Desmond sat up with a sigh as he awoke.
He glanced around, noticing it was still dark, with no sign of the sun.
Getting out of bed, he walked toward the wardrobe.
Inside were clothes unlike anything he was used to expensive and overly elegant.
He grabbed whatever looked the simplest, and went to bathe.
But once in the bathroom, he realized there was no warm water. No way to mix it with the cold for a pleasant bath.
There was only a wooden barrel filled with icy water.
He dipped his fingers into it and shivered from the chill, hesitating in silence.
Taking a deep breath, he undressed and slowly poured the water over himself.
Tears welled up in his eyes from the shock and pain.
He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out.
With just a bar of soap, his body felt frozen and raw.
He trembled each time he rinsed himself,
gasping and forcing down any complaints.
After the bath, he dressed in the outfit he'd chosen.
He still couldn't believe he was in a room that smelled of old wood, dust, and dampness.
The room was freezing, with only a thin blanket that felt more like a sheet.
He combed his hair with his fingers, without a mirror,
keeping his gaze low.
His fingernails were tinted with a faint violet hue.
Once ready, he stepped out into the hallway, heading toward the eastern wing,
descending the spiral staircase.
It was 4:20 a.m.
Downstairs, his father stood beside a teenage boy dressed in a black suit with a white shirt underneath.
He wore white cotton gloves, had blond hair, and eyes the color of lime.
Desmond glanced briefly at his father, whose expression remained stern and cold.
The man didn't lower his head-just turned slightly toward the young boy beside him,
gesturing with an outstretched arm.
The teenage boy returned Desmond's gaze-firm but less cruel.
-"This is Cowell.
He'll be in charge of your education, along with two women who'll arrive at five in the afternoon every day.
You'll study for two hours only.
No play. No distractions.
After that, I'll test you on what you've learned.
If you fail, privileges will be revoked.
Is that clear?"
he said in a gravelly tone.
Desmond was about to nod when he remembered what happened last time.
He lifted his eyes properly.
-"Yes." He affirmed clearly.
His father turned on his heel and walked away with echoing footsteps.
But just before disappearing into another hallway,
he paused in the doorway.
He chuckled dryly, and added:
-"I want every floor clean.
Furniture, every object you see in this house.
Beds made. Rooms swept.
All laundry done by hand.
All of it.
After you cook.
That's where you'll start."
He paused briefly.
-"And I want breakfast ready by 7:20.
Be punctual... or else."
And with that, he left.
The boy's stomach twisted painfully,
a tight knot of discomfort in his abdomen.
He bent slightly forward, pressing his hands to his sides.
His lips were purple.
He glanced at the teenager briefly, then turned in the direction he was instructed to go.
The butler followed him-tasked with supervision.
Desmond began his day early. At 5:15 a.m.
He was handed a note by the butler:
"Clean the floor."
Desmond exhaled through his nose,
and looked up to see a long, seemingly endless hallway.
He stood frozen in place.
-"All of this...?!" he whispered.
Cowell walked off briefly, while Desmond scratched the back of his neck and pressed his lips together.
When Cowell returned, he set down a bucket of water and a slightly damp rag-
no bigger than two hands.
Desmond blinked at him, then looked at the bucket.
He parted his lips slightly, then shut them again, swallowing hard.
Clenching his jaw, he nodded without a word.
Cowell returned the nod and stepped back to a corner-
watching him in silence.
Desmond touched the water again,
then recoiled briefly.
He gripped his right hand tightly with the left as the chill ran through his chest and abdomen.
He exhaled, closed his eyes for a few seconds,
and then picked up the rag.
Kneeling-despite the wounds on his knees-
he began scrubbing the floor,
stretching his arm and moving in swift motions to finish as quickly as possible.
Time passed.
His pants became damp, cold, and stiff from kneeling so long.
He stood slowly, wincing as his back cracked from the strain.
He tossed the rag into the bucket,
turned, and walked to his next task.
Deep inside, he thought:
"If I do everything perfectly... If I don't complain... If I smile.. Maybe I'll make Father happy.
Maybe he'll praise me... like Mother once did."
Still in his innocent mind, he believed his father was only like this because he didn't really know him yet.
So he felt determined to do his best.
After dropping off the bucket, his next task was preparing breakfast.
The boy, still driven by hopeful thoughts, nodded with a smile as he entered the kitchen.
It was just 6:30.
He began preparing something simple and tasty like he used to cook for his mother on mornings when they had earned enough selling bread or polishing shoes.
He made two fried eggs, rice, and boiled diced potatoes seasoned with pepper and salt.
Once finished, he hurried before the hour his father had specified, carrying two plates in his hands.
But when he reached the dining room, his father was already seated.
Desmond swallowed and approached more carefully, placing the plate on the table and stepping back slightly.
His father raised an eyebrow and glanced at the plate.
The boy smiled and began turning to leave with his own plate.
-"And where do you think you're going?"
his father asked.
Desmond froze.
He glanced to the sides and turned slowly.
He watched his father take a few bites, nervously awaiting his reaction.
But then the man grimaced, threw the utensils to the floor like darts,
and slammed his fist on the table.
Startled, Desmond stiffened completely.
His arms shot up in shock, eyes wide like saucers.
-"You think I'll eat this garbage?!
The rice is bland-no salt, just like the potatoes!!
Did you even season this properly?!"
-"...But..." Desmond murmured.
-"You're so pathetic you can't even cook properly!
To think your mother was better-
No, even the maids did a better job than you!"
the man roared, pounding the table again.
Desmond flinched, and the plate slipped from his hands shattering loudly against the floor.
He looked up, face filled with panic.
He trembled, covered his cheeks, and tears streamed down his face.
Then the man raised his hand and slapped the boy. Sending him crashing to the floor,
clutching his cheek in confusion.
His head shook.
His mouth trembled.
His mind was fogged.
-"Get up.
And stop crying like a useless girl. I warned you."
the man growled.
Cowell stepped forward from afar, but the duke raised a hand to stop him.
-"Let him do it."
he said coldly, in a low voice.
Still shaking on the floor, Desmond gave a small nod.
As he slowly lowered and gathered the shattered pieces.
His hands trembling as he picked up bits of food and ceramic shards.
One sharp edge cut his finger and the palm of his hand.
He winced from the sudden pain, but stayed silent.
He got up, went to the kitchen,
and threw the mess away.
He washed his hands, pulling out what little glass he could.
When he returned to the dining room, his father was gone.
Desmond exhaled, standing there in a daze-
his eyes locked on the floor.
Cowell approached, speaking in a firm voice:
-"Your father asked that once you're finished,
you run ten laps around the mansion.
That was an order."
The butler bowed slightly
and left without another word.
Desmond gave a dry, broken laugh through his nose.