I cried every night that first month. Quietly, into my pillow, so the maids wouldn’t hear.
I cried for my lost freedom. I cried for the life I’d planned. I cried because, deep down, I was ashamed of how much I hated my father, and how much I still loved him.
But I never cried because of Don Baste.
That was the strange part. Despite the cruelty, despite the commands and the cold stares, I could not bring myself to hate him. Because even in the middle of his harshest orders, I caught glimpses of something that didn’t fit.
His hands, when I fed him, were trembling, but not with weakness. With tension, like a man bracing for a blow.
His eyes, when the guests laughed at him, were not angry. They were tired.
And when he thought I wasn’t looking, his gaze followed me with a look I couldn’t name.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It was waiting.
