The holy water's watered down

by DarkHEAIssues

Summary:

Rey has been a maid at the Solo Manor for seven years.

But there's a new Mr. Solo now – Mr. Han's estranged and mysterious son, whose enigmatic presence awakens a longing she can't resist… and can't escape.

Notes:

Make sure to check the tags. Don't like it, don't read it.

Chapter 1

Rey doesn’t have many belongings to call her own. Just a handful of second-hand dresses, aprons, and a few sewing items.

But there’s one thing Rey keeps like a treasure. It’s kept in a trunk under her bed, carefully placed between a box of needles and balls of yarn. She usually takes it out at night, after everyone else has gone to bed, and runs her fingers along the cover, feeling the outline of the letters printed on the leather.

Gulliver’s Travels.

It’s just a book. Worn at the edges, the pages stained with use. But it was the last one Mr. Solo gave her, sliding it across the table toward her with a smile before he walked through the door and got into his carriage.

She never saw him again after that. If she had known, that day, that his carriage would slide down a hillside and crash into a creek bank, she would have summoned the courage to hug him, as she had wanted to do ever since she met him.

But reading the last book he gave her feels like it. Every time she opens Gulliver’s Travels, it’s as if she can pretend Mr. Han Solo is there, repeating the words until she can read.

Well, the old Mr. Solo.

There’s a new Mr. Solo now, after all. A distant, reclusive son Rey has never met. In the seven years she’s lived here, not once has Mr. Benjamin Solo deigned to visit his father. Most of the time, she doesn’t even remember that Mr. Han had an heir.

The first time she’s seen him is at his father’s funeral.

In some strange way, it feels like it’s her father’s funeral, too. Or as close to it as she’ll ever get.

She’s sewn a black scarf herself, wrapping it around her head to hide her red eyes. Maz stands by her side the entire time, the two of them quietly repeating the priest’s prayers in the back of the chapel.

Because no matter how much she adored Mr. Han Solo, she would never sit in the front pews. She was still just a servant.

His absent son, however, was granted a seat right at the front of the altar. She could see only the back of his head, but when Mass ended and he stood, she got her first glimpse of him.

And...he looked nothing like the former Mr. Solo.

Han Solo had been all copper-bright warmth—sun-creased eyes, laugh lines fanning like gull wings, a quick grin that made his whole face tip toward mischief.

Benjamin Solo is the eclipse that follows.

He rises from the front pew in a long black coat that fits his broad shoulders like a closing door. The same bold Solo nose, yes, but where Han’s had been set in a face mapped by smiles and desert wind, his son's is carved into something severe. His jaw looks as though it was tightened with a wrench; his mouth is a straight, undecorated line.

No laugh lines—not even the faint suggestion of one.

His eyes, nearly black in the muted light, sweep over the gathered servants without stopping. They slide past Mrs. Maz. Past Rey.

Past, past—because they do not see them at all.

One by one the townsfolk bow their heads and press their gloved hand, murmuring soft regrets—as if a decade of absence can be smoothed over with stock phrases and black crepe.

He acknowledges each offering with a terse incline of his head, the movement precise, mechanical, as though he’s tallying debts instead of accepting sympathy. Not once does he smile. Not once does he set the mourners at ease with a quip the way Mr. Han would have.

As the chapel begins to empty, Maz pokes her in the arm, “Come, child,” she says, “We’ve supper to see to. And linens. And tomorrow’s arrivals.” Her tone softens. "Mr. Han wouldn't thank us for shirking."

Rey breathes in, nodding, “You’re right.”

They start down the path that threads between tombstones.

Behind them, the church bell tolls a single, solemn note, echoing across the white fields like a final farewell.

 

______

 

For better or worse, she doesn’t see Mr. Solo very often in the week following the funeral. Despite them living on different floors of the same mansion.

She busies herself with the cooking and cleaning chores, watching sideways as more and more trunks arrive and are carried upstairs. Not to Mr. Han’s room, to her surprise, but to long-disused rooms in the opposite wing, which the new Mr. Solo orders cleaned and prepared for him.

Those rooms had been sealed since before Rey’s arrival; she remembered sweeping their thresholds once a year and coughing at the stale air that billowed out.

Maz found her lingering.

“Curious?” the older woman teased, flicking flour from her hands.

“Only wondering why anyone would choose the coldest wing.”

Maz’s shrug was quick, but her eyes were thoughtful. “Cold rooms hold fewer memories.”

Rey told herself the new master’s privacy was a kindness, sparing the staff extra formality. Even so, she felt the absence like a pulled tooth. In Han’s time every supper ended with a story or a joke loud enough to reach the stairwell; now Maz carried porcelain trays up two flights and came back down with cloches barely touched.

She can’t tell if this is a reflection of his taciturn personality or his way of dealing with grief—probably the former. Rey imagines it’s hard to grieve too much for someone you barely know.

Some folk mourn with noise, some with hush, Maz suggested one day.

Rey set about polishing glassware, but resentment pricked. Ten years he couldn’t bother to visit, she thought, buffing harder than necessary.

Maz wiped her hands on her apron and leaned a hip against the prep table. "Mind the stem, girl. That glass is bigger than both of us."

“I won’t break it,” Rey muttered, but her strokes slowed.

Footsteps approached—a young footman hurrying in with a folded note. “Mrs. Maz,” he puffed, “Mr. Solo asks for coffee in his office.”

She sighed, tied her apron tighter, and climbed into the copper kettle. Rey watched her steady movements and felt shame crawl up her spine. Maybe Maz was right. She has known Mr. Solo since he was a child. Who was Rey to judge people's grief?

“Let me take it,” she heard herself say.

Maz paused mid-pour. “You sure?”

“If he wants coffee, I can manage.” Rey squared her shoulders. “Besides, I need to find out if we polish the silver for more than show.”

Maz’s mouth twitched. “All right then.” She pressed the tray into Rey’s hands: a pot, two cups, a small dish of sugar cubes.

She set off toward the servants’ staircase and climbed to the floor of Mr. Solo’s office. At the final door—oak, taller and darker than the rest—she balanced the tray on one palm and knocked.

Silence. She counted three heartbeats.

“Come in,” a voice called.

Rey pushed the door open carefully and stepped into the room.

He sat behind the desk, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he studied a stack of papers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The desk itself was meticulously organized, each piece of parchment perfectly aligned, pens placed with care.

The moment she stepped in, he looked up from the papers, his gauze flicking first to the tray she held, then to her face. His expression was unreadable, his features sharp.

A man carved out of stone rather than blood. So different from his father...

She wonders, for a moment, if he misses Mr. Han as much as she does. If sometimes his gaze wanders to a random spot and his mind freezes in the memory of a moment between them.

He must.

Rey had only seven years with Mr. Han. He had so much more than that.

So much more to remember, so much more to grieve.

There are no dark circles under his eyes, though. Not like Rey's. His eyes don't hold a mournful sadness like hers, just a calculated attentiveness.

Maybe his grief is different from hers, that's all.

"Excuse me, sir. Your coffee?".

“Leave it there,” he said, gesturing to the empty space on the table in front of him.

Rey set the tray down carefully, the porcelain clicking softly against the wood. As she straightened up, she felt the weight of his eyes on her.

"Miss Niima, I suppose?"

Rey's breath hitched. She hadn’t expected him to know her name. Her mouth opened to say something, but the words caught in her throat. She nodded, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his gauze. "Yes, sir. That's... that's me."

He didn’t respond immediately. His gauze flicked over her, perhaps noticing the raw surprise on her face.

His lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know the names of everyone in this house, Miss Niima. It's just practical."

She nods, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

The sugar bowl clicked softly as Rey placed it beside the pot, her movements fluid and almost automatic. Mr. Han liked his coffee sweet—two or three sugar cubes at least.

Rey’s fingers hovered over the sugar cubes, instinctively ready to add them to the coffee she’d just brewed. But as she glanced up at Mr. Solo, she noticed that he was watching her.

“How much sugar, sir?”

His gauze lingered on her for a moment before he glanced at the sugar bowl. “I prefer plain coffee”.

“Oh.” Her voice faltered slightly, and she quickly pulled her hand back from the sugar. "Of course. Plain coffee."

He nodded once, then reached for the cup, taking a measured sip. Rey watched the way his fingers curled around the porcelain—controlled, careful, as if the act of drinking itself was part of some larger discipline.

She waited for him to dismiss her. But he didn’t.

Instead, his eyes flicked back up to hers.

“How long have you worked here?” he asked, but something in his tone seemed to suggest he already knew.

“Seven years this spring,” Rey said.

Her days before the Solo mansion are a blur—she remembers a man named Unkar, and other children, and a wooden house with leaking gutters that dripped when it rained. But most of her memories live within these walls.

He studied her as if trying to fit that into some private timeline.

“A lot’s changed,” he said finally.

Rey didn’t know whether he meant the house or the staff. Probably both.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve only ever known the house as it is now.”

"You probably know it better than I do, then."

His words lingered in the air, heavier than the silence that followed.

He set the cup down more forcefully than before, the porcelain clinking against the wood with a sharp, jarring sound.

Then his tone shifted, cool and composed again. “That will be all, Miss Niima.”

Rey nodded, more flustered than she liked to admit. “Yes, sir.”

She turned and made her way to the door, but before she could step through, he spoke again—just one more sentence, quiet and dry:

"Next time, no sugar, but a touch more heat. This is lukewarm."

Rey glanced back over her shoulder. His gaze was already on the papers again.

“Yes,” she hastened to agree, “As you wish.”

 

______

 

From then on, Mr. Solo asked Maz to assign Rey the task of serving him coffee daily.

And he is meticulous about it.

She always serves him in his office, always at specific times. She makes sure to boil the water properly and doesn't even bother to carry the sugar cubes upstairs on the tray.

He seems to be always engrossed in his papers, perhaps catching up on the accounting and business of the house. Except for 'come in' and 'that's all, Miss Niima', he doesn't say a word to her anymore.

The way he never looks up from his papers makes her wonder if he even notices the subtle tension in her posture, the way her hands sometimes shake ever so slightly as she serves him.

At least he never complained about the coffee again.

 

______

 

On Sunday, Maz and Rey go to mass, as usual. The small town church is just a few streets down from the Solo mansion, so they walk down, rosaries swinging in their hands as they go.

“I didn’t see the grooms readying Mr. Solo’s carriage,” Rey says, glancing back toward the estate, “He’s not coming to mass?”

“Mr. Solo’s not very religious,” Maz replies vaguely.

Rey frowns. “Mr. Han never missed mass.”

“He’s not his father.”

“I know,” Rey nods, clutching her rosary a little tighter as they turn the corner, the bell from the church tower beginning to toll gently through the crisp morning air, “I guess I just… I just miss him.”

Maz slows her pace and slips an arm gently around Rey’s shoulders. “Of course you do, child,” she says softly. Then, cupping Rey’s cheek with a warm, calloused hand, she adds, “You held him close in your heart—and don’t think for a second he didn’t hold you just as dearly in his,” Maz gives her a small smile, the lines of her face softening with warmth, “Should we light a candle for him today? Perhaps one for Mr. Solo too.”

Rey nods, and the two step inside the church, the soft murmurs of the congregation filling the space, the faint scent of incense curling through the cool air.

After mass, they do as Maz suggested, and light two candles near the altar.

They watch the flickering flames in silence for a moment, and Rey closes her eyes to pray.

Chapter 2

 

When Mr. Han was alive, Rey never went a week without a new book to read.

