The contract was signed in charcoal ink before dawn, binding Olesia to the west wing of the Glass Bastion under the title of personal attendant. In practice, the role demanded shockingly little, which suited her to perfection. While the third-floor housekeepers marched like clockwork dolls under the head butler’s stopwatch, Olesia mastered the art of stationary loafing. She tucked herself into window alcoves behind thick linen drapes, resting her feet while polishing the same silver saucer for three hours. The staff assumed she was Henrik’s punching bag or a disgraced ward; she let them think whatever kept them from handing her a mop. Most importantly, Henrik Jasker rarely asked for anything. He sat in his cantilevered study above the gray surf of Vespera Bay, surrounded by monitors that flashed financial algorithms and port shipping manifests, communicating solely through curt shakes of his head or strokes of an ebony pen. Every afternoon at four, she slipped into the kitchen to warm whole milk with cracked green cardamom, crushed cinnamon bark, and a ribbon of wildflower honey. Henrik never thanked her out loud. But when she set the stoneware mug next to his keyboard, his palms would uncurl from his mouse. He would wrap both pale hands around the clay, his posture easing by fractions of an inch, drawing in the sweet steam. For ten minutes, the furious clatter of his mechanical keys halted. Olesia would curl up in the armoire’s shadow with an illicit pocket novel, enjoying the heavy, companionable quiet. It was the easiest money she had ever earned, inching her closer to the false passport waiting in a locker down at the southern ferry docks. Then Thursday arrived, trailing the sharp scent of synthetic tuberose and cold sea salt. "Get this rat nest out of my sight!" Natalia Kors snapped, kicking open the double doors of the private breakfast room. She wore an ivory cashmere coat that brushed the marble floor, her angular cheekbones catching the northern glare. Behind her trailed two assistants carrying garment bags from the latest Vespera Fashion Week showcase. Natalia hadn't bothered to knock; she belonged to the Kors shipping dynasty, and the tabloids had spent three years predicting her wedding to Henrik Jasker. Henrik sat at the dining table, staring past her toward the cliffline. He wore a crisp charcoal shirt, buttoned to the throat, but his left thumb twitched rhythmically against the tablecloth. "Henrik, darling, you missed the board gala again," Natalia purred, discarding her fur wrap onto a mahogany side table. She ignored his lack of response, her eyes darting to Olesia, who stood near the serving cart with a freshly brewed pot of bergamot tea. "And what is this creature? Did Birgitta hire from the public docks? She smells of sour milk and dust." Olesia kept her gaze firmly fixed on the polished floorboards. She had survived Valdemar Racz’s temper by making herself invisible; a catwalk model with a trust fund was hardly an upgrade in terror. She just wanted to pour the liquid, back out into the hall, and resume her nap behind the pantry. "Pour, then, idiot," Natalia barked, sliding into the leather chair opposite Henrik. "And don't look at me. It makes my skin crawl." Olesia lifted the heavy porcelain teapot, tilting the spout toward the fine bone-china cup near Natalia’s manicured knuckles. Steam curled upward. Just as the stream hit the bottom of the cup, Natalia’s elbow jerked violently sideways, slamming into Olesia’s forearm. The boiling amber tea sloshed over the rim. It didn't just splash; the scalding liquid drenched Olesia’s wrists, soaking through the thin cuffs of her gray uniform, blistering the sensitive skin of her forearms. The pot dropped from her hands, shattering across the Italian marble. Olesia bit down hard on her tongue, refusing to scream, cradling her scorched arm against her ribs. "Clumsy sow!" Natalia shrieked, leaping to her feet as if she were the victim, brushing at a microscopic drop on her sleeve. "Look at what you’ve done! You ruined my skirt! Henrik, fire this filth immediately. Throw her out the cliff gate, or I will have my father’s drivers beat her until she learns how to hold a tray!" Henrik did not blink. His eyes shifted from the puddle of brown tea to Olesia’s reddened, trembling skin. A strange stillness settled over the room. The air grew thin, hollowed out by the sudden cessation of Henrik’s breathing. He stood. Natalia’s sneer faltered as Henrik leaned forward across the table. He reached down, his fingers closing around the mother-of-pearl handle of a heavy German steak knife left beside the breakfast platter. Before Natalia could inhale, Henrik moved with blinding, mechanical velocity. *THWACK.