Page 7

KELLI

H e’s gone.

I don’t hear it from him. Of course not.

I wake up to silence. No guards at the door. No summons. Just the cold tick of nothing.

It’s not until I try to step outside my quarters and two of Petru’s muscleheads block the hall that I realize something’s changed.

“Where’s Traz?” I ask, already knowing.

The taller one snorts. “Off-world. Took a contract.”

I blink. “He left?”

The other guy shrugs. “Didn’t say goodbye if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

I step back inside, pulse ringing in my ears.

So that’s it.

One night of tension, of looks that said too much and touches that said more—and he’s gone like I never happened. Like I’m just another job he walked away from.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.

But it feels like something cracked wide open and no one bothered to clean up the mess.

I sit on the edge of the cot, hands clenching in my lap.

I knew better. Always have. Men like him don’t stay. They come through like storms—loud, fast, unforgettable. And then they’re gone.

Still, some part of me—the soft, stupid part—thought maybe he’d say something. A nod. A word. A warning.

Something.

But no. Nothing.

That’s what I get for hoping.

I glance around the room. My room.

The silk’s still hanging by the mirror. The perfume tray untouched. The fake crystal on the windowsill catching filtered sunlight like it matters.

But I know. I feel it.

This place isn’t mine anymore.

Something’s shifted. I’m no longer the delicate flower Petru parades around. No longer the gleaming gem in his gallery.

And if I’m not a prize, then I’m a problem.

What does Petru do with problems?

I don’t want to find out.

The summons comes three hours later.

Two guards. No words. Just a hard knock and harder eyes.

They march me down to the lower floors—no corridor glitz, no synth-scent in the air. Just cold, hard metal and the stench of sweat. Places I’ve never been, because I was never meant to come down here.

Until now.

Petru’s waiting. Slouched in a metal chair that looks out of place in the damp concrete room. No throne, no luxury. Just bare walls and raw fury.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches me like I’m dirt under his boot.

Then he smiles.

It’s not kind.

“Did you think he’d take you?” he asks.

I don’t answer.

“Did you open those little legs and think he’d rescue you like some storybook merc?”

Still, I say nothing. But my spine goes stiff.

He laughs. Loud, ugly. “You had one job. Be pretty. Be tempting. You couldn’t even do that.”

My throat burns, but I keep my voice even. “Maybe he saw through the act.”

His face twists.

Then he stands and backhands me across the face.

I stagger but don’t fall. Blood fills my mouth. Tastes like pennies and pride.

“You’re done playing dress-up,” he growls. “No more silk. No more special treatment. You wanted to be something else? Fine.”

He gestures.

Silpha steps out from the shadows.

Her mouth is tight, but her eyes are ice.

“You’ll report to my team starting tonight,” she says. “Kitchen detail, then floor rotation. No exceptions.”

I look between them.

“You’re throwing me in with the laborers?”

“Not throwing,” Silpha says. “Reassigning.”

“I was never part of them.”

She smiles, just a little. “Now you are.”

They don’t even let me back to my room. One of the guards drags me to the supply room where they hand me a gray uniform, two sizes too big, still damp from wash. I change in silence, biting down the bile crawling up my throat.

The hallway smells like bleach and rot. My feet are bare.

By the time I step into the main kitchen block, heads turn. Not for the usual reasons. No awe. No hunger.

Pity.

The other slaves look away fast, like I’m cursed. And maybe I am.

I don’t speak. Don’t make eye contact. I grab a scrub brush and drop to the floor like the rest of them.

I don’t cry.

I just scrub.

Let the anger boil. Let the humiliation burn.

Because if Petru thinks this breaks me, he’s wrong.

I’m not silk anymore.

I’m steel.