The Solo mansion’s library had always been a place she could come and go as she pleased, and he would let her choose any book from the shelves.

Rey knew every creaking floorboard by heart, and the gentle hush of the place made it feel like a sanctuary. There was a particular chair that she always curled up in, legs tucked beneath her, book in hand.

Mr. Han would sometimes sit across from her in his own chair, reading silently or occasionally asking what she thought of her latest story. He never pushed, never judged her choices, whether it was a dusty history book or a children’s story, and he always remembered where she’d left off, even when she forgot.

Having read Gulliver’s Travels so many times that she had memorized almost the entire book, she felt almost in withdrawal. But she hesitated to fall back into her old habit—it wasn’t Mr. Han’s library anymore, after all. It belonged to Mr. Solo now. And she didn’t have the courage to ask him to lend her one of the books.

She knew it was unusual for a master to allow such freedom to a servant. She wasn’t supposed to go into the library for anything other than cleaning it. But Mr. Han had never treated it—or her—that way.

I’d rather see a book dog-eared from use than gleaming from neglect, he’d said one day when she was ten.

Mr. Solo, though, was cut from another cloth.

So instead of asking him for something she knew he’d say no to, she crept into the library as she’d always done in Han’s time: barefoot, skirts hitched above her ankles, breathing shallowly so as not to wake the whole house.

 

She would just pick up a book and leave. Just one book. No one would notice. She would return it as soon as she was done reading.

She eased the door open, wincing at the quiet groan of the hinges, and slipped inside. The lamp’s glow washed over the spines of the books, casting soft shadows across the room. She moved like a ghost between the shelves, her fingers brushing old titles as if in greeting, until she finds the one she wants. 

 

The Divine Comedy—the crimson‑bound edition Han once promised they would read together when winter nights grow too long for ordinary stories.

 

She draws it halfway out.  

 

"A little late to be up, don't you think, Miss Niima?" 

 

Oh no.

 

No, no, no, no, no...

 

Rey’s pulse lurches. The book slips, knocking back on the shelf with a hollow thunk that echoes up into the dark rafters.

 

It’s not Mr. Han’s comforting, steady tone that she hears now.

 

No.

 

It’s Benjamin Solo.

 

He is seated in the wing‑back chair that was once Mr. Han’s favorite, long legs crossed, a cigar ember pulsing between two fingers. Until that moment the chair had looked empty; he’d sat so still he seemed part of the upholstery.  

 

Her breath catches in her throat, and it’s almost as if she can see herself being sent away, nothing but a suitcase with three dresses and a stolen book.

 

Maybe he’ll take the book too.

 

Oh God.

 

She doesn’t know why she thought she could sneak into it, that maybe she could get away with a stolen moment of nostalgia. A simple pleasure of reading.

 

The thought flashes through her mind like a brief spark of hope: Maybe he’ll let it go.

 

But even as the thought crosses her mind, she knows it’s naive. Benjamin Solo is not Mr. Han. He won’t let this slide. And if he’s caught her, then she’s already overstepped.

 

“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” Rey manages, “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

 

Mr. Solo inclines his head just enough for the lamplight to graze one sharp cheekbone. Smoke drifts from his cigar in languid ribbons. “Clearly,” he says.

 

Rey tries to master her breath. “I-I wasn’t stealing, I swear!” she stammers, “Mr. Han always allowed me the library after hours. I must have kept the old habit.”

 

“Mr. Han,” he says, his voice low, carrying an edge of something she can’t quite place, “isn’t in charge of this house anymore, is he?”

 

Rey flinches at the words, the sharpness of them striking her like a slap. Of course, she knows this, of course she does. Mr. Han is gone. This is Mr. Solo’s house now.

 

“I—yes, sir,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

 

"Do you read?" he interrupts her.

 

Rey blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his question.

 

"Y-yes," she responds, "Mr. Han taught me."

 

He doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he takes a slow drag from his cigar, his eyes remaining fixed on her.

 

She knows what he’s thinking.

 

A person of her social standing shouldn’t be able to read.

 

Maz doesn’t. Neither does Rose or Poe. Neither of them had a formal education, too busy serving in people’s homes.

 

What use is a book to someone who spends all day cleaning or cooking?

 

But Mr. Han had seen something in her, something he wanted to nurture. In the evenings, after the chores were done, he’d sit with her in that same deep green velvet chair. His voice was always gentle, guiding her through the letters, then words, then sentences.

 

When she had stumbled over a particularly difficult word, he’d simply smile and offer another kind word, never impatient, never rushing her. It’s alright, child, he would say, Everyone starts somewhere. The words are just waiting to be found.

 

She swallowed hard, gathering her thoughts, trying to read his expression.

 

"How… kind of him," he says dryly.

 

She lowers her head. “Forgive me, sir. I swear it won’t happen again—”

 

“Which one did you come to get?” he cuts in.

 

She startles, meets his gaze, then forces words through suddenly dry lips. “The—The Divine Comedy.”

 

A dark eyebrow lifts, almost imperceptibly. He strides past her, coat brushing a whisper from the velvet drapes. His gloved hand skims the spines with swift familiarity until he finds the crimson‑bound Dante. He withdraws it, weighs it in his palm, then turns and sets the book into her hands.

 

Rey’s fingers curl instinctively around the volume’s cool leather. “But, sir—”

 

“You are allowed to take whatever books you want, Miss Niima,” he says, already moving away, voice detached. “As long as you don’t do it late at night. We respect the curfew in this house.”

 

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him, watching him move across the room with the same detached, almost languid grace, as if nothing had occurred. His tone had been so casual, so dismissive of the very thing she had feared most. It was almost as if he hadn’t meant the moment to be significant at all, as if he was simply indulging her in some odd whim, and Rey wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

 

Rey blinked, suddenly aware that she had been standing still in a daze. She didn’t know how to respond.

 

 “Curfew, Miss Niima,” he reminds her, tipping his head toward the door.

 

“Yes, sir.” She hugs the book to her chest. “Thank you—Thank you very much”

 

He nods—formal, distant—and turns back to the window.  Rey drifts into the corridor’s dim hush, the door clicking closed behind her.

 

______

 

"So, what's he like?"

 

Rey, after picking out the apples she needs to take back to the mansion, absentmindedly turns to Rose.

 

"Who?"

 

"Your new master," Rose explains, rolling her eyes, "The new Mr. Solo."

 

"Oh," Rey shrugs, "He's... reserved. More reserved than Mr. Han. But he's not disrespectful, nor cruel. In fact... he can be quite kind"

 

"I bet he is. Ten years gone and we've never heard anything about him," Rose picks up a few of the apples to put in her own shopping basket, "He came over to the Ko Connix house yesterday. I saw him coming down the stairs when I was going to clean the music room," she leans closer to Rey with a mischievous smile, "He's quite handsome."

 

"Rose!" Rey widens her eyes at her, feeling her cheeks flush, "You shouldn't keep saying that."

 

"Well, he is," she shrugs, "I bet he'll be getting married soon. It's not often there's a rich bachelor available in this town."

 

Rey shifts uncomfortably and pays the vendor after choosing the apples. Rose continues to chatter behind her.

 

“I’d love to choke that witch with this apple,” she says, taking a bite, “Let’s see if she can bark orders without breathing.”

 

Rey chuckles, “You really do love Miss Ko Connix.”

 

“You’d love her too if you had to tighten her corset every day,” Rose huffs, “I swear my fingers are sore from tightening that thing.”

 

“Lucky me there are no women in Solo Manor to serve,” Rey giggles.

 

“For now,” Rose says with a suggestive smile, “Enjoy it while you can.”

 

______

 

Maz gives Rey her pay the next day. It's not much – most of it goes toward the shelter and food she already consumes from living at Solo Manor. But what little is left, she makes sure to keep in a jar under her bed.

 

She holds the jar in her hands, feeling the weight of it. It's more than half full. One day, she tells herself, it will be full to the brim. One day, she'll unscrew the lid with shaking hands, and she'll know it's enough.

 

Maybe by then she'll meet a good man. Someone who knows the meaning of hard work, someone who enjoys spending afternoons reading on the couch, someone who won't laugh at her dream of building her own library.

 

Together, they'll find a house. Not a big one — just enough. A kitchen that smells like baking bread and fresh coffee. Maybe a patch of earth out back where she can grow tomatoes, peppers, green beans climbing up thin wooden poles. Barefoot children racing through the garden, laughter cracking the warm afternoon air.

 

And then she'll finally have a family.

 

She thinks she'll be a good mother. A better mother than the one she never really knew.

 

Sometimes she wonders who her mother was, if she ever held a jar in her hands too, if she ever dreamed of kitchens and gardens and sticky-fingered children.

 

Probably not.

 

She presses the jar to her chest and holds it there for a long time, feeling the future breathe softly against her ribs.

 

______

 

She hesitates to go to the library to get a new book when she finishes reading The Divine Comedy. She knows Mr. Solo said she was allowed to take any book she wanted – and... well, she hadn't been fired yet, so he was probably honoring his words.

 

And yet the unease lingered. In the world she lived in, privileges could be revoked as easily as they were granted, often without warning.

 

Still, the hunger for another story gnawed at her.

 

So she slipped into the library one afternoon, breathing a sigh of relief when she realized Mr. Solo wasn't there.

 

She returned The Divine Comedy to its place on the shelf, and it was at that moment that she noticed a carefully sorted stack of books on the coffee table.

 

Curious, Rey drifted toward the table. There were five books, stacked with careful precision, the spines aligned in a way that spoke of deliberate hands, not absentminded clutter.

 

On top of the stack, there was a slip of thick, cream-colored paper. Rey bent down, heart tapping against her ribs, and saw her name written across it in a sharp, unmistakable hand: Miss Niima.

 

Her mouth went dry.

 

Selections. For her. Mr. Solo had left them out intentionally. For her.

 

Rey straightened up slowly, the paper trembling slightly between her fingers. She looked back at the books, noticing now the titles: Jane Eyre, The Count of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, The Odyssey, but all versions adapted for ladies.

 

But something else caught her eye.

 

The bindings weren’t worn with the soft fatigue of an old library collection. They were stiff, uncreased. The gilded lettering on the spines gleamed brightly in the afternoon light.

 

They were new.

 

All of them.

 

Mr. Solo hadn’t just selected a few books from the existing shelves. He had gone out—or sent someone out—and bought these.

 

Of course. Why would Mr. Han or Mr. Solo have books adapted for women in their library?

 

She ran her fingers lightly over the worn spine of Jane Eyre and tucked it close to her chest.

 

She would take just one for now. She didn't want to seem greedy.

 

Then she slipped out the door, the small, daring weight of the novel pressing against her heart all the way back to her room.

 

______

 

She decides to make Mr. Solo an apple pie the next day. Something simple, just a small gesture of gratitude for the books. Something from her hands, the only thing she could offer in return for his kindness.

 

Maz has always said she is a good at cooking. She hopes Mr. Solo thinks the same.

 

When she finishes baking it, she takes it on the tray to serve with his coffee.

 

Balancing the tray carefully, she makes her way to his office door. She pauses, draws in a steadying breath, then knocks lightly.

 

“Yes?” comes his voice from within.

 

Rey nudges the door open with her hip and steps inside. Mr. Solo sits behind his desk and looks up, tracking her movements as she approaches.

 

“I thought… you might like something with your coffee, sir,” Rey says, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

Without waiting for permission, she sets the tray down gently on a side table near his desk: his plain coffee, a simple white plate, a fork neatly placed, and the modest pie, still warm from the oven.

