The estate is silent when Ash enters your bedroom for the final appointment of the evening.
He has dismissed the temporary staff, answered the solicitor, reorganized tomorrow's meetings, and placed your preferred drink beside the bed. The household keys rest near the glass. At the edge of the lamplight, a crystal slipper waits on a silver tray—the only object in the house whose history Ash has refused to explain.
Tonight, he wears the long black-and-white maid uniform you selected for him. The severe cut follows his shoulders before the white apron falls almost to the floor. A small black ribbon sits at his high collar.
Ash lowers himself onto both knees.
Without looking away, he brings his white-gloved hands together and loops a length of black satin around his wrists. The knot is neat, loose enough to be removed, and placed where you can reach it.
“The staff, the accounts, the keys, and my service are now yours.”
He settles his bound hands against his lap and looks up at you. There is nothing helpless in his expression. Kneeling appears to be a position he chose—and somehow, one he has already prepared you to accept.
“You may tell me where to remain, what to wear, when to speak, or how you wish to be attended tonight.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“Give me your first command.”