He opened the door for her, stepping aside as she passed through. "Why, thank you, Igor," she said with that same grace that set her apart from the rest of her family.

  They walked in silence down the grand staircase that led to the dining room. The familiar aromas of the morning meal wafted up to meet them—warm biscuits, sizzling bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice. Igor's stomach clenched with hunger, but he'd learned long ago to ignore it. Servants ate last, if at all.

  The dining room gleamed with polished silver and fine china, a feast laid out upon the long mahogany table. Golden southern biscuits steamed in a covered basket at the center, surrounded by small dishes of jam, honey, and butter. Plates of crispy bacon rested nearby, filling the room with their tempting scent. Pitchers of milk and orange juice stood ready for pouring, and individually crafted omelets waited at each place setting, protected by silver domes.

  Maisie took her customary seat at the far right edge of the table, adjusting her posture with the unconscious perfection of someone raised in luxury. Igor pulled out her chair, then stepped back to his station against the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

  A human maid approached, her movements deferential. "Mistress Maisie, would you care for some coffee and milk?"

  "Yes, please, with two spoons of sugar," Maisie replied.

  "Of course, Mistress, right away," the maid hurried off.

  Igor stepped forward. "If I may inquire, Mistress, what would you like to eat?"

  "I'll have a biscuit with a dab of butter and honey on each half, and four pieces of bacon," she said, her attention already drifting to the door where her parents would soon appear.

  "Yes, Mistress." Igor moved to prepare her plate, his movements precise and practiced.

  Each dish on the table was a torment to his hungry senses—the rich aroma of butter melting into warm bread, the savory scent of perfectly cooked bacon. If fortune favored him, there might be leftovers after the family finished. Otherwise, it would be tasteless oatmeal or dry toast for the servants, washed down with water from the tap.

  He lifted the silver dome protecting Maisie's omelet, setting it aside with practiced care. Using silver tongs, he selected a biscuit from the basket and placed it on her plate, followed by four strips of bacon arranged in a neat row beside it.

  "Here is your meal, Mistress," he said, placing the plate before her.

  As Igor stepped back after placing her breakfast, Maisie caught his gaze, her expression softening just for a moment. “Thank you, Igor,” she said, her voice low, almost tentative, as if she sensed the tension between them, though she couldn't name it. The words were simple, but they felt heavy, loaded with a weight he didn’t know how to bear. He stood frozen for just a second, unsure how to respond.

  He had been thanked before, but never like this. It was almost as if she knew—knew the burden of his servitude, knew what it cost him to be polite, to submit, to never ask for anything in return. She didn't ask for his gratitude, and for a brief moment, it seemed that she might mean it. But that couldn’t be right. Compassion was a luxury she could afford, but not one that could survive the world they both lived in.

  He lowered his gaze, his body stiffening instinctively. “You’re welcome, Mistress,” he said, the words slipping from his lips like a well-practiced mantra. His heartbeat quickened, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Was she trying to see him? Or was this just another moment in her life, one of many that would pass as quickly as the last? He couldn’t allow himself to hope, to believe that her words meant more than the obligatory thanks that he had grown so used to.

  Maisie, for her part, didn’t seem to notice the shifting tension in him. She only smiled briefly before returning her attention to her plate. But Igor couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes lingered on him, just a fraction of a second longer than usual. It might have been nothing. He was overthinking it, as usual. She was just a privileged girl, raised to be polite. The kind of girl who didn’t even have to think about what it meant to be in his position.

  Maisie stirred honey into her biscuit absently, her gaze drifting to Igor, where he stood—rigid and quiet, as if carved from shadow. His posture was flawless, almost militaristic, but she noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his wings were clamped too tightly to his back as if even existing in the open air required permission. The collar at his throat blinked with a slow, pulsing red. She had never worn anything around her neck that hummed with threat. The thought unsettled her, as did the way he never looked her directly in the eye for more than a second at a time.

  She was no fool. She knew that the rules—the hierarchy—were designed to keep men like him in his place. Her father often spoke of “necessary order,” of the natural structure that upheld society. But Maisie had long begun to wonder what exactly was being upheld. Every time Igor bowed, every time he addressed her as "Mistress" with that measured restraint, she felt a growing discomfort settle under her skin. Was it kindness to smile at him? To speak gently? Or was it merely the illusion of compassion, painted over the bones of a broken system? She wasn’t sure anymore.