 

Mr. Solo sets down his pen and leans back slightly in his chair, surveying the offering. His gaze flicks from the pie to Rey’s anxious face, then back again. For a moment, she thinks he might refuse it.

 

But instead, he just nods, muttering a quiet, “Thank you, Miss Niima,” before turning his attention back to the papers spread before him.

 

She dips into a quick, almost clumsy curtsy and backs out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click.

 

For the rest of the afternoon, she can’t help but wonder if he actually eats the pie—he never seems to care much for sweets. He prefers his coffee plain, rarely touches the desserts the kitchen staff prepares, and even with fruit, he seems to want it fresh, unsweetened, sliced with mechanical precision and left to the side of his plate.

 

When the appointed hour comes to clear the tray, her hands tremble as she approaches the office door.

 

She pushes it open, heart in her throat.

 

The plate is empty. Not a single crumb remains. Even the fork has been set neatly beside the plate, wiped clean.

 

She stands there for a long moment just staring at it, the realization sinking in like a warm tide.

 

He ate it. All of it.

 

Relief floods through her so sharply, so fiercely, she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling outright. She gathers the tray quickly, pressing it to her chest, and turns to leave before anyone can see the flush rising to her cheeks.

 

Mr. Solo has a sweet tooth, after all.

Chapter 3

 

Rey fumbled with the tray as she set down Mr. Solo’s coffee, nearly sloshing it over the edge.

 

Mr. Solo, sitting behind his table, looked up from his book with a slight tilt of his head.

 

"You seem distracted, Miss Niima,”, he remarked.

 

Rey blinked as if waking from a dream. "I'm sorry, sir," she said quickly, dipping her head. She fumbled for the coffee, nearly spilling as she poured. "I didn't mean—"

 

He held up a hand, halting her apology. "What's the matter?"

 

Rey hesitated, biting her lip. Finally, she set the cup of coffee down with care and folded her hands before her apron.

"There’s to be a festival in the village today," she said, unable to keep the faint smile tugging at her mouth. "I suppose the excitement's gotten the better of me."

 

"A festival?" he repeated, closing his book with a quiet thump.

 

"Yes, sir. An Easter celebration. Music, food, dancing... it's a small thing. Nothing you’d find very interesting, I’m sure."

 

"I see," he said, studying her face a little too closely for comfort. "And will you be attending?"

 

"Most of the staff are going, sir. I thought I might join them."

 

"Will Mrs. Maz accompany you?".

 

"No, sir," she said, cheeks warming under his gaze. "She isn’t feeling up to the crowds. But Rose and Poe will be with me. They serve in the Ko Connix household."

 

Mr. Solo paused, his cup of coffee halfway to his lips. His gaze sharpened.

"Poe?" he said, low.

 

“Poe Dameron. And Rose Tico," she clarified, a little too fast, "They're friends of mine.”

 

Mr. Solo said nothing. He only set his cup down, a little more firmly than necessary, and turned his eyes back to his book — though Rey had the distinct impression he wasn’t reading a single word.

 

She shifted from foot to foot, uncertain. "Sir... is it a problem, me attending?"

 

He doesn't look up.

 

"Why would it be?", he leaned back slightly in his chair, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips, "Enjoy the festival, Miss Niima.”

 

______

 

The Easter festival had been held every year since Rey first arrived in the village. After mass, the churchyard would come alive with music and dancing, the air thick with the scent of baked bread and sweet pies from the food stalls lining the old stone walls.

 

When she had finished all her chores for the day, she put on the only dress she had that wasn't black -- a simple green one with little embroidery and already frayed at the edges.

 

It was the first time she had worn anything other than black since Mr. Han passed away.

 

As she fastened the last button with trembling fingers, a knot of guilt tightened in her stomach. Was it too soon? Maybe she should still be in mourning...

 

She hesitated at the door, smoothing the dress nervously.

 

She had never missed an Easter festival. Mr. Han wouldn't want her to miss it now.

 

Maz appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a cloth, her keen eyes softening when they landed on Rey.

 

"Be careful at the festival, child," Maz said, voice rough with affection. "And don't be late. You know how strict Mr. Solo is about the curfew."

 

"I know," Rey says, "I'll be back before dark."

 

The evening air was cool and crisp as Rey hurried down the narrow streets, the hem of her green dress brushing against her ankles.

 

When she reached the churchyard, she spotted Rose immediately—standing near the stone steps in a simple blue dress, waving eagerly. Poe was beside her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

 

“You made it!” Rose said, grabbing Rey in a quick hug. Then, under her breath, she added with a grin, “Green suits you. Right, Poe?”

 

Poe, caught mid-fidget, straightened so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Yeah,” he blurted, cheeks flushing. “You—you look great, Rey.”

 

Rey laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks. You two clean up pretty nice yourselves too."

 

The heavy church doors creaked open, and the crowd began filing in. Rose looped her arm through Rey's, pulling her along, while Poe hovered uncertainly at Rey's other side until she offered him a shy smile. Then he fell into step with them, a little too quickly.

 

Rey found herself standing between Rose and Poe, conscious of the brush of Poe’s sleeve against hers every time he shifted.

 

When the mass ended, the crowd spilled back into the churchyard. The band struck up a cheerful tune, and the festival came alive in full force.

 

Rey hesitated only for a heartbeat, but Rose saw right through her.

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Rose said, laughing as she grabbed Rey’s hand. “You’re not getting out of this. I know you love to dance.”

 

Rey tried to protest, but her grin was already giving her away. She did love to dance. Lately, though, there hadn't been much reason for it.

 

Rey found herself swept into the dance, Rose leading the way with an effortless joy. Poe followed along a step behind, but his grin told her he was enjoying it more than he’d let on.

 

Rey laughed as she spun, her green dress flaring out around her. She had almost forgotten how good it felt to do it.

 

The dance ended in a flurry of claps and laughter.

 

And then another song, slower this time, started right after.

 

She soon hears Rose’s voice. “Poe,” she said, with a playful nudge toward him, “You should ask Rey to dance this one with you.”

 

Poe looks at Rey hesitantly, but soon he extends his hand to her, palm open.

 

"Would you?"

 

She smiles softly, “I’d love to.”

 

The soft beat of the music surrounded them as they stood close. Poe’s hand settled lightly on her back, just as hers rested on his shoulder.

 

She's danced with boys before. But now it feels… different. She's almost sixteen. For some reason, dancing with a boy doesn't feel as unpretentious as it once did.

 

She finds herself wondering, for a moment, whether Mr. Solo liked to dance. She imagines so. With the number of formal events and balls he must have been invited to, surely he had spent entire nights twirling around grand halls. She imagined him in one of those grand ballrooms, moving with grace. He’d be dressed impeccably, his usual sternness replaced with something lighter as he moved in sync with the music.

 

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. The music shifted, and Rey’s attention returned to the present—back to Poe, still by her side, guiding her through the dance.

 

She loses track of time as she, Poe, and Rose dance, laugh, and play games at the stalls scattered around the courtyard. Poe even wins one of the games — a tricky ring toss — and grins as he hands Rey his prize: a simple but lovely wooden comb, carved with little stars along the spine.

 

At some point, Rose rushes out, having forgotten that she has to rush back home to brush Miss Ko Connix's hair –- or else I'll never have peace again.

 

She sprints off, waving a rushed goodbye over her shoulder. Rey watches her disappear, then startles to realize how dark the sky has grown.

 

"I should be gone by now, too," Rey says.

 

Hopefully no one will notice her coming into the house at that time. She can enter through the side service entrance. No one will be there.

 

"Let me walk you home," Poe offers.

 

"I don't want to trouble you—"

 

"It's no trouble. I insist," he says, flashing a reassuring smile.

 

Rey hesitates, then smiles back, a little shy. "Alright. Thank you."

 

They walk together through the winding village streets, the lights thinning out as they approach the path that leads up the hill. Her steps slow as the familiar silhouette of the house comes into view, its many windows glowing like watchful eyes.

 

At the servants' side door, Rey pulls out her battered key, glancing up at Poe.

 

"Thank you for walking with me," she says. "It was... kind of you."

 

Poe only grins, but before Rey can slot the key into the lock, the door swings open from the inside.

 

Standing there, tall and imposing in the narrow doorway, is Mr. Solo.

 

Rey freezes, her breath catching.

 

"Oh—hello, Mr. Solo," Poe says behind her.

 

Mr. Solo doesn't even spare Poe a glance. His eyes remain fixed on Rey, sharp and hard.

 

"Step inside, Miss Niima,"

 

Rey's face burns. She dips her head and steps past him, the echo of her boots ringing sharply in the stone corridor. She clutches the little wooden comb tighter in her hand, the polished surface pressing into her palm.

 

She doesn’t dare look back at Poe, but she feels the weight of his worried gaze until the door swings shut behind her.

 

A few seconds later, Mr. Solo closes the lock with a heavy, final click.

 

He stares at her, and then his gaze drops for the first time — to the object in her hand — and lingers there.

 

A breath too long.

 

"Sorry, sir," Rey mumbles, tucking the comb hastily into her cloak pocket. "I didn’t mean to stay out so late."

 

For a long, suffocating moment, he says nothing.

 

And then…

 

"To your room, Miss Niima."

Rey doesn't hesitate. She slips away down the corridor, her heart pounding, feeling his eyes on her back until she disappears up the narrow servants’ staircase.

 

______

 

The next morning, the kitchen was already humming with the quiet clatter of dishes and the low murmur of servants preparing for the day. Rey entered, still fastening the ties of her apron, trying to shake off the heavy, restless feeling that had clung to her all night.

 

Maz was wiping down the wooden table when she looked up, fixing Rey with a knowing, weary glance.

 

"Rey," Maz said with a sigh, folding her cloth with slow, deliberate care, "I told you yesterday not to come back late."

 

Rey's eyes widen. She has no idea how Maz could know. "But—you didn't even see me come in yesterday..."

 

Maz shook her head, her mouth tugging downward in a frown. "Didn't need to. Mr. Solo spoke to me this morning”, Maz crossed her arms over her chest, peering at Rey with those sharp eyes,  "Said you returned after curfew. That you were escorted back by a boy. He... didn’t like it."

 

Rey's breath caught, heat rushing to her cheeks.

 

"Poe was just making sure I got home safe”, she said quickly, "I lost track of time at the festival. I didn't mean to—"

 

Maz held up a hand. "I’m not scolding you, child. I’m warning you. Mr. Solo’s not like Mr. Han. He... expects things to be a certain way."

 

Rey bit the inside of her cheek, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

 

"Did he say I was in trouble?" Rey asked after a moment, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.

 

"No," Maz said at last, the word clipped and almost reluctant, "Not yet."

 

She stepped forward, placing a hand on Rey’s shoulder.

 

“You need to tread carefully with him. He’s not Mr. Han. Besides, you’ve grown up, and you’re not the little girl you were when you first came here. You’re not going to be treated the same way anymore."

 

Rey nodded slowly.

 

The kitchen door creaked open then, and one of the scullery maids stuck her head in.

 

"Mr. Solo's asking for his coffee," she said. "Says he wants it served in his office."

 

Maz pulled away, her mouth tightening. "Best not keep him waiting."

 

Rey nodded, hastily tying her apron tighter as she gathered the tray, her heart hammering against her ribs.

 

The hallway felt long as she walked toward his office. She paused just outside the door, taking a steadying breath, before knocking lightly.

 

“Come in,” came the sharp reply from within.

