Chapter 3 Real Beating

Aria's POV

The first real beating came on a Tuesday. I had been in the house six days. Six days of learning the invisible rules that governed every breath I took under Evelyn Vance's roof. The napkins had to be folded in a specific way. The silver had to be polished until it reflected my face without a single streak. The tea had to be poured at exactly the right temperature or it was considered an insult. Sienna watched from doorways most mornings, arms crossed, a lazy smile playing at the corners of her mouth as if she were enjoying a private performance put on just for her. That Tuesday I dropped a crystal glass while clearing the breakfast table. It slipped from my fingers as I reached for a plate. The sound of it shattering across the white marble floor was as loud as a gunshot in the silent dining room. Evelyn's face went completely still. "Come here," she said. Her voice was quiet. That was somehow worse than if she had shouted. I stepped forward on legs that already felt unsteady. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I felt sick. I knew what was coming the way animals know when a storm is about to break. She walked to a side table near the window, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thin black leather belt. The kind that looked like it belonged on an expensive pair of trousers. The kind that was clearly used for something else entirely in this house. "Kneel," she said. I hesitated for half a second. That was my first mistake. The first strike landed across my shoulders with a sharp crack that echoed off the high ceilings. Pain exploded white-hot across my back. I bit down hard on a cry. The second strike came harder, lower across my shoulder blades. The third. By the fifth I was shaking, forehead pressed to the cold marble, tears dripping onto the floor I was supposed to keep perfect. Sienna's voice floated from the doorway, soft and amused. "She's louder than the last one, Mother." Evelyn didn't answer. She simply kept swinging. The leather bit into my skin through the thin fabric of the uniform. Each strike stole a little more air from my lungs. I counted them without meaning to-seven, eight, nine-until the pain became a continuous burn and I stopped being able to tell where one ended and the next began. When she finally stopped, she dropped the belt beside my head with a soft clink of the buckle against marble. "Clean up the glass," she said. Her breathing was only slightly elevated. "And yourself. If I see tears again, we start over from the beginning." I crawled to the dustpan on shaking hands. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through my back and shoulders. Sienna walked past me on her way out of the room, her expensive heels clicking against the floor. She paused just long enough to lean down and whisper near my ear. "Welcome to the family, charity case." That night I lay face-down on my narrow bed, staring at the wall because lying on my back was impossible. Every breath hurt. Every small shift of my body reminded me exactly where the belt had landed. The welts felt raised and hot under my fingertips when I carefully explored them in the dark. Lila, the other live-in maid, slipped into my room after midnight without knocking. She was wild-eyed even at that hour, her dark hair a messy cloud around her face, the scent of stolen cigarettes clinging to her clothes. "You lasted longer than I thought before she used the belt," she said, dropping onto the floor beside the bed with a graceless thump. "Most girls cry on day two. Some don't even make it through the first week." I didn't answer. Speaking felt like it would crack something open inside me that I couldn't afford to crack. Lila grinned, all sharp teeth and restless energy. "I'm not like most girls. I talk back. I break things on purpose sometimes. Keeps me from going completely crazy in this place. You should try it. The look on her face when the sugar bowl has salt in it is almost worth the extra punishment." "I need this job," I whispered. The words scraped against my throat. She shrugged, already pushing herself back to her feet. "We all need something. Doesn't mean we have to die quiet while they take it." She left a small tube of ointment on my nightstand without another word and disappeared as silently as she had arrived. I applied the cool cream with trembling fingers, hissing through my teeth when it touched the rawest places. Then I stared at the water-stained ceiling above my bed until the sky outside the window began to lighten with the first gray hints of dawn. Somewhere in the big house below, Evelyn Vance slept peacefully in silk sheets, her life saved by the same blood she was now trying to break with a belt. I hated her a little that night. I hated myself more for still hoping, somewhere deep and stupid, that someone might eventually notice what was happening under this perfect roof