Into the lion's den

Celeste stood trembling in the dimly lit kitchen, her hands raw and slick with dampness from hours of scrubbing dishes. The air, thick with the acrid scent of soap and despair, clung to her like a shroud. Aunt Lillian loomed over her, predatory and cold, clutching a pristine white card with an almost mocking delicacy. The name Armon, embossed in gleaming gold, seemed to mock the very fate that bound her.

"You leave tomorrow," Lillian declared, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. She thrust the card into Celeste's hands with unsettling force. "The Armon mansion has agreed to take you in."

Celeste gazed at the card, the letters shimmering in her vision as the room seemed to close in around her. Dread tightened like a vice in her chest, and her voice, fragile as the air she struggled to breathe, barely managed to escape her lips. "Aunt Lillian… what is this? Why me?"

Lillian's lips curled into a serpentine smile, venom dripping from her every word. "Why you? Because you're perfect, Celeste—desperate, expendable, and naive enough to obey. Zhypher Armon needs a maid. His mother does, at least. You'll serve him well, and I'll collect the wages. It's a win-win, wouldn't you agree?"

A cold shiver snaked down Celeste's spine, her grip tightening around the card as though it might offer some solace. "But… the stories about him… they say he's… cruel. Impossible to work for. The others—"

"Failed," Lillian interjected, her tone as sharp as a knife. "And I expect you will, too. But that's none of my concern. You're leaving my house, and that's final. Refuse, and I'll cast you to the streets. Do you want that? To crawl for scraps, like the pathetic wretch you are?"

Celeste's throat constricted, her lips trembling as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. "But Aunt Lillian—"

Lillian's hand shot out, grabbing Celeste by the wrist with a vice-like grip. The sharpness of her nails dug into Celeste's skin, sending a jolt of pain through her. "Enough!" Lillian barked, her voice low and venomous, each word punctuated by the pressure of her nails. "You're a burden here. Tomorrow morning, you will leave for the Armon mansion. You will do as you're told. This is your only chance to prove you have any worth."

Her grip tightened, the nails digging deeper, forcing Celeste to wince in discomfort. The pain was searing, a cruel reminder of how powerless she was. Lillian's eyes gleamed with a satisfaction that sent a chill straight to Celeste's core. The cruel twist of fate had already begun.

With a final, forceful shove, Lillian released her, leaving Celeste standing there, breathless, her wrist throbbing from the pressure. She glanced down at the card again, its golden letters mocking her helplessness. Trapped, like a pawn in a game she didn't understand, she felt the weight of her fate pressing down upon her.

---

The following morning, Celeste found herself standing before the towering gates of the Armon estate. The mansion loomed before her like some dark, impenetrable fortress, its grandeur both awe-inspiring and intimidating. The wrought-iron gates, elaborate and unyielding, seemed to challenge her very presence. Beyond them, the mansion stood like a monolith, its cold, gleaming windows watching her every step.

Her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her worn bag as the gates groaned open, revealing the stone path that wound its way to the imposing entrance. Each step felt heavier than the last, her heart thudding in her chest like a drumbeat she couldn't escape.

At the doorway, a man of distinguished age awaited her. His sharp gray eyes softened as they met hers, but his posture remained impeccably formal. His tailored suit and composed demeanor exuded an authority that bordered on intimidating.

"You must be Miss Celeste Cameron," he said, his voice smooth, measured, but with an edge of formality.

Celeste nodded, her throat tight. "Y-yes, sir," she stammered, her voice scarcely a whisper.

"I am Martin Armon, Zhypher's uncle" he introduced, his tone unwavering. "Follow me. Mr. Zhypher is expecting you."

As Martin led her through the mansion, Celeste couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the overwhelming opulence that surrounded her. The marble floors gleamed like polished glass, reflecting the towering ceilings and the glimmering crystal chandeliers that hung above them. The estate was a monument to power and wealth, every corner meticulously crafted to speak of affluence and control.

They arrived at a massive oak door, and Martin knocked twice, the sound echoing in the silence of the corridor.

"Come in " came a voice, deep and commanding, from within.

The door opened smoothly, and Martin gestured for Celeste to enter. As she stepped into the room, her breath caught at the sight before her. The study was bathed in shadows, save for the soft glow of a crackling fire and a small desk lamp that illuminated the room's rich furnishings. Leather-bound books lined the shelves, their presence heavy with history. The air carried the scent of wood polish and the faintest trace of cigar smoke, adding to the room's air of authority.

Behind the desk sat Zhypher Armon. His chiseled features, framed by the flickering light, exuded an almost predatory magnetism. His storm-gray eyes locked onto hers, cold and piercing, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around his presence.

Martin cleared his throat, his voice breaking the tense silence. "This is the new maid, Miss Celeste Cameron. She's here to assist with your mother's care."

Zhypher's eyes never left Celeste as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze assessing and calculating. "The 157th," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was low, almost amused, yet there was an unmistakable edge of disdain. "I suppose I should commend you for simply showing up. That alone puts you ahead of most."

Celeste's stomach twisted in knots. One hundred fifty-seven? The weight of the number hit her like a ton of bricks, each failed maid a silent testament to the fate that likely awaited her.

Zhypher rose from his chair, his tall figure imposing as he approached her with slow, deliberate steps. His gaze swept over her, cold and appraising.

"Do you honestly think you'll last here?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with an underlying menace.

Celeste opened her mouth, but no words came out. Fear had gripped her, rendering her speechless.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Zhypher's lips. "Speechless. Not a promising start."

"Zhypher," Martin interjected, his tone firm yet calm, "perhaps you should allow her a moment to settle in before passing judgment."

Zhypher cast a brief glance at his uncle, his expression tightening before turning back to Celeste. His voice was sharp as he spoke again. "Listen closely," he said, his words laced with an unmistakable finality. "This house doesn't tolerate weakness. Perfection is expected. Fail me, and you'll regret ever stepping foot in this mansion."

The weight of his words pressed down on her, suffocating her in their gravity. Her legs threatened to buckle, her resolve dissolving under his unyielding gaze.

"Take her to her quarters," Zhypher instructed with a dismissive flick of his hand. "We'll see if she lasts the week."

As Martin led her from the room, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't let him intimidate you," he said softly. "His bark is worse than his bite. Focus on your duties, and you'll find your way."

But as Celeste ascended the grand staircase, her heart heavy with doubt, she couldn't shake the sense that she had stepped into a gilded cage—a place where escape was nothing more than an illusion.