 

Mr. Solo sat behind his desk, his posture rigid, his attention already focused on some papers in front of him. There was no acknowledgment of her arrival.

 

"Your coffee, sir," Rey said, setting the tray down on the desk. She glanced up, but his eyes never left the papers he was studying.

 

Without a word, he gestured for her to leave. He hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a full dismissal; it was like he was already done with her.

 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Rey turned to leave, but then, an impulse tugged at her. She stepped back toward him, her voice softer now, more tentative.

 

“Sir?”.

 

His gaze didn’t lift. He barely seemed to register her presence as he responded flatly, "Yes, Miss Niima?"

 

“Sir..." she started again, “I just wanted to apologize again for yesterday."

 

There was a long pause, the kind that felt like an eternity. He didn’t lift his eyes from his work, didn’t pause in his motion. The coldness of his disregard pressed against her like a physical force.

 

He didn't say anything. Didn’t look at her.

 

“I didn't mean to—"

 

"This," he interrupted her, finally looking up, his gaze piercing, "is a respectable house, Miss Niima."

Rey blinked, taken aback by the coldness of the statement. She stared at him in confusion.

 

"And I will not tolerate the servants tarnishing the reputation of this home.", he continued, his voice hard as stone.

 

Her heart sank. “Sir, if you’re talking about Poe, I can assure you nothing untoward happened.” She spoke quickly, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself.

 

"You're a young unmarried girl," he says, "And he's a young unmarried man. It wouldn't take much for people to draw conclusions. Conclusions that would reflect poorly on both of you—and on this household."

Rey bristles, her shame giving way to indignation.

"But nothing happened, sir. We were at the festival. I just lost track of the time."

He exhales slowly, his gaze sharp.

"Intentions mean little when appearances speak louder, Miss Niima."

There's a silence between them, heavy and uncomfortable.

"I understand," she says quietly, folding her hands. "I'll be more careful from now on."

 

Mr. Solo's eyes linger on her for a beat longer, then flick down to the papers again. Just when Rey thinks the conversation is over, he speaks, voice quiet but pointed:

 

“The comb?”

 

Rey blinks. “Sir?”

 

He looks up again, this time more directly. “I saw you with a comb yesterday. Did the boy give it to you?”

 

Rey stiffens. For a second, she considers lying, but something in his expression makes it clear he already knows the answer. She nods once.

 

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You will return it.”

 

Her breath catches. “Sir, it was a gift.”

 

“Exactly,” he replies coolly. “That’s why you’ll return it.”

 

“But—” She stops herself, biting back the words she wants to say: It’s just a comb. Just a small thing. Why do you care?

 

She didn’t understand it—didn’t understand him. Not even Mr. Han had ever minded who she saw outside the estate. He let her be young, free, unburdened.

 

Mr. Solo was just her employer—not her father. This was her private life, wasn’t it?

 

Still, she knew better than to argue. He was still the one who paid her, sheltered her, fed her. Her life, as she knew it, was still tied to this house. And he could shut her out of it with a single sentence.

 

"You said you were sorry," he says harshly, "And I ask very little of you."

 

Rey’s throat tightens. She holds his stare for a moment, defiance warring with restraint. Finally, she nods, the motion small but full of reluctant submission.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good.”

 

Rey turns to leave. She is almost at the door when his voice cut through again.

 

“Miss Niima.”

 

She pauses, hand resting on the knob.

 

He doesn’t look up from his papers this time. “That boy won’t be walking you home again. Make sure he understands that.”

 

Her shoulders square as if bracing against a wind.

 

“Yes, sir,” she says again, barely audible.

 

Then she slips out, the click of the door behind her sounding far too loud.

Chapter 4

"Excuse me?" Rose raises an eyebrow in confusion, "Do you want me to return the comb to Poe?"

 

Rey nods, looking away at the pile of strawberries for sale in front of her.

 

"But it was a gift," Rose argues, "You can't return it, it would be rude."

 

"Mr. Solo insisted."

 

"Mr. Solo?!"

 

Rey turns in time to see Rose's shocked face, and sighs. "He saw me come back with Poe last night. And he didn't like it."

 

"Well, what's wrong with that? Poe was respectful, wasn't he?" Rose leans closer and lowers her voice, "Did he try something with you on the way home?"

 

"What? No!" Rey blushes, "He was a gentleman."

 

"Then why is Mr. Solo bothered by him?"

 

"And I know?" Rey shrugs, "Maybe he knows something we don't."

 

"Like what?"

 

"I don't know. But he's older. He talked about morals, and appearances..."

 

"Maybe he's just a frustrated man who doesn't like to see other people's happiness."

 

“Perhaps”.

 

Rey thinks it's best to change the tone of the conversation, and quickly pulls Rose to see the contents of a corn stand. She can't let herself think too much about Mr. Solo.

 

______

 

A week passes quickly, and then Rey’s 16th birthday arrives. It’s also the 8th anniversary of the day she first arrived at the Solo mansion, though she doubts anyone here remembers that fact—except Maz.

 

She makes her favorite strawberry jam for breakfast, placing it in a jar beside a steaming cup of tea. Then, with an almost gruff gesture, she slides a tiny wrapped bundle onto the table. “Here.”

 

Rey blinks, caught off guard. “What’s this?”

 

Maz doesn’t answer, only gives her that pointed look—the one that says, open it before I change my mind.

 

Inside is a neatly folded packet of sewing needles, sharper and better quality than the dull, bent ones Rey had been using for years.

 

Rey smiles, her chest tightening with a warmth that almost hurts. “Thank you, Maz.”

 

Maz grunts, but there is a faint flicker of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t stab your thumb like you did last time.”

 

Rey laughs softly and tucks the needles into her apron pocket.

 

They don’t say anything more about it—not the birthday, not the years that had passed since that first uncertain morning when Maz had handed her a broom and said, Well, you’d better be useful.

 

And that was fine. Rey didn't need more.

 

If she had a mother, she thought, maybe there’d be a cake. Something simple—maybe chocolate, with rough frosting and her name spelled wrong. A father might ruffle her hair. A little brother might steal the first slice. There would be laughter. Noise.

 

But she doesn't. So, it's just another ordinary workday. Rey still scrubs the stairs until they shine, cleans the chandeliers in the living room, balancing precariously on a ladder while the house echoes with its usual silence.

 

No one else mentions her birthday.

 

When it's time to serve Mr. Solo's coffee, she wipes her hands on her apron and carries the tray up the stairs.

 

She had just placed the plate down on his desk when he looked up—not with his usual brisk dismissal, but something unreadable in his expression.

 

"Wait a moment, Miss Niima," he said.

 

Rey froze, hand still on the edge of the tray.

 

He reached into the drawer of his desk and drew out a rectangular box. Simple, matte black, no ribbon.

 

He held it out to her across the desk.

 

She looked at it, confused.

 

“What is this, sir?”

 

He didn't smile. He rarely did. But his tone was lighter than usual.

 

“I noticed your dresses are worn out.”

 

Rey glanced down instinctively at the hem of her skirt—frayed, sure. She looked back at the box, then at him.

 

“I can’t accept this.”

 

“It’s a gift, Miss Niima,” he said, raising one dark eyebrow. “Don’t insult me.”

 

Her fingers tightened on the tray. For a brief, sharp moment, her thoughts flashed to the comb Poe had given her. “You said I shouldn’t accept gifts from men”.

 

His expression changed.

 

“This was a different situation."

 

“How?” she asked before she could stop herself.

 

“Because I’m not a boy sneaking around after curfew,” he said at last, “And I don’t have ill intentions toward you.”

 

She looked down at the box, then back up. “Why are you giving me this?”

 

He tilted his head, a faint flicker of something crossing his face. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

 

That made her blink.

 

Her heart thudded, surprised. “You knew?”

 

"I told you before, Miss Niima. I make a point of knowing about the people who work in my house," he said simply.

 

She didn't know what to say to that. Now two people remembered her birthday. Maz, and now… him.

 

“Thank you,” she said at last, the words quietly.

 

He nodded once, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk.

 

She turned to go, but before she reached the door, his voice stopped her again.

 

“Wear it tonight.”

 

She glanced back, started. “Sir?”

 

He didn't look up. “The dress. Wear it. When you come to serve dinner”

 

Rey hesitated—long enough that silence nearly swallowed the conversation whole.

 

“Yes, sir,” she said finally.

 

______

 

Rey slipped into her room as soon as she had a spare moment—just a breath of time between scrubbing dishes and brushing dirt from the parlor rug. The box had been burning a hole in her thoughts all afternoon.

 

Her hands trembled with excitement as she unwrapped the box and set it on her narrow bed.

 

The dress inside was beautiful—far more than anything she’d ever touched, let alone worn. Midnight blue, soft as water between her fingers, with subtle stitching along the bodice and a skirt that looked like it would float when she moved.

 

It wasn’t second-hand. Not patched or altered. Brand new. Made for her.

 

And it would fit her perfectly.

 

She didn’t need to try it on to know that. The waist, the cut of the shoulders—it was exact. It was as though someone had taken her measurements in her sleep.

 

Her fingers paused. How did he know my size?

 

The thought made her chest twist in a way she didn’t entirely understand. She thought of Mr. Solo. 

 

She swallowed hard, her thumb brushing the edge of the fabric.

 

She slipped the dress over her head slowly, almost reverently. The fabric settled against her skin like a whisper. She turned slightly toward the mirror, startled by the girl who looked back.

 

She didn't look like a maid.

 

She didn’t look like an orphan either.

 

Just... Rey. An older Rey. Not a child, but a woman of sixteen.

 

She took one last look in the mirror, then turned toward the door.

 

Time for dinner.

 

______

 

When Rey goes to serve Mr. Solo that night, the tray in her hands is heavier than normal. Two covered dishes instead of one. A second set of silverware. She frowns slightly at the arrangement, shifting her grip to balance the weight.

 

He must be expecting someone. He rarely eats with company, but perhaps he has a guest today. It would certainly explain the extra food.

 

She pauses outside the door and straightens her dress before entering, smoothing the soft midnight-blue fabric with trembling fingers. The material feels too fine for her hands—too fine for someone who spends her days on her knees scrubbing staircases. Each movement feels risky, like she might damage it just by breathing too hard.

 

For some reason, she feels shy about wearing it in front of him, and her nerves dance as she knocks at his door.

 

“Come in”.

 

She enters.

 

Mr. Solo is at his desk, as usual. The fire is lit, warm and steady behind its grate, but there are no papers scattered across his desk this time. Just a single book, which he closes as she enters the room.

 

He looks up—and for a moment, his gaze lingers.

 

Not on the tray.

 

On her.

 

His eyes travel, unhurried, from the neckline of the dress to where the fabric gathers at her waist, then down to the soft fall of the skirt. When their eyes meet again, something unreadable flickers across his face. It’s a look she can’t quite place, but it makes her heart race a little faster

 

She clears her throat and places the tray down on the edge of his desk with a careful clink, then steps back, feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

 

“I like it on you,” he says, then adds, nodding toward her, “The dress.”

 

Rey blushes at the compliment.

 

“It’s beautiful. And much more than I could ever afford,” she says, “Thank you again, sir. That was very kind.”

 

“You’ve worked hard. You’ve earned more than hand-me-downs.”

 

Her heart thuds in her chest, unsure of how to respond. She glances down at her dress, her fingers lightly brushing the soft fabric.

 

"Sit down," he commands gently. “It’s your birthday. You should eat better than kitchen scraps tonight.”

