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—𝟎𝟎𝟒.- ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴀʟᴅ?—

̶S̶e̶r̶a̶p̶h̶i̶n̶a̶

𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒂 ☄

      "𝐇𝐔𝐇?" I can't seem to close my mouth. The word tumbles out, small and ridiculous, and echoes in the stillness of the storage room.

Karim stands before me, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed like he's the picture of casual, but his eyes are sharp—too sharp, like he's waiting for me to figure something out. I don't know what's worse: the fact that he caught me alone or the fact that his gaze makes me feel like an insect pinned under glass.

"Keep your voice down," he says, his tone almost scolding, though there's a flicker of amusement in it that surprises me. "This isn't exactly soundproof. And in this house, everything is listening."

My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air, which only makes his smirk widen. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," I stammer, words tumbling out in a panic. My heart is thundering so loudly I swear he can hear it.

He tilts his head, studying me. "Really?" His voice is low, conspiratorial. "You're going to play that game?"

I straighten up, squaring my shoulders even though my knees feel like jelly. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I repeat, forcing myself to look him in the eye.

Karim lets out a slow sigh, as though disappointed. Then, in one swift movement, he reaches behind me and pulls out the cleaning cloth I shoved into my pocket earlier, dangling it between two fingers like it's evidence in a trial. "You're good at hiding things," he says, his tone almost admiring. "But not that good, I fear."

My mind races. What does he know? Does he think I'm stealing cleaning supplies or something? Is this some kind of weird power move? A joke? I can't afford to slip up now, not when everything—my cover, my mission, my life—is at stake.

"I'm just doing my job," I say, keeping my voice as even as possible, though it wavers slightly at the end, I have to remind myself to stay calm. "If you're looking for something to report, I assure you, I've done nothing wrong."

Karim steps closer, his always-serious face turning into something even more serious. His voice drops to a whisper. "You're not as clever as you think, Sofía."

My stomach twists painfully. He used my real name.

I try to swallow, but my throat feels like it's caving in on itself. My brain scrambles for an exit strategy. I calculate the distance to the door, the odds of slipping past him, the number of steps I'd need before I could start running—

"I—"

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Relax," he says. "I'm not here to blow your cover. Quite the opposite, actually."

I blink at him, utterly confused. "What are you talking about?"

Karim lets out a low chuckle that sounds fake, shaking his head. Uninmpressed. "Arabella didn't tell you about me, did she? Typical. I thought you were just pretending not to know me."

Hearing her name is probably what surprises me the most. I haven't thought about Arabella or about anyone back in the rebellion in days—haven't allowed myself to. The reminder feels like a slap, a jolt of reality in this surreal nightmare.

"What does Arabella have to do with this?" I demand, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

He leans in closer, so close I'm actually trembling though I don't know why. "She has entrusted me to watch over you." 

The words land like a slap. "She—what?"

"In case you got yourself into trouble."

My mouth falls open.

No. That can't be right. 

"She doesn't trust me," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

"Don't be an idiot," Karim says flatly. "She thought you'd need help. And honestly, she was right."

But I'm still trying to process something. "She—what? No. That's not possible. You can't be—"

"A spy?" Karim finishes for me, raising an eyebrow. "Surprise."

I step back, bumping into the wall behind me. My mind feels like it's short-circuiting. Karim, the polished, no-nonsense right hand to the Ibrahim family, a spy? My veteran? This world is a bad joke and we're all dads. 

"You're lying," I blurt out, shaking my head. "This is some kind of trick."

Karim's expression doesn't change. "Believe what you want," he says, unaffected. "But Arabella trusted me to keep you safe. Though, honestly, I didn't expect my help to be needed this soon. One week. That's got to be some kind of record."

The sarcasm in his voice makes my cheeks burn.

"I didn't mean to—"

"To break into the boss's room? Kick him out? Make him impossibly more aware of your existence?" he cuts in smoothly. "Yes, I figured."

"I didn't know it was his room!" I hiss, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

"Does it really matter now?"

I grit my teeth. "If you're really here to help me, then stop acting like this is funny."

"It's not funny," he says, quiet but firm. "And I'm not here to joke around with you, Sofía. This is serious. From what I know, you're role is to merely watch and obey from a distance and never interact closely with any of them, but it seems they have chosen you blindfoldded for this mission."

Ouch.

His words land like a blow. And I know—he's right.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself. "So... what now?"

Karim studies me for a long moment before stepping back, granting me space I hadn't realized I needed. "Now," he says, voice steady, "you listen."

I freeze.

"It's not too late to show them you're not interesting and certainly not dangerous. You'll follow Haider's orders," he continues. "You'll do your job. You won't attract unnecessary attention. And from now on—" he levels me with a look that leaves no room for argument, "—you follow my plans. Not yours. Mine."

I open my mouth, ready to argue, but the look he gives me shuts me up before I can start.

"That's not a request," he adds.

