PRICE OF LOVE

I stood in Nicolas's penthouse kitchen, my hands trembling slightly as I arranged delicate canapés on a silver serving tray. The staff bustled around me, their movements efficient and practiced, while I struggled to maintain my composure. Tonight was another calculated move in Nicolas's psychological chess game—a dinner party where I would serve him and his fiancée alongside the household staff.

"Amy, the appetizers need to go out now," Helen, the head housekeeper, instructed. Her eyes held a hint of sympathy she'd never dare express aloud.

I nodded, straightening my crisp white uniform before pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. The conversation hushed momentarily as I entered, and I felt Nicolas's gaze tracking me like a predator.

"Ah, perfect timing," he said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "Camellia was just saying how famished she is."

I approached the table, keeping my eyes downcast as I offered the tray first to Camellia, who sat at Nicolas's right hand. She looked radiant in a pale green dress that complemented her delicate features.

"Thank you so much," she said warmly, selecting an hors d'oeuvre with manicured fingers. "These look absolutely divine."

Her genuine kindness was like salt in my wounds. It would be easier if she were cruel or arrogant—someone I could hate. Instead, her gentle nature made me feel even more insignificant, a shadow beside her light.

"Amy has always had an eye for presentation," Nicolas remarked, his tone casual yet loaded with meaning only I could understand. "She's quite... skilled with her hands."

I felt heat rush to my cheeks as several guests chuckled, oblivious to the cruel subtext. Only Nicolas knew how those words twisted the knife deeper.

Throughout dinner, I moved between kitchen and dining room, serving courses and refilling wine glasses. Each time I approached Nicolas, my heart raced with anxiety, waiting for the next barb, the next subtle humiliation.

It came during the main course. As I leaned between him and Camellia to serve the roasted duck, Nicolas shifted suddenly, causing his wine glass to topple. Rich red liquid splashed across my pristine white uniform, drawing gasps from the guests.

"Oh my goodness!" Camellia exclaimed, reaching for her napkin. "Let me help—"

"No need," Nicolas interrupted smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Amy knows how to handle... messy situations. Don't you, Amy?"

"Yes, sir," I managed, the stain spreading like a wound across my abdomen. "I'll change right away."

"Such a clumsy accident," he continued, addressing his guests. "Amy, use the staff quarters downstairs to change. There should be spare uniforms."

I retreated from the dining room, the weight of humiliation pressing against my chest. In the narrow hallway leading to the service elevator, I finally allowed myself a moment of vulnerability, pressing my palm against the wall for support as tears threatened to spill.

Before I could compose myself, footsteps approached from behind. I knew who it was without turning—six years had attuned me to the sound of his stride, the subtle shift in air pressure when he entered a room.

"Such a shame about the uniform," Nicolas said, his voice low and dangerous. "White has always been so... impractical."

I turned to face him, pressing my back against the wall. "The dinner guests—"

"Are enjoying their dessert," he finished, stepping closer. "Camellia is entertaining them with stories about her charity work. So noble, isn't she?"

He placed one hand against the wall beside my head, effectively trapping me. His cologne—sandalwood and bergamot—filled my senses, triggering memories I'd fought to suppress.

"Remember when you used to beg for my touch, Amy?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "How you'd tremble when I merely looked at you?"

I closed my eyes, willing myself to remain steady. "Please, Nicolas. Let me pass."

"Camellia never begs," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "She doesn't have to debase herself for my attention. Unlike you."

I tried to push past him, but he blocked my path, his body inches from mine. "What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

His eyes darkened as he studied my face. "Everything," he said simply. "And nothing."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—a ghost of the boy I'd once loved, trapped behind the mask of the man who now tormented me. Then it vanished, replaced by cold calculation.

"Change your uniform," he ordered, finally stepping back. "You have five minutes before you're expected to serve coffee."

As he walked away, I slumped against the wall, wondering how much longer I could endure this exquisite torture—and whether there would be anything left of me when it finally ended.

But then a thought rose, sharp and terrifying, making my heart tremble: what if I… walked away from him?