  The dining room doors opened again, admitting Mr. and Mrs. Lennox. They moved to their places at opposite ends of the table with the coordinated precision of dancers who had long since tired of their routine.

  Maisie sat horizontally near the head of the dining table, her back straight, her hands folded delicately before her, as if every gesture were being silently measured. The room was quiet except for the faint scrape of silverware against porcelain. Her father sat at the far end, his posture rigid, eyes buried in a report that Maisie knew he wasn’t reading. He rarely looked at her directly anymore, as if they were both pretending to exist in the same space but not occupying it. The walls between them were built of years of silence, their connection like a fading echo of what could have been.

  Maisie studied him for a moment—his sharp features, the lines around his eyes that seemed to deepen with every passing year. There was a time, long ago, when she would have sought his approval, when she had hoped for a fraction of his attention, but that hope had slowly eroded. In its place was something darker, an understanding that no matter what she did, she would always be a tool, an asset in his eyes. It wasn’t so much hatred as it was a slow, hollow resignation. She would never be what he wanted, nor would he ever be the father she needed.

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  And yet, despite it all, Maisie remained by his side, following the same protocols, maintaining the family’s fa?ade of unity. Maybe she had fooled herself into believing that one day, somehow, she would gain his favor—though she knew, deep down, it was a hopeless pursuit. Her eyes flickered to Igor for a brief second before she quickly turned away. There was something about him—his loyalty, his unwavering servitude—that unsettled her. She had been trained to ignore that part of herself, the part that recognized the unfairness, the cruelty beneath their family’s polished surface. But there was no denying it. Unlike her father, Igor never pretended that he could escape the chains that bound him. And maybe, in the silence of the mansion, that made him seem more real.

  Mr. Harry Lennox was absorbed in his advanced smartphone, seamlessly integrated into his reading glasses. His blue suit was impeccably tailored, his white shirt crisp and spotless, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. He shared Maisie's hazel eyes and facial structure, though his hair was short and dark, meticulously styled to project authority and success.

  Across from him, Mrs. Lennox clutched a small powder mirror, scrutinizing her reflection with far more interest than she'd ever shown in any of the servants. Her green eyes, enhanced with blue eyeshadow, darted constantly between her mirror and the room around her. Her blonde hair bounced in perfect ringlets with every movement of her head.

  "I'll have what Maisie is having, and so will my wife," Mr. Lennox said without looking up from his device, his voice flat and impersonal.

  "Right away, sir," Igor replied, moving to prepare two more plates.

  The heavy silence that permeated the dining room seemed to press down on Igor's shoulders, more burdensome than the weight of his wings. Mrs. Lennox powdered her face between mechanical bites of food. Mr. Lennox's voice created a monotonous backdrop as he dictated instructions into his device.

  "Mary, get my papers together. Yes, they're on the computer. Print them out and put them in a folder for me. Thank you."

  No acknowledgment of the person on the other end, no warmth in his tone. Business, always business.

  The stillness was broken by the arrival of Maisie's brothers, entering from different directions as if to avoid encountering each other.

  Dash breezed into the dining room, loud and unfocused, his presence unsettling the stillness like a storm rolling in. At 18, he was every bit the product of his environment—careless, spoiled, and convinced that everything in his life was for him to take without question. His messy blonde hair, styled in a way that seemed both deliberate and distracted, was the least noticeable thing about him. His green eyes darted around the room, never lingering too long on anything, least of all Igor.

  "What's for breakfast?" he asked without preamble, ignoring the servant’s bow and the formalities that Igor dutifully maintained. His words, casual and commanding, revealed his unspoken belief that everyone around him existed to serve his whims.

  Maisie shot him a glance, a mix of exasperation and weary affection, but Dash was already focused on his phone, tapping away in a blur of motion. He never quite understood the weight of the world outside his self-contained universe—he was a young man with privilege and wealth, but he lacked the awareness to realize how that privilege came at the cost of others’ suffering. Dash's jokes were always at someone else’s expense, his laughter easy and loud, but it was Igor, standing quietly in the corner, who was always the punchline.