I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists, my body screaming to fight back. But the truth is, I don't have a choice.

And worse?

He knows it.

"I have to go," he says. "But remember—keep your mouth shut, and your ears open. This place is a goldmine of information if you know where to look. I'll find you to explain to you your future steps, for now, just... don't act like you would normally do."

This man is getting to comfortable talking to me like that. But I say nothing. I actually have nothing to say and if I dare to move I'm afraid I'll punch him. 

The silence between us stretches, thick and suffocating.

Finally, Karim nods once, satisfied. "Good. Then we understand each other."

And he's gone.

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

Because for the first time since stepping foot in this house, I realize something terrifying.

I'm not alone in this.

But I don't know if that makes things better—

Or worse.

Arabella sent him. She didn't trust me.

No, that's not it, I tell myself. She wanted to make sure I'd be okay. But the bitterness lingers anyway, just a reminder of how out of my depth I truly am.

⋆⁺☁︎₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺☁︎₊⋆

The color of the carpets is just perfect.

It's one of those things people don't notice—until they do. The deep, plush shade of midnight blue that covers the office floor almost swallows the light, leaving the space with an air of intimacy, like everything in here is a secret. Not too dark to feel suffocating, not too light to feel cold. Just... right. The fibers are soft under my knees, inviting, as if this luxurious floor is made for moments like these, when the room is still and quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers and the tapping of fingers on a keyboard.

I notice these things now. The subtle little details. It's not like I have a choice. I'm stuck here, scrubbing away at the edges of luxury, the perfect symmetry of everything surrounding me. How many hours have I spent on these damn carpets already? How many hours more?

But that's the job, isn't it? I'm just a maid, after all. I just wish I had some hair clips because I'm starting to get tired of pushing my hair out of sight all the time.

I glance up from my spot on the floor, flicking my gaze toward Haider, who's sitting at his massive desk, his attention focused on whatever task is in front of him. He doesn't even notice me. Good.

It's not the first time I've been in this room, but every time it feels like a new level of suffocation. This office—his space—is everything he is. Cold, sleek, rich, perfect, calculated. Everything is designed to give the illusion of control, to remind you that this is his world, and you are just a guest, a nobody. The polished, dark wood of the desk gleams in the light, the bookshelves behind him neat and orderly, like they've never been touched by human hands. Everything is set at exactly the right angle, every item meticulously arranged. The space is perfect, just like him.

I hate that perfection.

But right now, I'm stuck in it.

I've always wondered how, in a world where most of us are prohibited from most things, there are always people like him who are different. Not because they're stronger or smarter or more deserving, but because they were simply born on the right side of the line.

At first glance, there's nothing setting us apart. Same limbs, same eyes, same breath. We bleed the same color. We occupy the same space. We breathe the same air. 

But the difference is there.

It's in the way he moves, assured and untouchable, like the ground beneath him was built to hold him steady while the rest of us struggle to keep our footing. It's in the way people look at him—with respect, with fear, with a carefully measured deference that ensures he never has to fight for a place in the world.

It's in the things he doesn't even have to think about.

The way he walks through the halls without worrying about who might be watching. The way his clothes fit him—not just well, but right, as if they were tailored to match the life he was always meant to lead. The way his voice carries when he speaks, unafraid of being interrupted, because people like him are always heard.

I tell myself it shouldn't bother me. That there's no use in resentment, no point in fixating on the unfairness of something I can't change. But then I see him—really see him—and it's impossible not to feel the weight of it.

He has never had to earn what I fight for every single day.

He doesn't have to prove himself to be allowed to exist.

And worst of all? He knows it.

Not in the way that makes him cruel—no, that would be easier. I could hate him more easily if he were cruel. Instead, he carries it with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from never having to question it. The kind that makes it clear he's never had to wonder what it would be like to be on the other side of the line, to look at someone like himself and feel the bitter sting of knowing you'll never be that lucky.

Because that's what it is, isn't it? Luck.

The world wants us to believe it's merit, that the powerful and privileged are where they are because they earned it. But I know better. He and I—we're the same in every way that matters. And yet, he has everything, and I have nothing.

He was welcomed by the light of sun, while I was thrown to the darkness of the moon.

Not because he worked harder.

Not because he deserves it more.

Just because he was born and I was born, and that's all it took.

I press the cloth against the edge of the carpet again, wiping away the dust with exaggerated care. His eyes are still on the screen, but there's something about the way his body is positioned, how he sits back in his chair just enough, that makes it feel like he's aware of everything in the room, even me. I try not to let my frustration show, but it's hard when I'm stuck in this ridiculous position, my knees sore from hours of kneeling.

The silence stretches, taut and charged, and I swear I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing against my back. My fingers tighten around the cloth as I drag it slowly across the fibers, the motion suddenly feeling obscene in the stillness of the room. The air is thick, heavy with something unspoken, and I hate that my body reacts to it before my mind can catch up.

