Choosing Austin's True Love

The crystal glasses gleamed under the chandelier light as I carefully arranged them on the silver tray. Each one had to be perfectly positioned—not too close, not too far apart. Mr. Wallace was particular about these things. Tonight was his birthday, and everything had to be flawless.

I smoothed down my plain black dress, the fabric worn thin at the elbows from years of scrubbing and cleaning. It was the nicest one I owned, though it paled in comparison to what the other guests would be wearing.

"The napkins should be folded like this, Kenna," I whispered to myself, demonstrating the intricate fold Mr. Wallace preferred. "Not like that."

Three years. Three years since he'd saved me from that terrible night. Three years of cooking his meals, washing his clothes, warming his bed, and following him around like a shadow. I'd given everything to him, held nothing back. Surely tonight he would notice. Surely tonight he would see how much I loved him.

The doorbell rang at precisely eight o'clock. I hurried to answer it, smoothing my hair back with trembling fingers.

"Mr. Harrison, Mr. Blackwood, welcome," I said, stepping aside to let them enter.

They barely glanced at me, their eyes already scanning the room for Royce. "Where's the birthday boy?" Mr. Harrison asked, handing me his coat as if I were the hired help rather than the woman who shared Royce's bed.

"In the study. He'll be out soon," I replied, taking their coats and draping them carefully over the chair by the door.

More guests arrived—business associates, wealthy friends, all with their partners dressed in designer clothes that made me feel even more invisible. I moved among them like a ghost, serving drinks, taking coats, adjusting the temperature when someone complained it was too cold.

Then she arrived.

Lilly Graham swept in like a vision in a crimson dress that hugged every curve, her blonde hair cascading down her back in perfect waves. Royce emerged from his study immediately, as if drawn by some invisible force.

"Lilly," he said, his voice warmer than I'd ever heard it. "You came."

"Of course I did," she purred, placing her manicured hand on his arm. "How could I miss your birthday?"

I felt myself shrinking into the background as Royce guided her to the seat at his right hand—the place of honor. The place where I usually sat when we ate alone.

Dinner was served. I'd spent hours preparing Royce's favorite dishes—beef Wellington, roasted vegetables with herbs from the garden, and a chocolate soufflé that took three attempts to get right.

"Pass the wine, girl," Mr. Blackwood said, not even looking at me as I stood behind his chair.

"Kenna," Royce corrected absently, though he didn't meet my eyes either. "Her name is Kenna."

"Right," Mr. Blackwood nodded. "No ice in my whiskey next time, Kenna."

I nodded, swallowing the humiliation. "Of course, sir."

Lilly picked at her food delicately. "The presentation is... quaint," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Though I've always found that simple dishes are better left to simpler tables."

Royce chuckled, not defending me or my efforts.

As the night wore on, I moved silently around the table, refilling glasses, removing plates, replacing forks when they were dropped. No one seemed to notice my existence except when something wasn't quite right.

"The gravy is a bit lumpy," Royce commented, frowning at his plate.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, taking the dish. "I'll fix it."

Hours later, when most guests had gone and only a few lingered in the study with Royce, I began cleaning up. The kitchen was a mess of dirty dishes and empty bottles. My hands were raw from scrubbing, but I kept working. It was nearly midnight when I heard voices from the study—loud, drunken laughter.

"She's so fucking obedient," Royce's voice carried through the partially open door. "Ask her to do anything, and she does it with that pathetic grateful look."

My hands stilled on the dish towel. Something cold settled in my stomach.

"What about when you're not asking nicely?" someone else slurred.

"That's the best part," Royce laughed, the sound cutting through me like glass. "She thinks I'm going to fall in love with her someday. Can you imagine?"

More laughter.

"What do you do with her when you're bored?" another voice asked.

"I might share her around," Royce said casually, as if discussing a car or a watch. "She's my little plaything. So eager to please."

The dish towel slipped from my fingers. The world tilted sideways as three years of devotion crumbled into dust.

Plaything.

The word echoed in my head as I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Everything I'd given him—my body, my heart, my dignity—had been nothing but entertainment.

I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle the sob building in my throat. In that moment, something inside me finally broke free.