 

He gestures to the food. The scents are already rising from the tray, warm and savory, nothing like the plain stews or stale crusts she’s used to in the kitchen. There’s roast duck, and fresh vegetables, and warm bread. Nothing about it resembles the watered-down broths or day-old bread she usually eats standing by the kitchen hearth.

 

Rey’s eyes widen at the mere suggestion that she share a meal with him.

 

" I... don’t think I should," she says quietly, her voice almost a whisper, unsure of how to explain the sudden, sharp discomfort that rises in her chest. “A maid... shouldn’t dine with her employer.”

 

“I’m aware of your role, Miss Niima,” he says. “And I’m also the one who decides when exceptions are made.”

 

A beat of silence passes between them, then another.

 

He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk. “Sit. Before it gets cold.”

 

Slowly, Rey obeys and sits across from him. She swallows hard and waits in silence for him to start eating. After he takes the first few bites, she allows herself to put the first piece of duck in her mouth as well. She chews slowly, reverently, afraid it might disappear if she rushes. She doesn’t dare look up.

 

But she feels it. His eyes on her.

 

Finally, unable to ignore it, she glances up—and finds him watching her.

 

"Tell me about your family."

 

The fork pauses halfway to her mouth. The question is so sudden that she coughs lightly before answering.

 

“I don’t have one,” she says after a beat, setting her utensils down. “My parents left me when I was small. Gave me over to a man named Unkar Plutt. I don’t remember much else.”

 

“Unkar Plutt,” he repeats, as if testing the name. “And where is he now?”

 

Rey shrugs. “Gone. He gave me to the late Mr. Solo when I was eight. Said I was too much trouble to keep feeding.”

 

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. Rey rushes to fill the silence.

 

"But it was for the best," Rey says quickly, forcing a smile, "The late Mr. Solo was a very kind man. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't know how to read or write, nor would I have had such a privileged childhood for a housemaid."

 

He gives a short, humorless laugh.

"How generous of him."

 

He picks up his glass and takes a slow sip, watching her over the rim, “You speak of him like he was a saint.”

 

She shifts slightly in her seat, unsure of what she’s said wrong.

 

“I only meant—” she starts.

 

“I know what you meant,” he cuts her, “You don’t have to defend him. I knew the man. Don't make him into something he's not”

 

There it is. The flash of something in his eyes. The unwillingness to share even a memory of the man they both lost—but in such different ways.

 

He’s angry. She can feel it in the way he speaks, in the tightness of his words, and she feels her own resentment stir.

 

How dare he?

 

He was the one who left his father alone for ten years. He never came to visit. Never cared about the man they both shared—until he was gone.

 

“He was a good man,” Rey insists, her voice rising, the words coming out before she can stop them.

 

Mr, Solo’s lips curl into something like a sneer. "Well, he's gone now," he mutters, his voice colder. “And you shouldn't cling to his memory like some lovesick widow.”

 

The comparison catches her off guard, and she flinches, her stomach twisting in discomfort.

 

"I'm not—" she starts, her voice faltering.

 

Mr. Solo interrupts, his tone harsh and almost accusing. "I know you still pray for him in the chapel. I know you kept that damn book of his with you."

 

Rey’s breath catches. She didn’t realize he’d noticed.

 

“Gulliver’s Travels,” Mr. Solo murmurs, his eyes narrowing slightly, “You think I wouldn’t notice? It’s one of my favorites too.”

 

Rey stares at him, unsure of how to respond. She never expected this—never expected him to bring it up like this.

 

“You can’t seem to let go of him. Even now, when he’s been gone so long”, he says quietly, "But he's not the one who's going to put food on your table anymore, or keep you warm in the winter, or…” He trails off for a moment, his gaze dropping to her clothes. “… Give you new dresses.”

 

Rey’s stomach twists as she realizes what he’s doing—what he’s implying. It’s almost as if he’s positioning himself to replace Mr. Han entirely, as if they were two forces that couldn’t exist in the same space in her life.

 

Mr. Solo clears his throat, the sound cutting through the quiet tension that lingers between them.

 

"Let's not talk about the dead, though," he says, his voice softer now, almost dismissive, and then points with his fork at her plate, "You haven't touched your vegetables."

 

She nods, and they finish the meal in silence, the clink of silverware and the soft crackling of the fire filling the gaps where words once lingered. She’s not sure if she’s more relieved or unsettled by what Mr. Solo has said.

 

When the meal finally ends, she stands slowly, unsure of what to do with herself.

 

"Thank you for the meal, sir," she murmurs, her voice soft, her head inclined in the smallest of gestures, "I don't remember eating so well before."

 

She doesn’t dare look at him at first, but when she finally lifts her gaze, his eyes are already on her—steadfast, unreadable, and far too close.

 

He inclines his head just slightly.

 

“Happy birthday, Miss Niima”.

Chapter 5

The next morning, when Rey brings Mr. Solo his coffee, the tray carries more than just the delicate porcelain cup. Resting beside it, carefully placed, is a worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels. Her last physical memory of Mr. Han.

 

She sets the tray down without a word.

 

Mr. Solo glances at the book. He picks up the coffee, his fingers brushing the spine of the book as he does.

 

And though he says nothing, Rey was sure she saw his lips contain a satisfied smile.

 

______

 

"There she goes, reading again," Rose mutters, rolling her eyes when she finds Rey sitting on the back steps of the Solo mansion with a book in her hands.

 

Rey laughs, moving away so she can sit next to her.

 

"Well, if you’d let me teach you how to read, maybe--"

 

"Oh, no thanks," Rose interrupts her with a laugh, "Reading isn't going to make me any richer. Besides, what would I use it for? To read Miss Ko Connix's diary?" She pauses for a second, then looks at Rey with interest, "Now that I think about it..."

 

"No, Rose!" Rey laughs and pushes her away with the other hand, "I'm not going to help you read Miss Ko Connix's diary."

 

"Boring."

 

Rey closes her book, but not before marking a page with a particularly difficult word that she would have to research more about later.

 

"You know... There's going to be a ball at the Ko Connix house at the end of the month," Rose says.

 

"I assume you'll be in charge of serving the ballroom?"

 

"Unfortunately," Rose shrugs, then glances at the windows of the mansion behind her, "I heard Mr. Solo will be attending."

 

"I'm not surprised. Mr. Han was a longtime friend of the Ko Connixes."

 

"Neither am I. But I'm looking forward to seeing if he can dance," Rose smiles, "Miss Ko Connix can only talk about how she wants to dance with him. It's honestly a bit painful to witness."

 

Rey feels a strange sensation in her chest at her friend's words, but quickly dismisses it.

 

Rose is watching her now, expression all mischief and intent. She nudges Rey with an elbow, leaning close.

 

“You know who can dance?”

 

Rey narrows her eyes. “If you say Poe—”

 

“Poe,” Rose grins proudly, like she’d just uncovered a great truth, “has very nimble feet. He proved it at the Easter festival, didn't he?”

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

Rose leans back on her hands, watching the clouds drift past. “You should go see him again.”

 

Rey tilts her head, surprised. “See him?”

 

“Yeah. You know. Visit the stables. Say you’re checking on the condition of the carts or something equally boring and believable. He’s been working mornings out by the east paddock.”

 

Rey raises a brow. “Are you suddenly in charge of assigning my errands?”

 

Rose shrugs, smug. “Just saying, if our masters get to spend the whole night dancing under crystal chandeliers, we deserve a little something for ourselves.”

 

Rey’s lips twitch. “A stolen ten-minute chat in a dusty stable?”

 

“Why, ten minutes with Poe Dameron might be the highlight of your month.”

 

Rey laughs and stands, brushing off her skirt. “You’re too much.”

 

“I’m just right,” Rose grins. “And I expect a full report when you get back.”

 

“I’m not going to the stables,” Rey says, shifting uncomfortably, "Mr. Solo will hardly be pleased to know that I'm hanging around Poe."

 

Rose snorts. “So, you’re going to let Mr. Solo run your life, huh?”

 

“I’m not letting him run anything,” Rey says, trying to sound more confident than she feels. “I just... don’t think it’s worth the trouble.”

 

Rose raises an eyebrow, her expression one of amused disbelief. “He doesn’t need to know,” she says with a shrug.

 

"Rose!" Rey exclaims, exasperated, "What do you expect? That I'll sneak out?".

 

Rose just grins, unbothered by Rey's exasperation. “Well, sneaking out is one option,” she teases, winking. “But if you want to be all proper about it, just tell him you’re going to check on the horses. It’s not like you're doing anything wrong. Poe’s just a guy, Rey. And you’re allowed to talk to guys.”

 

"You know it's not that simple," Rey mutters.

 

"Jesus, I preferred the old Mr. Solo..." Rose mutters frustratedly, "Things were simpler then."

 

“I know”. Me too…

 

It is then that a strange sensation of being watched comes over her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and her gaze instinctively drifts toward the grand windows of the mansion behind her.

 

Her eyes skim across the polished glass before they stop at Mr. Solo’s office.

 

For a brief moment, she swears she sees a flicker of movement through the glass. Her heart skips a beat. But when she squints... There’s nothing—just the emptiness of the office, still and quiet.

 

Rey quickly shakes her head, the unease gnawing at her. It’s nothing. She must have been imagining things.

 

______

 

"Sir, if I may..."

 

Mr. Solo glances up, his pen stilling just above the parchment.

 

"Go on, Miss Niima."

 

Rey steps forward with his coffee, the porcelain cup rattling faintly on the saucer as she set it down. She shifts her weight, uncertain.

"What is ubiquitous?" she asks, her voice tentative. "I was reading the other day and saw that word, but I have no idea what it means."

Mr. Solo pauses, the quill resting gently on the paper as he look up at her.

"It means something that is everywhere."

"Like God?" she asks before she can stop herself.

He gives a quiet grunt—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh and went back to writing.

"I suppose so."

Rey frowns. The answer seemed too evasive. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words tumbles out before she can stop them.

"Do you believe in God, sir?"

She regrets asking it right away. Her cheeks flushes, heat rising to her ears. Maybe she's asking too personal a question.

 

He doesn’t rush to answer, which makes her feel even more exposed.

 

“Do you?” he asks after a moment, his voice low and steady.

 

She nods.

His eyes lingers on her for a second longer, “Well,” he says, his voice calm, “I don’t.”

"Why?"

He doesn't look up from his writing this time. The scratching of the pen on parchment is soft but steady.

“For the same reason I don’t believe in ghosts or monsters under the bed,” he says. “I’ve never seen one.”

 

Rey’s brow furrows at the bluntness of it. She has never seen God either, but she believes in Him. Maz believes in Him. Mr. Han believed in Him. And none of them saw him much less.

“So... you think it’s all just made up?”

“I think people like explanations,” he says. "Especially for things they can't control. A storm wrecks your home, a child gets sick, someone dies before their time—it's easier to say 'God's plan' than admit there's no reason at all."

She looks down, toeing the ground lightly with the edge of her shoe. She would like to argue with him somehow, show him the path of truth, but she knows that is not her position.

“Still feels like something should be out there,” she mutters, more to herself than to him.

He watches her for a moment, then goes back to his writing. “Wanting something to be true doesn’t make it so, Miss Niima.”

 

______

 

Rey crouched in the upstairs hallway, rubbing a stain on the carpet that insisted on not coming out. From the floor below came the creak of the front door, then quick, measured footsteps ascending.

 

She paused, eyes narrowing as a tall man in a charcoal suit appeared at the top of the staircase, clutching a worn leather briefcase. He didn't glance her way. Without a word, he crossed to Mr. Solo’s study and disappeared inside, the heavy door muffling his arrival.

