Another night of listening to the sounds of the brothel—moans, laughter, and the rhythmic creaking of beds. I’m scrubbing the floors in the hall, my hands raw, and I can’t help but overhear Roxia with a client. The way she moans… it’s so practiced, yet so sweet. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be on the other side of that door—not as a servant, but as someone wanted. To have someone look at me like that, to feel skin against mine without a bucket between us. But then Olivia sneaks up and dumps a pitcher of cold water down my back, cackling like a little demon. Back to reality.