  "Did you hear about the new shipment of Alucards at the market?" Dash asked absently, as if discussing merchandise. "They’re real cheap this time of year."

  Igor's stomach tightened at the mention of his kind—this was how Dash spoke of them, as though they were commodities to be bought, sold, or discarded. Maisie stiffened, her eyes flicking to Igor, but she said nothing. Dash didn’t notice. He never did. To him, the world was a playground, and the lives of people like Igor were just part of the scenery, like the servers at a high-end restaurant or the cleaners in a hotel.

  Leo shuffled in last, his gaze fixed on the floor as if avoiding any confrontation with the world around him. Despite his 30 years, he carried himself with a heaviness that made him seem older, worn down by something invisible yet undeniable. The moment he entered, there was a shift in the air, a certain tension that didn't quite belong. He was the eldest, but in all the years he’d lived under this roof, he never quite felt like a true son of the Lennox family.

  His amber eyes, dull and listless, mirrored the emptiness he sometimes felt inside. Harry Lennox, his "adopted" father, never acknowledged the delicate balance that held their family together—the affair, the secret of Leo's true father, an Alucard whose very existence was considered an embarrassment by the man who had raised him. Leo's bloodline was an inconvenient truth that no one spoke about, not even Maisie, who was too young to understand the unspoken layers of shame that clung to him like a second skin.

  As he slumped into his seat, his fingers lingered over his coffee cup, but he didn't drink. He never did. Instead, his mind was consumed with the gnawing question of who he was—a Lennox by name, but not by blood. A product of an affair, a reminder of his mother's choices, and a half-blood who was constantly reminded that no matter how well he dressed or how much he tried to succeed, he would never truly belong.

  The Lennox family epitomized new money, their fortune built on technological innovations and, more significantly, the exploitation of Alucard labor. They had profited handsomely from the system that kept Igor and his kind in chains.

  Yet Maisie seemed cut from a different cloth. From conversations Igor had overheard, he knew she harbored ambitions beyond maintaining the status quo. She wanted to study Political Science, to challenge the shadow organizations that perpetuated Alucard slavery. She had already earned an associate's degree in Humanities and was working toward her bachelor's, staying with her family not out of necessity but out of comfort and habit.

  As Igor watched her eat in silence, occasionally glancing at her phone, he wondered if her apparent compassion was genuine or merely a different form of self-interest. Could a human truly understand what it meant to be property? Could anyone born into such privilege ever truly see beyond it?

  The collar at Igor's throat hummed softly, a reminder, should he ever forget, of exactly what he was and would always be in this world. A servant. A possession.

  And yet, as Maisie raised her eyes briefly to meet his gaze, something passed between them.

  The conversation had ended, leaving a lingering silence in the air, thick with words unspoken. Maisie had turned to leave, her hand brushing against the cool, polished surface of the wall as she made her way to the door. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly in the grand hallway, but just before she stepped out of the room, she paused.

  Her gaze flickered back to Igor, who stood by the window, his posture stiff and his face carefully neutral. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Maisie’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch and bend around them. It wasn’t the usual fleeting glance between master and servant, something more raw and real passed between them, something they hadn’t acknowledged before. It was a silent acknowledgment of the weight between them—the unspoken history, the uncharted future, the growing tension that neither of them had quite figured out how to navigate.

  Igor’s heart thudded in his chest, though his face remained unreadable. He had seen that look in her eyes before, but this time it held a different weight. Was it a flicker of understanding? Of empathy? Or was it just the impossible hope he clung to, the hope that one day, they might be more than just this—master and servant? His mind spun, grasping for meaning, but the seconds stretched on like hours. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure if it was the pull of her gaze that held him in place or something deeper, something more dangerous, something he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge.

  Maisie, too, felt the shift. Her chest tightened as she held his stare for just a beat longer than necessary. There was something sad in his eyes—something that spoke of a world she didn’t fully understand, something that made her feel a pang of guilt. But what was it? The realization that he was more than just a servant, more than just Igor the Alucard—he was a person with a life she had never truly considered. His presence, once so familiar and secondary to her, now felt like an uncharted territory she was both drawn to and terrified of exploring.

  She tore her gaze away first, the moment ending as quickly as it had begun, but its weight hung in the air, unresolved. She didn't know what it meant, but she felt it.