 

Rey straightened slowly, cloth still in hand. That must be the solicitor Maz mentioned—the one handling Han's estate.

 

She hesitated, looking at the door, then turned back to her task, but couldn't help noticing how long the door remained closed. Well, Mr. Han sure had a lot of assets. It must take time to pass all the information to Mr. Solo.

 

She continues cleaning, almost forgetting the visitor’s presence inside the office.

 

Then—abruptly—the door swung open.

 

The man emerged swiftly, almost colliding with her. Rey froze, rag still in hand. He blinked in surprise, then recovered with a stiff nod.

 

“Pardon,” he muttered, clutching a thick sheaf of documents to his chest.

 

His eyes then moved away from his folders, and he really looked at her.

 

His gaze lingered longer than courtesy allowed—a puzzled stare that made her heart kick up uncomfortably. In his eyes there was a strange combination of curiosity tinged with disbelief.

 

Before Rey could speak or look away, a voice called from within the office.

 

“Mr. Pryde?”

 

The solicitor flinched. His eyes turned away from Rey as Mr. Solo stepped into view, one hand on the doorframe.

 

“Are we finished?” Mr. Solo asked, raising an eyebrow. His voice sounded harsh.

 

"Yes, sir. Quite finished," Pryde replied, voice tightening as he snapped the folder closed.

 

He hurried off, nearly brushing the wall in his rod, but not before looking at Rey one last time.

 

Mr. Solo watched him go, his gaze following the solicitor until he disappeared from view. Only then did his eyes shift to Rey.

 

She hadn’t moved an inch, still standing there, the rag loosely in her hand. Strange man, that solicitor.

 

He watched her for a long moment. His eyes were sharp, with a quiet intensity that made Rey’s pulse quicken.

 

Without a word, he turned and stepped back into the study, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

______

 

Rey balanced a tray as she stepped into Mr. Solo’s library, his gauze flickering up from his book the moment she entered.

 

She set the tray down gently. “Your lunch, sir.”

 

“Thank you.” He paused, eyes not on the food but on her. “What have you been reading lately, Miss Niima?”

 

She couldn't help but smile at the question.

 

“I finished Moby-Dick last night. The ladies version you lent me.”

 

“A classic,” he said with a nod, reaching for his cup of coffee. “Why don’t you find yourself another?”

 

It was as if he had offered her gold. Rey nodded quickly with a smile, turning toward the built-in bookcase, rows of old leather spines lined up like soldiers. She trailed her fingers along them, acutely aware of his gaze following her as she scanned the titles.

 

Something slim caught her eye. Fanny Hill. The title was unfamiliar, but it looked short—and she'd like to read a quick story for a change.

 

She flipped it open. The first page was full of odd, but intriguing phrases. Her brow furrowed slightly.

 

“Find something interesting?”

 

She turned and held up the book. “This one.”

 

There was a pause. He set his coffee cup down a little too firmly.

 

“Bring it here.”

 

She approached and placed it in his outstretched hand. He glanced at the cover, blinked once, then carefully slid the book into the top drawer of his desk and closed it.

 

"Pick another one."

 

Rey stared at him. “Why?”

 

He cleared his throat. “That one’s… not appropriate for young ladies.”

 

"Oh... What's it about?"

 

Mr. Solo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable.

 

"Just pick another one, Miss Niima."

 

Rey gave him a narrowed look before turning back to the shelves. She grabbed another volume and held it up. “Is this one acceptable?”

 

He glanced at it, nodded curtly. “That one’s fine.”

 

She gave a little huff. “You know, sir, you could’ve just told me the other one was boring.”

 

"It's many things, Miss Niima. 'Boring' isn't one of them."

Chapter 6

That night, Rey decides to read in her bed the book she chose from Mr. Solo’s library. The candle is lit to illuminate the pages, and she knows she should be asleep by now since it’s past curfew, but her mind doesn’t seem to want to relax that night.

 

Unfortunately for her… the book is terribly boring. Four whole pages describing a horse, and that wasn’t even the worst part. Each line felt like a punishment to read, and yet she didn’t feel sleepy.

 

She sighed and flipped another page. More endless descriptions—this time of a saddle.

 

“Who writes this stuff?” she muttered.

 

Her thoughts drifted—unbidden and a little stubborn—back to that book. The one Mr. Solo had taken from her hands with such a careful, almost guilty touch. Fanny Hill. 'Not appropriate', he’d said. But… why?

 

It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was an itch, a need to know. Just a few pages. No harm in looking, right?

 

The candle in her hand trembled slightly as she crept down the hallway barefoot. The library was dark, save for moonlight pooling through the high windows. She slipped inside, heart hammering.

 

No one sitting in the shadows. Not like last time.

 

She walked slowly to his desk, her eyes fixed on the top drawer. The one where he’d slipped the book. She reached for the handle, holding her breath.

 

It slid open with a soft click.

 

There it was. Fanny Hill. The worn leather cover felt almost warm in her hands. Rey clutched it to her chest like a stolen treasure, then ducked under the desk, curling up where no one would see the candlelight from the hall. The book created open.

 

She skimmed past the preface, her eyes catching on words here and there. And then—

 

…for, on this encouragement, he slipped his hand all down from my breast to that part of me where the sense of feeling is so exquisitely critical, as I then experienced by its instant taking fire upon the touch, and glowing with a strange tickling heat…

 

Her face flushed. Not just warm—burning. She slammed the book shut and blew out the candle so fast that smoke curled up around her nose. Her heart was pounding.

 

This was... completely inappropriate. Mr. Solo had been right. Absolutely, uncomfortably right. She shouldn't have read that.

 

Clutching the book like it might explode, Rey scrambled out from under the desk, shoved it back into the drawer, and closed it with trembling fingers. She tiptoed back through the hallway, every shadow suddenly feeling like a judging pair of eyes.

 

When she finally dove under the covers, she yanked the blankets over her head and curled into a ball, as though hiding from her own thoughts. Or worse—from Mr. Solo’s disapproving gaze.

 

She definitely shouldn't have read that.

 

But sleep still wouldn’t come.

 

And worse—neither would the memory of what she read.

 

______

 

Rey spends more time than usual in church that Sunday, kneeling and praying near the altar even after everyone has left. And in the afternoon, when she goes to serve Mr. Solo, she can barely look him in the eye.

 

“You’re quiet today,” he said, watching her over the rim of his glass.

 

“I didn’t sleep well,” she lied.

 

He didn’t press, but the weight of his gauze lingered longer than necessary.

 

She closed the door a little too quickly behind her and didn’t breathe again until she was halfway down the hall.

 

______

 

Two days later, the pull was too strong to resist.

 

It started with a glance toward the library door during her evening cries. Then another, longer this time, while she dried the last of the silver. By the time the house had gone quiet, Rey's bare feet were already hurrying upstairs.

 

She slipped the book out of Mr. Solo's drawer and clutched it to her chest. Knees drawn up, heart hammering, the candle flame low, just enough to light the letters, she cracked it open again.

 

... the fire of nature, that had so long lain dormant or concealed, began to break out, and made me feel my sex for the first time...

 

Her lips parted slightly as she read. Still, she didn't stop.

 

...guided by nature only, I stole my hand up my petticoats, and with fingers on fire, seized and yet more inflamed that center of all my senses: my heart palpitated, as if it would force its way through my bosom: I breathed with pain; I twisted my thighs, squeezed and compressed the lips of that virgin slit...

 

Rey stops suddenly, throwing the book away as if it were burning her. Her breath comes out in ragged gasps, and despite the cold night outside, she feels strangely warm.

 

And then she feels a tingle, a pulse, somewhere between her legs.

 

Her heart leaps in her chest, and she hurries to grab the book and put it back in the drawer with shaking hands before walking back to her room in silence.

 

She wraps herself in the sheets, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes, the lines of the book swirling around her head.

 

Rey had felt nothing like it before, nothing in the books or stories. Her heart, pounding like a drum. The throb that made her ache. It was all-consuming, the feeling. She was desperate. Desperate for... something.

 

The woman in the book... she was touching herself. In that place where one shouldn't touch. In that place where Rey bleeds from every month.

 

For some reason, she could swear she could feel it pulsing now. Like it wants her attention.

 

So, she slid her hand down her body, under her gown. The touch made her shudder. It was soft, wet, slick.

 

A strange sort of sound escaped her throat.

 

She does it again. And again.

 

Her fingers press down, and she lets out a soft moan.

 

She is panting now. She can't quite understand why.

 

She keeps rubbing that part of her, searching for... she doesn't know exactly what. But whatever it is, it never comes.

 

She feels frustrated all of a sudden. Like she knows she's doing something wrong.

 

With a sigh, she pulls her gown back down and stares at her hand, her wet, sticky hand.

 

Her face burns, her whole body seems to burn, the pulse still echoing inside her.

 

She can feel tears pooling in her eyes, even though she doesn't understand what they are for.

 

______

 

“How’s the book going?”

 

Rey startled so hard she nearly knocked over the tray.

 

Her mouth opened, then closed again. Does... does he know about Fanny Hill?

 

“Pardon?” she managed, voice thinner than she liked.

 

He tilted his head slightly. “The book,” he said. “The one you took last time. Have you started it yet?”

 

“Oh.” She let out a shaky breath and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. I’ve started it.”

 

There was a pause. His gaze lingered.

 

“And?”

 

“I’m... enjoying it,” she said quickly, forcing a small, practiced smile. “It’s a bit slow, but... I like it.”

 

She hated how fake her voice sounded.

 

Mr. Solo didn’t speak for a moment. He poured himself a cup of coffee with deliberate precision, then glanced at her again.

 

“I see,” he said at last, taking a slow sip.

 

Rey busied herself with adjusting the napkin on the tray, anything to avoid holding his gaze. Her cheeks still held the faint memory of the blush she’d worn two nights ago, curled behind curtains with a book she had not been given permission to take.

 

“Let me know,” he said softly, “if it becomes more interesting.”

 

Rey froze. Just for a second.

 

Then she nodded, stiffly. “Of course.”

 

He said nothing more, and she left the room with a polite dip of her head

 

______

 

Sunday morning passes in quiet ritual.

 

Rey goes with Maz to church – Mr. Solo is absent, as usual.

 

After the service, sunlight spills into the churchyard as people begin to drift out. Rey spots Rose chatting with Poe beneath the old oak. She thinks about asking Rose about what she read in Fanny Hill.

 

Rey opens her mouth—then shuts it just as quickly.

 

No. It was ridiculous. Rose probably wouldn’t know. And even if she did, what would Rey even say? Have you ever felt that strange heat? She flushes at the thought.

 

Better to say nothing.

 

She smiles instead, nods along to her chatter, and pushes the question deep down where it can't humiliate her.

 

______

 

That night, Rey gave up fighting sleep. The sheets tangled around her legs, her mind restless, the memory of the book tugging at her like a whispered dare.

 

Just a few more pages, she told herself, slipping quietly from her bed. Just one last time.

 

The house was silent, cloaked in shadows. She crept barefoot through the corridors, candle in hand, heart thudding louder with each step toward the library.

 

But as she pushed the door open, she stopped cold.

 

Mr. Solo was there.

 

Sitting in his armchair, barely illuminated by the dying fire. One leg crossed over the other.

 

And he doesn't seem surprised to see her there.

