They stirred awake when the morning sunlight crept through the narrow window and spilled softly across their faces.Simon blinked slowly, the warmth of the light easing him out of sleep. Beside him, his mother shifted slightly, her arms still loosely wrapped around him, her breath brushing the top of his head.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was still, quiet except for the faint sounds of the compound stirring to life outside—footsteps in the hall, the distant clatter of pots in the kitchen, the low call of a rooster beyond the stone walls.
Then she opened her eyes and looked down at him. "Good morning, love."
"Morning, Mama," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
She smiled and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. "Did you sleep well?"
He nodded. "I did."
She let out a small sigh of contentment, tightening her embrace for one last lingering moment before letting him go. "Come on, then. We've got another day ahead of us."
They rose together, slow and unhurried, the weight of the world returning gradually—but the warmth of the night still clinging to them like a second skin. She helped him wash up, straightened the collar of his shirt, and handed him the satchel he had packed the night before.
As he stepped toward the door, she paused him with a light hand on his shoulder.
"Whatever happens, Simon," she said gently, "I'm proud of you. Not because of any test. But because you try. Every single day."
He looked up at her, and though he didn't speak, his eyes said everything.
She smiled again—quiet, unwavering—and opened the door.
Once she saw him off, she lingered for a moment at the door, watching his small figure merge with the stream of other children heading toward the school building. Then, with a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, she turned and made her way back through the narrow servant corridors—familiar and dim, echoing with the early clatter of the morning.
The kitchen was already alive when she stepped inside. Pots hissed with steam, knives chopped in practiced rhythm, and voices murmured between tasks. No one looked up when she entered—they were all too busy, too tired, too used to her silent comings and goings.
She tied her apron around her waist and took her place near the large chopping board, where a crate of root vegetables waited to be peeled. Her hands moved on instinct—cut, scrape, rinse, repeat—but her mind drifted elsewhere.
Three more days.
That's all that stood between Simon and the results. Between them and… whatever came next.
Would they call attention to him if he did well? Would someone ask too many questions? Or would they ignore it entirely, pretend not to see the truth that might be blooming quietly in the back of the room?
She didn't know.
But for now, she worked. Because that was the only thing she could control—the rhythm of her labor, the stillness of her face, the quiet strength she clung to even as the world around them shifted one heartbeat at a time.
The kitchen, already thick with heat and the scent of root stew, fell deathly silent when the assistant of the Alpha stepped through the archway.
His boots clicked sharply on the stone, polished to an unnatural gleam, as he walked with slow deliberation into the center of the room. Heads bowed. Knives stilled. Even the fire seemed to pause its crackling.
He let the silence draw out before speaking.
"The Alpha has ordered a dinner party," he announced, voice as smooth and cold as a blade. "To celebrate his granddaughter's academic results."
A murmur of breath moved through the kitchen—not surprise, not exactly. Dread.
"He has sent strict instructions," the assistant continued, letting his gaze drift lazily over the staff as if inspecting livestock. "Everything must be prepared to perfection. Every plate, every glass. The banquet will take place in the grand hall on the evening of the results day—three nights from now."
A few startled glances passed between the cooks. That was the same day the children's test scores would be announced—including Simon's. But no one dared ask questions. Not aloud.
The assistant smiled then. It didn't reach his eyes.
"No blunders will be tolerated," he said, and the way he emphasized the word made several maids flinch. "I trust I don't need to remind you of the last time something went wrong during one of the Alpha's celebrations."
He didn't. They remembered.
The spilled wine. The shattered glass. The kitchen boy who'd been quietly reassigned—and never seen again.
He snapped his fingers. A footman stepped forward, producing a scroll, which the assistant unfurled with unnecessary flair.
"This is the menu. Study it. Memorize it. Execute it without error. There will be roasted stag, flame-grilled fowl, three varieties of bread, herb-glazed vegetables, a red wine reduction, and—of course—a celebratory cake."
He looked up sharply.
"A beautiful cake. Perfect. Worthy of noble eyes and noble mouths. If it's late, or wrong, or ruined…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
The scroll was thrust into Nella's hands—the senior kitchen maid—and without another word, the assistant turned on his heel and swept out, his cloak stirring the dust behind him like a stormcloud.
For a beat, no one moved.
Then, chaos.
Orders flew. Flour sacks were dragged from shelves. Pots were slammed onto burners. The fire roared higher. Cooks and hands moved with silent urgency, adrenaline dulling exhaustion. They all knew what this meant.
There would be no mistakes.
Not when the Alpha's wrath hovered just out of sight.
And for one woman in the back of the kitchen—her hands steady even as her heart raced—this was not just about food or duty.
This was about surviving the same night her son's future would be decided.
Olivia moved through the kitchen like a ghost, her hands a blur of motion as she worked. Flour dusted her apron, and the sweet scent of sugar and spices clung to the air, a stark contrast to the bitter anxiety churning in her gut. She focused on the rhythm: mixing the batter until her arms ached, carefully folding in dried fruits, then pouring the mixture into the waiting pans. Every step was precise, every movement imbued with a silent prayer.
The murmurs around her were a constant hum. They spoke of the Alpha's assistant, of the last time a servant had blundered. Olivia heard it all, the fear in their voices, the desperate hope that she, the quiet maid, would somehow conjure perfection. She felt their eyes on her back, heavy with expectation and relief that it wasn't them.
It was just after she'd sent Simon off to school this morning, still lingering at the door with a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, that Nella had found her. The senior maid had approached, her back bent with years, but a knowing glint in her eye.
"Olivia," Nella had said, her voice low enough for only Olivia to hear, "you are responsible for the cake." There was a faint smile playing on Nella's lips, a hint of something deeper, something like challenge or grim solidarity.
Olivia knew she had to accept. The murmurs around her were already confirming it – no one else wanted this potential bomb. "Sure," she'd replied, her voice steady despite the sudden spike of dread. "I'll do my best."
And so, here she was, her hands now meticulously smoothing the cake's surface. The kitchen turned into a battlefield of simmering pots and clanging metal. The air grew thick with heat and the scent of roasting stag. This wasn't just food; this was a performance. A declaration of power. And the cake, pristine and towering, would be its crown.
Olivia imagined the grand hall, glittering with noble eyes, the Alpha's new daughter-in-law, Jennifer, radiant in her silks, sitting beside her own child. She saw the Alpha himself, his cold eyes, Andrew, the father, a phantom presence she dared not acknowledge. They would sit at the high table, celebrating their bloodline, their status, their control.