higgins standing over her, face twisted in malice, hand still raised.

The temperature in the cellar seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Sir!" Higgins gasped, jumping back. "She... she fell! She's clumsy!"

Arnulfo walked down the stairs. He moved slowly. The sound of his shoes was the only sound in the room.

He walked past Higgins as if she were furniture. He knelt beside Erline. He took her hand, the one dripping blood onto the dusty floor.

He looked at the cut. Then he looked at the bottle she was still clutching. It was unbroken.

He stood up and turned to Higgins. His expression was terrifyingly blank.

"Are you deaf, Mrs. Higgins?"

Higgins was trembling now. "Sir?"

"I said she is my asset," Arnulfo said softly. "You damaged my property."

"I..."

"Can you afford to pay for her?" Arnulfo asked. "Can you afford the repairs?"

Higgins fell to her knees. "Please, Mr. Bond."

Arnulfo looked toward the stairs. "Security."

Two guards came down.

"Throw her out," Arnulfo said, boring. "Ensure she is blacklisted from every agency in the state. If she finds work walking a dog, I will be disappointed."

Higgins screamed as they dragged her up the stairs. Her nails scraped against the stone.

Arnulfo looked down at Erline. He didn't offer her a hand.

"Clumsy," he muttered. "Get upstairs. You're bleeding on my vintage."

Arnulfo marched her into the master bedroom and pointed to the edge of the bed.

"Sit."

Erline sat. She cradled her bleeding hand.

Arnulfo pulled out his phone. "Sterling. Bring the trauma kit. And a sedative. Now."

He hung up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple. A storm was breaking.

BOOM.

Thunder shook the house. A flash of lightning illuminated the room in stark white.

Erline flinched. Her body convulsed, a violent, involuntary jerk.

The sound triggered it. The memory of the basement. Her father. The noise of the belt cracking.

Her breath hitched. She started to hyperventilate. She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her head, rocking back and forth.

Arnulfo turned. He frowned. "Playing the victim?"

He walked over. He saw her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking at something that wasn't there.

The door opened. A man in a grey suit carrying a leather bag rushed in. Dr. Sterling.

"What happened?" Sterling asked, setting the bag on the bed.

"Thunder," Arnulfo said, sounding annoyed. "Or Higgins. Who knows."

Sterling approached her. "Mrs. Bond? I need to check your vitals. Your breathing is too fast."

Erline didn't respond. She was gasping for air.

"I need to listen to her heart," Sterling said. "Please, unzip her dress."

Erline heard the words. Panic flared. No. Not the skin. Don't look at the skin.

She grabbed the collar of her dress, shaking her head frantically.

Arnulfo sighed. "Don't be a child."

He stepped forward, brushed her hands away with effortless strength, and spun her around.

ZZZZZT.

The sound of the zipper going down was loud in the quiet room.

Arnulfo pulled the grey fabric down to her waist.

Erline squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the reaction.

Silence.

Dr. Sterling held the stethoscope, but he didn't move. He was staring at her back.

Arnulfo stared too.

Her skin was a map of pain.

Below her right shoulder blade, a thick, white keloid scar snaked across her ribs. It was old, jagged-the mark of a belt buckle or a whip.

Lower down, near her waist, were three circular burns. Cigarette burns. Faded, but unmistakable.

These weren't accidents. This was torture. Systematic, long-term abuse.

Sterling looked at Arnulfo. Arnulfo's eyes narrowed. He traced the line of the whip scar with his eyes.

"Sedative," Arnulfo said. His voice was different. Tighter.

Sterling nodded. He prepared a syringe. "Just a small pinch, Mrs. Bond."

He injected her arm.

The world went soft at the edges. Erline's panic receded, replaced by a heavy, warm fog. She slumped sideways onto the pillows.

Sterling quickly cleaned and bandaged her hand.

"Arnulfo," Sterling said, standing up and packing his bag. "A word."

He jerked his head toward the hallway.

Arnulfo followed him out, pulling the door almost shut.

Erline lay on the bed. The drug was strong, but she fought it. She bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain gave her a second of clarity.

She strained her ears.