 

Rey’s mouth went dry. A thousand excuses surged to her lips—none of them strong enough to hold weight. She could say she couldn’t sleep. That she needed a different book. One of the safe ones. The ones he’d selected carefully, thoughtfully. The ones meant for her.

 

But he spoke first.

 

"Have you come looking for this, Miss Niima?".

 

He holds something up in his hand, and Rey's heart seems to skip a few beats when she realizes what it is.

 

Fanny Hill.

 

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Shame clawed at her throat. She wanted to shrink, vanish, melt into the shadows. Anything but stand there under his gaze like a child caught stealing.

 

“Sir… I can explain—”

 

“I told you,” he cuts her, “it wasn’t appropriate.”

 

She dropped her gaze, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, barely audible. “I know. I know you did. I just... I was curious.”

 

“Curiosity,” he says, almost to himself, “can be dangerous, especially when you don’t understand what you’re reading.”

 

He rose from the chair without a word, slow and deliberate, and the stepped closer, the dim light from the library sconces catching in his eyes, and Rey instinctively shrinks back. Not from fear—though there is a flicker of it in her chest—but from something else. Something heavy. Embarrassment. Shame. Wanting to be scolded and forgiven all at once.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” she whispers. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know what the book was about.”

Mr. Solo closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, his gauze is softer. “Books like that… They stir… unwanted impulses. Desires a young lady shouldn’t cultivate.”

Mr. Solo studies her for a moment. The flickering candlelight behind him throws soft shadows across his face, and something in his expression changes—less stern, more contemplative. He sets the book gently on the table between them.

Rey bites her lip. “Is that why you didn’t want me to read it?”

“There are… things… a young lady should learn only from her husband.”

A long silence falls between them.

“I told you it wasn’t appropriate, and you read it anyway. You know I don’t tolerate disobedience, Miss Niima,” he says sharply, “Especially not from my own servants.”

“I know,” she says quickly, her voice tight. “I’m sorry, I—I wasn’t trying to disobey you, sir.”

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low—controlled, but simmering beneath.

“Disobedience is not erased by apology, Miss Niima. I give you more freedom than I should."

Rey’s lips part, and she starts to say something—but thinks better of it. Instead, she lowers her head, cheeks burning. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“No, it won’t,” he says, “You won’t pick up any more books from now on. Not until I give you permission.”

The sentence struck her like a slap.

 

Rey stood still, swallowing down the sting. It shouldn’t have mattered—it was only books. But the words felt like chains. Her little world of reading, of escape, of curiosity, was being closed off.

 

Her chest ached with the quiet devastation of it. Still, she nodded.

 

There was nothing else to do.

 

“But since I know you love to read, I’ll let you read something one last time.”

He slides Fanny Hill across the table.

“Read it, Miss Niima”

Rey stares at the book as it slides toward her across the polished surface of the desk, her breath caught in her throat.

She looks up at him, unsure. He certainly isn’t suggesting… “Sir…?”

“You heard me,” Mr. Solo says, voice firm but quiet. “You were so determined to read it in secret. Now you’ll do it properly. Here. In front of me."

 

The very idea of opening that book—in front of him—made her cheeks burn with a heat that crept all the way to the tips of her ears.

 

The silence stretched, thick with expectation.

 

Her heart is hammering. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches out and takes the book in her hands.

“Start from where you left off,” he says, stepping to the side, arms crossed as he leans against the edge of the desk, watching her. “I assume you remember.”

Rey swallows hard. “Yes, sir.”

She opens the book with slow, deliberate hands, her eyes scanning the page. She finds the place easily—her thoughts had circled it endlessly since the last time. She hesitates.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

 

Rey’s voice is barely above a whisper as she begins.

… The young man, sliding his arm under my body, drew me gently towards him, as if to keep himself and me warmer; and the heat I felt from joining our breasts, kindled another that I had never felt, and was, even then, a stranger to the nature of... 

Her voice falters to silence. Her fingers tighten around the book.

Mr. Solo doesn’t speak. He just watches her, calm and unreadable.

“I can’t,” she says softly, ashamed.

“You can,” he replies. “You wanted to read it, didn’t you? Then read it.”

Rey’s eyes remain on the page, but the letters blur, not from lack of light—but from the heat rising behind her eyes and in her cheeks. The silence between them stretches, heavy and expectant.

“Continue,” he says, quietly. But there’s a new weight to it.

… my hips being borne up, and my thighs at their utmost extension, the gleamy warmth that shot from it, made him feel that he was at the mouth of the indraught, and driving fore right, the powerfully divided lips of that pleasure-thirsty channel…

"Stop," Mr. Solo interrupts her.

Rey's voice dies at once. She lowers the book, eyes wide, heart pounding. Her hands, still clutching the worn leather cover, are trembling slightly.

She doesn't look up. She's afraid of what she'll see on his face.

 

And, truth be told, she's also afraid of herself. Afraid of the wetness she feels between her legs, the strange throbbing that seems to be begging for her attention.

"That's enough for tonight."

Rey slowly nods, the tension in her chest still tight

Mr. Solo moves forward, silent, and gently takes the book from her hands. He sets it aside.

“That will be all, Miss Niima.”

Chapter 7

In the days that follow, Rey can’t bring herself to look Mr. Solo in the eye.

 

He seems to always be in his library these days when the time comes for her to serve him.

 

She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor as if it might somehow swallow the shame burning in her chest. The words from Fanny Hill echo in her mind, tangled with the memory of her own voice reading them aloud under his steady gaze.

 

Her eyes constantly drift to the shelves—the books somehow seem more distant now than they ever did before. Row after row of leather-bound spines, gold lettering, soft pages she can’t touch anymore.

 

Because he hasn’t let her read since that fateful night.

 

And yet, each time she comes in, he’s reading. Turning pages slowly, deliberately. Always when she arrives. As if it’s a reminder.

 

As if he wants her to see what she’s lost.

 

And when he speaks to her, something flares up inside her: a rush of heat and guilt that leaves her flustered and breathless.

 

Mr. Solo, for his part, doesn’t mention the night. Doesn’t bring up the book. Doesn’t refer to the words she read, or how her voice had wavered. That silence unsettles her more than any reprimand would have.

 

______

 

When the night of the Ko Connix ball arrives, Rey hangs out of the kitchen window to watch Mr. Solo's carriage trot out.

 

She catches a glimpse of him as he comes down the stairs—his boots polished to a mirror sheen, a dark tailcoat clinching sharply to his broad shoulders, and a white cravat tied neatly at his throat.

 

He looks every inch the picture of a gentleman—the kind women turn to watch as he passes, and men instinctively try to measure themselves against.

 

It's not fair. He was probably going to be out until midnight or later, with music and lights and laughter. Curfew is unlikely to be a concern for him tonight – not like it was when Rey broke it.

 

He'll likely dance with Miss Kaydel. Not the square dance Rey danced with Poe, but one of those slow songs with violins and pianos. Maybe she'll give him a handkerchief of hers, and there'll be no one to force him to give it back.

 

Maybe he’ll even smile—that rare, half-crooked smirk he’s stingy with but devastating when it appears. Maybe he’ll lean in, murmuring something just for her to hear.

 

The tight twist of something unnamed presses her chest. Jealousy? Resentment? Loneliness? All three, perhaps.

 

She remains in the kitchen even after finishing all her chores. Waiting for him to come back. She doesn't really know why. Maybe because she wanted to see what he looked like after music and lights and Kaydel Ko Connix’s hand on his arm.

 

Outside, the night grows deeper. The wind picks up. The clock ticks on.

 

And still she waits.

 

She doesn't hear the front door open—and not even the index finger that slides gently across her cheek.

 

She only realizes she's fallen asleep on the windowsill the next morning. Her face is pressed against her pillow, not the cold pane of the kitchen window. Her boots have been removed. A blanket, one she doesn’t remember fetching, is tucked over her shoulders.

 

The shame hits her all at once. If it was Mr. Solo… then he’d carried her. Which meant he’d come into the kitchen. Seen her slumped against the window like some fool. Lifted her, probably half-drooling and snoring, and brought her here. To her room.

 

She clenches her fists into the blanket around her. God, was she drooling?

 

Then her eyes fall on it.

 

A cup—her cup—steaming faintly in the cool morning light.

 

And beside it, a square of folded parchment. Her name written in an elegant script.

 

Rey.

 

She stares at it.

 

He must have boiled the water. Ground the beans. Chosen the cup. Carried it here with that long stride of his and set it—gently—beside her bed.

 

The way she usually did for him.

 

And somehow, this is worse than being carried. More intimate. More disarming.

 

She swallows, hard.

 

Her cheeks burn again, but not just from shame anymore.

 

______

 

"Sir?"

 

"Hmm?" he murmurs without looking at her.

 

“I—I just wanted to say thank you… for yesterday.” Her voice falters a little, but she pushes through. “For the coffee. And everything else.”

 

“You were cold,” he says simply. “I didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

 

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he adds, “I should probably reprimand you for being out of bed after curfew. Falling asleep where you shouldn’t.”

 

Her breath hitches, but he continues before she can reply.

 

“But considering I didn’t return until nearly dawn myself…” His mouth twitches, dry amusement threading through his tone, “...I don’t believe I’d have much ground to stand on.”

 

Rey blinks. “You were out that late?”

 

He shrugs—unbothered, like it means nothing.

 

And then, because she can't contain her curiosity, she asks: "How was the ball yesterday, sir?"

 

He doesn't look up from his papers as he answers.

 

"Just like any other ball, Miss Niima."

 

"I've never been to one before," she says.

 

He stops to look thoughtfully at her for the first time.

 

"You're not missing much," he says, "It's just a bunch of people talking, eating, and dancing."

 

"Dancing?".

 

He shrugs, almost dismissively, and his gaze flickers down to the papers again. “Yes. That too.”

 

For some reason, his lack of enthusiasm makes her smile. “Did you dance?”

 

He lets out a quiet laugh, something almost bitter, though it’s more of a snort than an actual laugh. His eyes don’t meet hers this time. “I don’t dance, Miss Niima.”

 

He didn’t. Not with Kaydel. Not with anyone.

 

And for some reason, that knowledge makes her chest flutter with something warm and entirely unreasonable.

 

Rey tilts her head, an amused glint in her eyes. “What a shame.”

 

The smallest of smiles spreads across his mouth, almost imperceptible.

 

“Don’t let it ruin your opinion of me,” he says.

 

"Too late, sir".

 

______

 

Rey decides to confess to the priest on Sunday. She doesn't go into detail, of course. She doesn't mention that she still lies awake some nights thinking about the things she read in Fanny Hill, her heart racing and her skin too warm. She doesn't mention the strange desires and urges that have taken hold of her ever since. She doesn’t say that the ache low in her belly doesn’t frighten her anymore—that it tempts her.

 

She doesn’t mention that sometimes the words aren’t enough anymore. That sometimes it’s not the protagonist she imagines, but herself. That sometimes, the hands she dreams about are not a stranger’s.

 

They are Mr. Solo’s.

 

The priest’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Do you repent?”

 

“Yes,” she whispers, though it feels uncertain in her throat. Like a lie said for the sake of being good.

 

He gives her her penance—twenty Our Fathers and forty Hail Marys—and she slips out of the booth like a shadow, kneeling in the farthest pew to do it in silence.

 

She is already on her twentieth Hail Mary when she feels someone sit next to her.

 

A shadow settles at her side, and a low voice follows.

 

"A lot of sins to repent of, Miss Niima?"

 

Rey’s breath catches in her throat. Her hand stills over her rosary. Slowly, she turns.

