Chapter 3: The Price of Survival

Ethan’s usually handsome face twisted with want—like a guy who hadn’t eaten in days staring down a plate of food. He said, "If Jamie moves again, you won’t be good. If you’re not good, I won’t protect you. When I make it big, how will I clear your dad’s name, huh? Be good, I’ve learned a lot, I won’t let you get hurt. Jamie, my good Jamie."

I was pale, trembling as he picked me up, my throat closed up, unable to say a word. He carried me to the bed in a few big strides. I clung to his shirt, desperate and scared.

He pinned me down hard—pain, blood, his desperate face right in front of mine. I don’t remember if I spoke, or just screamed inside. But it didn’t matter.

The victim can’t save himself. The one in power doesn’t care. Housekeepers hurried by, leaving only the abused, silent and powerless. Mute. Always mute.

Right then, I finally saw him for what he was: the shining young master was just another guy ruled by his own wants. Whatever I thought we had, it was gone, cut off like a limb.

He hugged me from behind, his breathing rough and sticky-hot. "Jamie, your skin is so soft, even silk can’t compare. Smooth as marble, prettier than any girl. If you were a girl, after tonight, I’d marry you as my second wife and keep you forever!"

Even if he was coaxing me, even if it was all just talk—what he offered was only to make me a mistress. The words hit hard, a reminder I barely mattered at all.

Back when I was the young master’s favorite attendant, even as a servant, people treated me with a little respect. There was a line you didn’t cross. I had dignity, or something close.

Now, when I walked by, all I heard was snickering behind my back. "And to think Jamie Lane was supposed to have some backbone, but he’s just a social climber. Pathetic!"

"You haven’t seen how the young master treats him now—like he’s made of glass."

"That day I passed the study, oh, the noises—wilder than the women at the Bluebird Club on Main."

They called me shameless, said I was more seductive than a club dancer. Overnight, it was like I was back in the old nightmare. The world had moved on, but I was stuck.

I stood behind the garden shed, shivering so hard my teeth hurt. The world felt too big, too empty. I hugged myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but nothing fit anymore.

The housekeeper’s assistant called for me—said the master and madam wanted to see me. Her voice was clipped, her eyes never meeting mine. She hurried ahead, like she couldn’t wait to be rid of me.

They all decided I’d seduced the young master. Even the master and madam thought so. Their disappointment pressed down on me, heavy as a winter coat, suffocating.

Inside, they didn’t say a word—just ordered the staff to beat me. Twenty strikes. I bit my tongue, holding back screams as each blow landed. Each one a reminder of my place.

Covered in blood, I was pressed to the floor. Even the ones holding me looked at me like I was something rotten. Shame burned hotter than pain, and I wanted to disappear.

The master didn’t kill me. Instead, in front of everyone, he scolded me: "To think your father was a teacher, yet raised such a disgraceful son!" He spat the words like they tasted bad.

I jerked my head up, mouth open to protest! But the madam, who once smiled at me, just sighed. "Just a toy. Let our son keep him for a while—it’s just a phase. He’ll get bored soon. When he’s bored, sell this trash off, so it doesn’t dirty our home."

She tried to talk the master down, but when she looked at me, her eyes were cold. "If the young master’s grades are good, you stick close. If his grades slip, you’d better watch your own skin!"

I lay there, dragged back to my room like roadkill. My limbs felt like lead, my mind numb. I stared at the ceiling, just waiting for the pain to stop.

When Ethan Lane came back from the riverboat, reeking of whiskey, I was burning up with fever. He pressed me down, restless, his whiskey breath hot on my face. He tore off my ripped clothes—then froze, staring at my bruised skin, the cuts and torn flesh. For a second, he looked like a kid again.

"Jamie, your wounds…" His voice broke, all his usual swagger gone. He reached for me, but I flinched away, not wanting him to touch me.

Tears slid down my cheeks. I was useless—couldn’t save my dad, couldn’t stop my mom’s death, a man forced and violated, unable even to clear my father’s name. So useless—what’s the point of living? Might as well die…

But Ethan couldn’t let me go. He called a doctor overnight and kept me alive. He paced the room, guilt all over his face, but he never once apologized.

He never once apologized.

Looking back, I probably should’ve died then. Living till now, I’m even more miserable.

In the Lane house, I was neither alive nor dead. I haunted the halls, a reminder of secrets nobody wanted to face. People looked through me, not at me.

Ethan liked me—liked my body, my face, liked how I did what he wanted. But that was it. I was a possession, a trophy, nothing more.

I didn’t dare ask for his love. All I had left was myself. Ten years of being good, and all it got me was a day in the spotlight.

Ethan Lane went to New York for college. Other people brought money and staff—he brought me. I was his shadow, his secret, the one thing he couldn’t let go of.

By lamplight, his gaze raked over my bare back, hungry and bold. Like a starving man eyeing a meal, his voice feverish. That night, my heart pounded too. For the first time in years, I gave in. He became obsessed.

"Jamie, when I make it, you’ll be my right hand. By day you’ll run my house, by night you’ll run my bed." He shook me until I felt dizzy, my hands clutching the sheets just to hold on.

Trembling, I asked, "When you make it, will you still care for me? Will you remember your promise?" The way he moved made me feel like a kite in a storm. Every time I tried to break free, Ethan yanked me back hard. No freedom. Not for me.

"I care for you, I care for Jamie the most." But a man’s promises don’t mean much—especially in bed. In the end, he broke his promise without a second thought.

……

I woke from a dream, my whole body aching. The sheets were twisted around me, sweat cooling on my skin. The room was silent except for my own ragged breathing.

Looking down, I saw my pale skin, covered in bruises—no spot left untouched. Each mark a memory, a story I couldn’t tell.

I sat there for a long time before I let out a bitter laugh. Another dream. Yeah, that was a long time ago. Now, in this bed, another man had slept just last night. My patron. Just another night.

Half a year ago, I first entered Magnolia House. It was pouring that day—rain coming down in sheets. Two men dragged me inside, the sky dark and angry, thunder rumbling overhead.

The man behind me got out of a black sedan, holding a green umbrella—tall and straight, looked every inch the gentleman. But that was just the surface. He forced me to drink poison, making me mute.

"Jamie’s voice is sweet, but it’s a shame—from now on, only I’ll hear it in the bedroom." His words sounded almost friendly, but the cruelty underneath was clear as day.

I grabbed his pant leg, crying and begging. "Please, I don’t know what I did wrong. I can change. Anything." My voice cracked, desperation tightening my throat.

He stood over me while I knelt at his feet, the light from the door behind him casting me in his shadow. He stared at me for a long time, eyes torn, then went cold.