* The heavy steel blade plunged through the soft meat of the table, burying three inches deep into the centuries-old oak. It pinned the gap between Natalia’s splayed middle and ring digits, the serrated edge biting directly into the joint, slicing a thin line of bright crimson across her pale skin. Natalia froze, her mouth agape. The knife was wedged so tightly her hand was locked in place, trembling against the polished wood. Henrik leaned down until his face was inches from hers. The set of his mouth remained unyielding, pupils dilated black in the harsh daylight. He didn't make a sound. No grunt, no rasp, no hiss. Just an abyss of murderous quiet. His dark eyes drilled into hers, promising an agonizing end if she breathed the wrong way. "Henrik—" Natalia squeaked, tears spilling over her mascara, her body quaking so hard the knife rattled in the wood. "You... you're crazy... you're a monster—" Henrik’s right hand pressed flat against the table, his index finger tapping the oak once, then pointing straight at the exit doors. Natalia yanked her hand free with a wretched sob, tearing her skin against the serrations, and scrambled backward. She tripped over her cashmere wrap, scrambled to her feet on hands and knees, and bolted out the double doors, her wails echoing down the marble halls until the distant slam of the estate gates swallowed them whole. The room fell utterly dead. Olesia stood by the shards of porcelain, clutching her stinging wrist. She stared at Henrik. The lazy instinct in her screamed to run, to pack her canvas duffel and slip over the sea wall before midnight. This man was unstable. Dangerous. He had nearly pinned a billionaire's daughter to a table over spilled tea. Yet, as Henrik turned toward her, the terrifying darkness drained from his face, replaced by a gray, paper-thin exhaustion. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. He looked at her burned arm, one hand reaching out slightly—almost hovering over the injured flesh—before jerking back as if he had no right. He turned on his heel and retreated swiftly into his private adjoining suite, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. Olesia exhaled, the adrenaline leaving her limbs leaden. She grabbed a towel from the service cart, wrapping her scalded wrist, and began gathering the broken ceramic pieces. She hated chores, but leaving sharp edges around was asking for trouble. Ten minutes later, carrying a fresh pot of herbal ointment she had scavenged from the linen stores, Olesia knocked on Henrik's study door to thank him—or perhaps to tell him he was out of his mind. No answer came. "Master Henrik?" she called softly, pushing the unlatched door inward. The sight made her freeze. Henrik lay on the slate floor near his desk, his frame locked in violent, rhythmic convulsions. His head struck the stone once, hard, before his limbs went rigid. His breath came in wet, strangled gasps, his lips already turning a faint, terrifying shade of lavender. "Henrik!" Dropping the ointment, Olesia rushed forward, forgetting her caution, forgetting her burning arms. She dropped to her knees, immediately rolling him onto his side to keep his airway clear, bracing his thrashing shoulders against the floor. As she wedged a folded wool throw beneath his head, her knee knocked against an open steel briefcase resting on the low shelf. A dark glass vial shattered on the carpet. Next to it lay a spring-loaded auto-injector, filled with a clear, viscous compound, and an open manila folder stamped with the seal of the Saint Jude Neurological Institute. Olesia’s eyes caught the bold red typeface across the top sheet: *PATIENT: HENRIK JASKER.* *DIAGNOSIS: RAPID NEURO-DEGENERATIVE CORTICAL ATROPHY (GRADE IV).* *PROGNOSIS: IRREVERSIBLE TERMINAL ONSET. MOTOR FUNCTION FAILURE WITHIN 180 DAYS.*

Scalding Tea and Steak Knives