Ordered To Serve His Mistress: Heiress's Revenge

The lock bolted shut with a final, heavy thud. The metallic sound ricocheted off the stainless steel appliances, sealing us in. Jaden stared at the pot of boiling water where her phone was sizzling into silence. "You're dead," she hissed at me, her voice trembling with rage. "Connor is going to kill you." I ignored her. Reaching beneath the stained fabric of my apron, I withdrew my burner phone. I dialed one number. It rang once. "Report," a deep, gravelly voice answered. Instant. Alert. David Shaw. My father. "Code Black," I said. The line went silent for a heartbeat, the air shifting on the other end. "Location?" "The Gilded Cage. Kitchen." "Status?" "Hostile civilian. Personnel compromised. Treaty violated." "Are you hurt?" I looked down at my hand, watching the angry red welt forming. "Yes." "The Wolves are en route," he said, his tone clipped. "Five minutes." "I want Connor here," I said. "And I want Lina with the papers." "Principessa," my father said, his voice softening with a lethal, terrifying promise. "Burn it down." I severed the connection. I turned to face the room. The line cooks were frozen, statues in grease-stained whites. Mark was banging on the kitchen door from the outside, throwing his weight against the metal. "Open this door!" Mark yelled. "Start praying, Mark," I said to the vibrating steel. Jaden laughed. It was a brittle, high-pitched sound that cracked under pressure. "Who do you think you are?" she asked, sneering. "Calling your daddy? Does he drive a truck?" "He drives the city," I said. I walked over to the prep table, moving with a calm that unsettled them. Austin was watching me. He didn't look confused. He looked like a man who finally remembered a ghost. He grabbed a clean towel, filled it with crushed ice, and handed it to me. "For the hand," he said softly. "Thank you," I said. "Code Black," Austin murmured, his eyes distant. "Haven't heard that since the '98 war." I looked at him sharply. "You're not just a cook." "And you're not just a waitress," he replied. We understood each other. Soldiers recognize their own. Suddenly, the banging on the door stopped. A commotion erupted outside. Shouting. The rhythmic thud of heavy tactical boots. Then, absolute silence. The kitchen doors swung open. Connor Bishop burst in. He was sweating, a sheen of panic on his brow. His tie was crooked, yanked loose in haste. He looked wild-eyed. "What is going on?" he screamed. "Why are there Shaw soldiers surrounding my club?" Jaden ran to him, clutching his arm. "Baby! She threw my phone in the water! She's crazy!" Connor pushed her aside without glancing at her. He was looking at me. He was looking at the way I stood, spine straight, chin high. The way I held myself. I reached behind my back and untied the apron. I let the dirty fabric drop to the floor. It landed in a puddle of dirty water with a wet slap. I smoothed my black dress. "You failed," I said again. Connor blinked, disoriented. "Failed what?" "The Test." Behind him, the doors opened wider. Lina walked in. She was my father's Consigliere. She was wearing a sharp white suit and holding a black leather folder, a vision of corporate lethality. Two armed soldiers flanked her. They wore the Shaw crest gleaming on their lapels. Lina didn't look at Connor. She walked straight to me. "Principessa," she said, bowing her head slightly. Connor went pale. All the blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen. He looked from Lina to me, the realization crashing over him. "Principessa?" he whispered. "No. You're... you're Bella." "I am Blake Shaw," I said, my voice ringing in the silence. "And you just ordered me to kneel." Lina handed me the folder. I took it with my good hand. I threw it at Connor's feet. It landed with a heavy slap. "Now," I said. "You crawl."