The air in New York was sickly sweet, a concoction of horse manure, expensive perfume, and hypocritical social pleasantries. Compared to the biting cold of Chicago, filled with smoke and rust, every breath here made Evelyn feel suffocated.
The gates of Ashford Manor swung open slowly, and two rows of servants bowed respectfully.
"William!"
The moment the car door opened, a figure in pink fluttered over like a butterfly. Aurora, wearing the season's latest lace gown, didn't even wait for William to find his footing before she intimately linked her arm through his, stood on tiptoe, and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"You're finally back, darling. These two weeks felt like a century." Aurora's voice was coquettish and sweet, like arsenic coated in honey.
William, fresh from a high-intensity mental war, still carried a cold sharpness in his eyes that hadn't fully faded. His body stiffened for a second, but he didn't push her away. This was New York. He was the heir to the Ashford family, and she was the Vanderbilt heiress. Even if it was a play, he had to act his part.
"Is everything well?" William asked indifferently, allowing Aurora to cling to him like a vine.
Evelyn stood by the carriage holding his briefcase, her head lowered, watching the backs of the two snuggling together.
Just last night, in the hotel suite in Chicago, this man had grabbed her hand and discussed how to carve up the corpse of their opponent. Back then, he was a wild lion, and she was the only tamer allowed near him.
But now, the "William" who belonged only to her had instantly reverted to "Mr. Ashford."
A bitterness she had never felt before bit into Evelyn's heart like a snake.
In her past life, she felt only envy and fear at this scene. But in this life, after tasting power and intimacy, what she felt was... jealousy.
A frantic jealousy that wanted to tear that woman away from him.
Hold it in, Evelyn, she warned herself. Chicago was a battlefield; this is a gilded cage. In the cage, you must follow the cage's rules.
...
"That maid. Take the things to the third floor. Then come to my room. I have questions for you."
As she passed Evelyn, Aurora stopped and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear. Her eyes were like hooked whips, scraping viciously across Evelyn's face, whose beauty couldn't be hidden even with her head bowed.
Half an hour later, in Aurora's sitting room.
"You mean to say, for these two weeks, you lived right next door to him?"
Aurora sat on a velvet sofa, toying with an ivory folding fan. Evelyn knelt on the floor—this was a rule Aurora had established: servants must kneel when answering, under the pretext of "hearing more clearly."
"Yes, Miss. Because the Master needed to handle official business at all times, he required accompanying staff to appear within three rings of the bell." Evelyn's voice was flat, the standard tone of a servant.
"Accompanying staff?" Aurora sneered. "Don't think I don't know what that means. In a vulgar place like Chicago, when a man is far from home, he inevitably wants to find some wild game."
She stood up and slowly paced around Evelyn, the hem of her dress brushing against the back of Evelyn's hands.
"But I warn you, a stray dog should have the self-awareness of a stray dog. Just because you ate the master's leftovers doesn't mean you can dream of climbing into the master's bed."
Clatter.
The folding fan in Aurora's hand "accidentally" fell to the floor.
"Oh, I dropped it. Pick it up for me."
Evelyn reached out to retrieve it.
The instant her fingers touched the fan, Aurora's foot, clad in a pointed high heel, stepped heavily onto the back of Evelyn's hand.
"Ngh!"
Evelyn let out a muffled grunt, cold sweat instantly beading on her forehead. The thin heel bored into her flesh like a nail, grinding against the fragile bones of her fingers.
Excruciating pain.
But she didn't pull her hand back, nor did she beg for mercy. She simply gritted her teeth, enduring the malicious rotation and grinding of that foot on her hand.
"Oh my, I didn't see your hand down there." Aurora moved her foot away with feigned surprise, looking at the shoe print on Evelyn's hand that was quickly turning red, swelling, and even seeping blood. A flash of pleasure passed through her eyes. "Since your hands are so clumsy, throw this fan away with them. I can't use something touched by dirty hands."
"Yes, Miss."
Evelyn picked up the fan and retreated with her head bowed.
The moment she walked out the door, she looked at her trembling, mangled right hand. There were no tears in her eyes, only cold calculation.
