Make it spotless.

Anastasia squirmed on her feet as Zyran fixed her with a steely glare. Nearby, Freya pursed her lips, a tense energy crackling between the two women.

"Freya started it," Anastasia said, pointing an accusatory finger in Freya's direction.

Freya shot her a warning glance, her eyes flashing with a silent threat.

"Are you going to blame me after the stunt you pulled earlier? Insinuating that Amira was unworthy of the prince," Freya retorted, throwing Anastasia under the bus as they both vied for accusing the other

"That's not true! She's lying," Anastasia protested, her gaze darting nervously to avoid Zyran's wrath.

"How dare you lie," Freya shot back, her eyes locked on Anastasia, before Zyran's voice boomed through the hall, silencing both women.

"Enough!" Zyran's commanding voice reverberated, causing the two ladies to shrink back in surprise.

Amira stepped in, taking hold of Zyran's arm and turning to face him.

"Please don't scare them. It was just a minor disagreement. Women argue all the time, and I'm not offended," she said to him, a calm determination in her voice.

Zyran leveled a steely gaze at her.

"You shouldn't let others walk over you. If you don't teach them a lesson, they'll never learn," he advised, prompting Amira to bite back any further objections.

Zyran took a step forward, his cold glare firmly fixed on Anastasia, who seemed on the verge of crumbling in fear. She quickly dropped to her knees, pleading for forgiveness.

"I didn't do anything wrong, I swear. I didn't even see her, and I accidentally spilled my drink on her. I apologize, but Amira refused to accept it," she pleaded, twisting the truth in her favor.

'People never change, do they?' thought Amira.

"I see," Zyran replied calmly. He then called over a servant, who hurried to his side.

Zyran plucked a glass of wine from the silver tray the servant held. The onlookers exchanged curious glances, unsure of his intentions.

Amira observed as Zyran poured the wine onto the polished marble floor, right in front of Anastasia, who was still kneeling.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Zyran in astonishment, but no one dared to challenge him, knowing the consequences that might follow.

"Clean it," Zyran commanded.

"Yes, your Highness," the servant acknowledged with a respectful bow, ready to fetch the cleaning supplies.

"Not you," Zyran interjected, causing the servant to freeze in confusion.

"Her," he added, nodding in the direction of Anastasia, whose eyes widened in disbelief.

Anastasia blinked rapidly, trying to process the situation. "Pardon?" she asked.

"Clean the mess on the floor," Zyran instructed. The crowd started murmuring and Anastasia shifted uncomfortably on her knees.

"That's the servant's job, not mine. Why should I? I don't think I understand what you are trying to say, Prince Zyran. My father will never approve of this," Anastasia began, only to be abruptly cut off by Zyran.

"Don't make me repeat myself. I'm sure you wouldn't like it if I interfered with your task," Zyran warned.

Anastasia's lips trembled as she fought to hold back her words. She knew Zyran's reputation for being ruthless, and she didn't want to make her situation any worse than it already was.

"Get me the cleaning supplies," she instructed the servant, who was prepared to follow her command until Zyran interjected.

"No one will help you," he declared.

Anastasia's chest heaved with anger as she locked eyes with Amira, who was standing behind Zyran.

She rose to her knees, intending to fetch the cleaning supplies herself, but Zyran stopped her once again.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"To bring the bucket," she replied with a hint of annoyance, but she quickly reminded herself to remain composed.

"I never asked you to stand up," Zyran stated.

"Then how am I supposed to clean the floor?" she inquired.

"Use your dress," Zyran replied.

The onlookers in the crowd were visibly shocked, exchanging bewildered glances and murmurs as they witnessed the unfolding scene. Anastasia's cheeks turned crimson with embarrassment as she spoke up.

"I- I'm sorry, but with my dress... you must be joking, right?" she stammered.

"Do I seem amusing to you?" he retorted coldly.

"This is preposterous! My father is Lord Beverly, and he would never tolerate such disrespect," Anastasia declared with a proud lift of her chin.

"One more word from you, and I will personally deliver your head to your father," Zyran warned with a menacing glare.

Beside Ezekiel, Freya found herself instinctively drawing closer to him, distressed by the intimidating display of Zyran's temper.

Ezekiel clicked his tongue disapprovingly at Freya's distress.

Anastasia bit her lip, struggling to control the threat of tears, and hastily bent down to use her gown to mop the floor.

Zyran picked up another glass and carelessly let it slip from his grasp, causing it to shatter on the floor.

The fragmented glass sent shards flying in all directions, prompting Anastasia to instinctively shrink back and shield her eyes from the dangerous projectiles.

A sharp yelp escaped her lips as one of the glass shards pierced her palm, drawing blood.

"Don't stop, continue cleaning and make it spotless, Zyran took another glass and dropped it while ordering Anastasia to clean them up.

Her blood stained the tiled floor as she dragged it around cleaning the mess.

"Don't make a mess, it I see another trail of blood then I will have you beheaded" Zyran warned.

The onlooker felt sorry for Anastasia who had burst into tears.

A sharp piece of glass pierced her skin, sending a jolt of pain through her body.

Her palms throbbed with discomfort, and her knees grew numb from the strain of crawling on the hard surface.

Despite the pain, she continued to wipe the floor, hoping to make it spotless.

However, her efforts only seemed to worsen the mess as droplets of blood joined the stains she was trying to erase.

As she worked, tears streamed down her cheeks, a mix of physical and emotional pain overwhelming her.

Unable to watch her struggle any longer, Amira turned away in silent empathy, leaving the room behind.

Back at the grand castle, Amira moved wearily through the ornate corridors, her energy sapped from the day's events.

After changing into her nightgown, she settled in for the night, ready to drift off to sleep, when a sudden knock echoed through the silence, startling her.

"Who could it possibly be at this late hour?" she mused, making her way to the door.

She yanked the door open and caught sight of Zyran holding a small box. The surprise of seeing him made her blink, considering their silent journey back. She still couldn't make sense of how he could have made Anastasia suffer so much for simply belittling her.

He was truly set aside from others.

"Let me help you dress your wound," he offered, raising the box to her view.

"What makes you think I haven't already dressed it?" Amira countered.

"Because you're too stubborn to ask for help," Zyran replied.

"I'm fine. I'm just heading to bed. I don't need to dress the wound; it's not a big deal," she murmured to him.

She stood ready to shut the door, but it swung back open as Zyran confidently entered the room, as if he owned the place. He set down a box and then pivoted to confront her.

"Come here," he commanded.