"Almost done?" he says, and I don't have to look at him to know he's smiling. He's always smiling.  And I don't like it at all.

I chance a glance up, just for a second, and regret it immediately.

He's watching me.

Not distractedly, not passively, but with full attention, the kind that makes you feel like a rabbit caught in a snare. His fingers tap lazily against the arm of his chair, his head tilted just slightly, and there's something unbearably knowing in his expression.

"You seem very devoted to your work." Is he mocking me?

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. "I take my job seriously, sir."

He hums, a sound so soft it barely reaches me, but it lingers, curling around my spine. "Is that what it is?"

My fingers still against the carpet. I know better than to answer that. Whatever game he's playing, I'm not walking into it.

I drop my gaze again, forcing my attention back to the cloth in my hands. But the moment is ruined. My breath comes shorter, my pulse annoyingly loud in my ears. I hate that he affects me like this. Hate that he always seems to enjoy it.

His chair creaks again, the sound subtle but deafening in the silence, and then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Each step measured, controlled, until I see the polished tip of his shoe stop just inches from where I kneel.

I feel him before he speaks, his presence suffocating, a heat that doesn't touch me but still burns. "Tell me," he murmurs, and I hate the way his voice dips lower, softer, like a secret pressed against my ear. "Do you always work this hard, or is it just for me?"

I don't move. I don't breathe. My fingers clench the cloth so tightly it's a wonder it doesn't rip.

"I work hard for everyone, sir," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

A pause. And then, amusement laces his next words, thick like honey. "Mm. But not everyone is watching, are they?"

A shiver snakes down my spine, unwanted, unwelcome.

I should stand up. I should step back. I should do anything but stay here, frozen, caught in the trap he's set. But his words hang between us, charged, teasing, and I hate that he's right.

I hate that I noticed the way his voice changes when he's amused. I hate that I'm aware of the way he smells—expensive, intoxicating, like dark woods and spice and something richer underneath. I hate that I wonder what it would be like if I weren't kneeling on this damn floor but standing before him instead.

The thought burns as soon as it forms.

"Tell me. Who are you when no one is watching, Seraphina?"

I go cold. 

I grip the cloth harder in my hands, pressing it between my fingers, grounding myself in the coarse fabric. 

"I-I don't think I know how to answer that, sir." That's right, play dumb. I slowly stand up, not daring to meet his eyes. 

I exhale slowly, measured, forcing control where I have none. "If that's all, sir, I should—"

"Should you?" His voice is quiet, thoughtful, like he's genuinely considering the question.

My grip tightens on the cloth. "Yes."

Another pause. I swear I can hear the hint of a smile in it.

And then—

"Stay a moment."

Not a command. Not quite a request, either.

A suggestion wrapped in something silkier, more dangerous.

I should decline. I should walk out of this room without looking back.

But I don't have that option.

And I also don't want to. And I don't know why.

Maybe it's the way he says it. Maybe it's the fact that my pulse hasn't settled since the moment he stood. Or maybe it's the damn curiosity that always gets me into trouble—the need to understand why he does what he does, why he watches the way he watches.

I keep my expression neutral, controlled, even as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "Is there something else you need, sir?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he moves.

A slow step to the side.

Another.

It's not obvious, not overt, but it's deliberate. He circles me the way a thought lingers at the edge of the mind, never fully grasped but impossible to ignore.

My breath hitches, barely perceptible, but I know he catches it. He always does.

"It's nothing of importance really," he muses, as if we were discussing something as ordinary as the weather. "But I've been thinking about your name."

Okay now I want to run.

"My name? " My voice is barely there. 

His smile widdens, his perfect teeth showing. "I just think Seraphina doesn't suit you quite right."

I don't even know what to say to that. Because what does that even mean? My name doesn't suit me? What the hell?

I tighten my grip on the cloth, fingers curling so hard I can feel the fabric bite into my skin. And I know I'm starting getting mad when the next words come out from me without my permission. "I wasn't aware my name required your approval, sir."

His smile deepens. And he actually laughs. He laughs at my face. I want to punch him harder than ever. "It doesn't. But names have weight, don't they? And I don't think Seraphina carries the right one for you."

I should ignore him. I should let this conversation die here, now. But something about the way he says it—so certain, so assured—unsettles me more than I care to admit.

"Then what do you think it should be?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does. Like he's pleased. Like I just stepped into a game I didn't realize I was playing.

He takes another step, closing the distance between us in a way that feels both subtle and suffocating.

And then—

His hand moves.

I barely see it, barely register the motion before his fingers brush against my face.

A single touch. Featherlight. Just enough to sweep a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I go completely still.

My pulse, however, betrays me.

Because I can feel it, the sharp, traitorous pound of my heart against my ribs.

His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary before he drops his hand back to his side, the ghost of his touch still burning against my skin.

I swallow hard. "That was unnecessary, sir." Shut up shut up shut up.

His head tilts, watching me. "Was