She didn't go to the infirmary to bandage it.
She didn't even wash the dust off the wound.
She simply returned to her room, changed into a maid's uniform with slightly wider cuffs, and quietly waited for nightfall.
...
Ten o'clock at night, the study.
William sat at his desk, trying to process the mountain of New York social correspondence, but with the efficient, thrilling pace of Chicago gone, all that remained was endless boredom.
"Damn it."
His fountain pen had run dry. He shook it irritably, splattering ink onto the paper.
"Coffee," he called out habitually, exhaustion in his voice.
The door opened. Familiar footsteps, the familiar scent of coffee.
Evelyn walked in carrying the tray. She walked steadily, but when she set the coffee cup down, there was a microscopic pause in her movement.
William lifted the cup, about to drink, when he caught something in his peripheral vision.
"What happened to your hand?"
He froze, his gaze locking sharply onto Evelyn's right hand, which she was trying to hide inside her sleeve.
"No... nothing, Sir. I just bumped it accidentally." Evelyn flusteredly put her hand behind her back, lowering her head, her shoulders trembling slightly.
This clumsy concealment was precisely the most sophisticated bait.
"Show me." William put down the cup, his voice dropping low.
Evelyn hesitated, then slowly extended her right hand.
Under the lamp, that hand—originally pale and slender—now bore a circular, deep purple bruise where the skin was torn and rolled back. It was the mark of a high heel grinding into flesh. In Chicago, these hands had massaged him, organized multi-million dollar contracts, and been held in his palm when he called her a "dagger."
Now, this dagger had been trampled underfoot.
William's pupils constricted violently.
He recognized the shape. It was the heel of the custom-made Parisian shoes Aurora loved most.
A nameless fury, mixed with a strange, sharp pang of pain, instantly pierced his chest.
"Did she do this?" William's voice was terrifyingly soft.
Evelyn didn't speak, but her eyes reddened. She bit her lip and nodded slightly, then quickly explained, "I was clumsy and got in Miss Aurora's way... Sir, don't blame the Miss, she just... just cares about you too much and doesn't want to see anyone else around you..."
"Cares about me?"
William let out a cold laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
He stood up, walked around the desk, and gently cupped Evelyn's injured hand. Looking at the swollen wound, he suddenly felt that this magnificent manor had become incredibly ugly.
In Chicago, she was his comrade, his shadow.
The moment they returned here, she reverted to a slave for anyone to trample.
He had brought her back to this hell.
"Does it hurt?" William asked in a low voice, his thumb avoiding the wound to gently caress her uninjured wrist.
"Seeing you, Sir, it doesn't hurt anymore." Evelyn looked up, her emerald eyes swimming with tears she stubbornly refused to shed. Her gaze was filled with reliance on him, as if he were her only sanctuary in this cruel world.
William's heart convulsed violently.
This wasn't just pity. It was the rage of being violated. Aurora hadn't stepped on a maid's hand; she had stepped on William Ashford's face, damaged his most cherished "possession."
"Sit down."
William pressed her into his high-backed chair—the seat that only the master could occupy.
Then, he turned and opened the cabinet, taking out the best ointment and gauze.
The tyrant who made Wall Street tremble was now kneeling on one knee before a maid, his movements clumsy but incredibly careful as he treated her wound.
"Bear with it."
The moment the ointment touched the wound, Evelyn flinched in pain. William stopped immediately and gently blew on the injury.
That warm breath blew away all of Evelyn's disguises.
She looked at this man, head bowed, face gloomy but hands gentle. The jealousy in her heart dissipated, replaced by a twisted sweetness.
Look, Aurora.
You stepped on my hand, but I won his heart.
"From tomorrow on, you don't need to see her," William said as he finished bandaging the wound and stood up, a black storm surging in his eyes. "You will stay in this study. Except for mine, you don't need to listen to anyone's orders. If she dares to touch a single hair on your head again..."
William paused, his voice as cold as ice:
"I will chop off her hand."
Evelyn leaned back in the chair, watching William's back tense with anger. In the shadows, the corner of her mouth curled into a victorious smile.
This hand... was worth the pain.