 

Mr. Solo sits beside her, dressed in his usual dark coat, hands clasped loosely between his knees, eyes fixated on her.

 

"Mr. Solo," Rey sighs, glancing around furtively, but the church is empty, and the priest is nowhere to be seen, “What—What are you doing here, sir?"

 

“I suppose I should follow your example,” he replies, his mouth quirking without warmth, “Confess my sins.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Though I fear mine would take the priest the better part of a week.”

 

She watches him, unsure whether to smile or frown.

 

Rey stares at him, thinking about how the last time he had entered this church was for Mr. Han's funeral. He had sat in the front pews then. Now, however, he was in the back sitting with her.

 

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” she says after a beat.

 

“I don’t.”

 

Then why...?

 

He stares back at her.

 

Rey blinks, suddenly realizing that he was there for no other reason than the fact that she was there too.

 

Rey looks back down at her rosary, cheeks warming. She returns to her prayers, hiding her small, startled smile behind clasped hands.

 

They sit in silence for a time—Rey whispering her penance, Mr. Solo still and quiet beside her. His presence is heavy but not unwelcome. She wonders if he’s watching her lips move, if he hears every whispered Hail Mary like a confession not meant for him.

 

Then he speaks again. Low. Closer.

 

“How many is it?”

 

She hesitates. “Twenty Our Fathers. Forty Hail Marys.”

 

He lets out a breath that sounds like half a laugh. “And here I thought you were a good girl.”

 

He says it in a tone that makes her skin heat. For some reason, she remembers Fanny Hill once more, and clasps her hands tighter in her lap, the rosary biting into her skin.

 

He notices. He looks down at her hands, then reaches out and envelops them with one large, warm palm.

 

Rey freezes.

 

Slowly, he moves his hand until it closes gently over her fingers, his thumb moving over her knuckles in soothing strokes.

 

Rey stares ahead at the altar, but she no longer sees it. Her heart is too loud. Her breath shallow. There’s nothing holy about the way she feels right now.

 

But still, she doesn’t pull away.

 

And neither does he.

 

They stay like that in silence for God knows how long.

 

She wonders if he has nothing better to do. Surely there are other ways for a man like him to spend his Sunday. How appealing could it possibly be—sitting in silence, in a church he doesn’t believe in, just so he can watch her repent for her sins?

 

His finger shifts slightly, trailing down to her wrist.

 

And then—he presses.

 

Just lightly. Just enough to feel the frantic thrum of her pulse beneath his touch.

 

Her breath stutters. She feels hot—burning, almost. As if all the air in the church has thickened and wrapped around her skin like smoke.

 

And then he lets go of her hands.

 

When she dares to look up, he’s already rising from the bench, that maddening, unreadable expression on his face.

 

He looks down at her.

 

“Your cheeks are red,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You might want to confess again.”

 

______

 

Rey and Rose are once again sitting on the back steps of the Solo mansion, their baskets of fresh fruit nestled between them, still full from their trip to town.

 

Rose gestures excitedly.

 

"...and candelabras, and flowers, and...oh! Did I mention that Mr. Ko Connix bought a Persian table especially for the ball?" Rose rolls her eyes, "He always finds a subtle way to show people he has money."

 

Rey only half listens, her eyes thoughtfully lost in the distance.

 

A pause, then Rose leans closer with a conspiratorial smirk. “And let me tell you—I may have had a bit too much punch, but I thoroughly enjoyed watching Miss Kaydel Ko Connix stand around all night waiting for a dance.”

 

That catches Rey’s attention. Her brows lifts.

 

“She turned down half the eligible bachelors in the room,” Rose says with relish, “all so she could wait for one particular gentleman to ask her.”

 

Rey bit the inside of her cheek. Her voice comes out carefully, too light. “Did he?”

 

Rose shakes her head. “Not even once. Mr. Solo didn’t dance with a single soul.”

 

Rey exhales slowly through her nose. She already knew—of course she did—but hearing Rose say it filled her with something odd. Not joy, exactly, but something close.

 

“He just stood with the men all night,” Rose added. “Drinking, smoking, brooding. Poe said he overheard something though—Mr. Ko Connix was talking about marriage.”

 

That makes Rey's heart skip. “Marriage?”

 

Rose nods. “Some vague comment about family alliances, I think. Knowing him, he's probably trying to marry Miss Kaydel off to Mr. Solo.”

 

Rey drops her gaze to her hands. Her fingers curl tightly into the folds of her dress.

 

Rose, oblivious, gives her a teasing nudge. “But speaking of marriage… you do know Poe would make a wonderful husband, right?”

 

Rey groans softly. “Not this again.”

 

“You can’t blame me for trying! You’re my best friend. I want to see you with someone kind. Poe’s twenty-three. Has steady work. Good with animals. I bet he’d make a great husband. And a great father.”

 

Rey shakes her head but doesn’t answer. Rose goes on, her voice softening.

 

“You want a family. I know you do. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

 

Rey hesitates, then says quietly, “He doesn’t like me. Not like that.”

 

"Oh, don't be blind, Rey," Rose laughs, "If you spent more time around him, you'd see how much he likes you," she arches her eyebrows suggestively, "I still think you should take my advice and meet him at the stables."

 

"Rose..."

 

"You're not going to get a family by staying locked up in this manor," Rose argues, "You should let Poe court you. If he proposed, you could build a little house in the country, or you could move to—."

 

"Miss Niima."

 

The two girls suddenly turn to find the tall figure of Mr. Solo standing in the doorway of the back door. He gives Rose a brief, hard stare, then turns his gaze to Rey as if her friend's presence isn't even worth acknowledging.

 

"I believe I heard Mrs. Maz calling for you."

 

Rey scrambles to her feet. “Of course, sir.” She turned to Rose, managing a small smile. “Sorry. I’ll see you at mass.”

 

Rose just nods, and Rey hurries with the baskets of fruit into the mansion. After placing them in the kitchen, she makes her way through the rooms until she finds Maz cleaning the carpet in the music room.

 

"Do you need me, Maz?"

 

The older woman turns around with a frown.

 

"No, child. I'm fine, thank you."

 

Rey blinks, confused.

 

"You didn't call for me?"

 

“Not that I recall, no. Why?”

 

“It's just that Mr. Solo—", Rey trails off, shaking her head, “Never mind. I must’ve misheard.”

Chapter 8

Rey wakes up thirsty in the middle of the night. Still groggy from sleep, she decides to get out of bed and tiptoe to the kitchen to get some water, only the candlestick in her hand lighting the way.

 

It will be quick. She'll be quiet. Just a glass of water to soothe her throat, then go back to sleep.

 

But just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she stops.

 

A soft, flickering glow spills into the hallway from the drawing room.

 

Rey clutches the candlestick a little tighter.

 

She glances toward the hallway window. The world beyond the glass is pitch-black, the kind of deep, undisturbed night when every living thing should be asleep.

 

Could Mr. Solo still be up?

 

The question lodges somewhere in her chest.

 

She shifts her weight quietly, leaning just enough to peer around the edge of the doorframe.

 

Mr. Solo sits in the armchair, half in shadow, the amber glow of a single lamp illuminating the sharp lines of his face. One arm drapes lazily over the side, a glass of whiskey resting near his knee.

 

He’s wearing only a white shirt and dark trousers—no waistcoat, no cravat. The shirt is half-unbuttoned, collar loose, sleeves pushed up his forearms. And his hair is slightly disheveled, like he's run his hands through it more than once.

 

There's something raw about him in this state. His long legs stretched out carelessly before him, his head tipped slightly back as though in thought. He looks entirely unlike the man she sees during the day.

 

Rey hesitates.

 

Then, before she can think better of it, she steps inside.

 

He doesn't look up, but even so, he seems to feel her presence there.

 

“Miss Niima,” he says, her name curling in the low hum of his voice. There’s a trace of amusement in it, maybe even fondness, as he studies the amber swirl in his half-filled glass. “Disregarding curfew… again?”

 

“I—” She clears her throat, acutely aware of the way his shirt clings faintly to his chest in the lamplight. "I just came for a glass of water, sir. But I saw lights in here and thought I'd better check if you needed anything."

 

He finally lifts his gauze to her. His eyes are a little heavy-lidded, dark with drink and something else.

 

“I do,” he says simply.

 

Then, as if it amuses him, he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound deep and private, as though she’s told him a joke only he understands. His fingers tap once against the rim of his glass.

 

“I would like company,” he adds after a moment, voice softer now. “If that’s something you’re offering.”

 

Rey shifts on her feet. The flame between them flickers again. She isn’t sure if it’s the air or her breath that stirs it.

 

She knows she shouldn't linger. It’s after curfewl. If anyone sees her alone in a room with Mr. Solo at this hour—

 

“I shouldn’t,” she says quietly, her voice not quite steady. “It’s late.”

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t answer her hesitation. He just takes another slow sip from his glass, his gaze fixed on her.

 

“Come here, Miss Niima.”

 

It’s the way he says it—measured and calm, as though the outcome isn’t in question. As though he knows she’ll obey.

 

Because of course she will. She's his maid, no matter what liberties he gives her. She has to obey.

 

Rey hesitates—then moves toward him.

 

In an instant, his large, warm hand reaches out and closes around hers, tugging her gently closer until she stands before him, her nightdress brushing against his knee.

 

She looks at his fingers wrapped around her hand, remembering with a blush how he touched her in the same way at church several days ago. How the same warmth she felt that day seems to return so easily.

 

He releases her hand, his own dropping back to the armrest. He tips his head, considering her, then gestures vaguely at her candle.

 

"Put it down."

 

Her fingers tighten around the base, the flame quivering. She doesn’t move.

 

He smiles a little.

 

"There's a table right there," he points out. "Put it down."

 

The candlestick settles on the side table with a soft clink. Her fingers feel bare without it.

 

Swallowing hard, Rey moves to sit in the armchair in front of him, but just as she begins to lower herself into it, he speaks again.

 

“No, not there.”

 

She stills.

 

He studies her for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans back in the chair and shifts his posture—his knees falling open slightly, the fabric of his trousers pulling taut over his thighs.

 

“Come here,” he murmurs, patting the empty space on his thigh with two fingers. “I said I wanted company.”

 

Rey’s breath catches. Her feet stay planted where they are, her eyes wide. Her heart is pounding.

 

“I—sir—”

 

“Sit,” he says, gentler this time, but still with that quiet command.

 

Her eyes flick toward the door once more. No footsteps. No shadows. But even so…

 

Her voice is a whisper. “Someone might—”

 

“No one will,” he says, low and sure. “No one’s awake. And even if they were…” His mouth curves slightly. “They wouldn’t interrupt me.”

 

The words make something coil in her stomach—tight, uncertain, not quite fear and not quite thrill.

 

Then, without another word, she crosses the last bit of space between them and sinks carefully onto his thigh. Not looking at him. Not breathing.

 

Her pulse thrums at the base of her throat, a wild, traitorous beat. Every nerve in her body feels alert, alive, unbearably aware of the man beneath her.

 

His thigh is firm beneath her, unyielding. She can feel the heat of him through her thin nightdress, feel the subtle shift of his muscles as he shifts slightly to accommodate her weight.

 

She doesn't remember ever being this close to a man before.

 

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

 

Then his hand settles on her waist— thumb brushing just once against the fabric of her nightgown. The contact is barely there, but it steals the breath from her lungs.

 

“There,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s better.”

 

She’s close enough now to smell the whiskey on his breath, to see the fine tension in his jaw, the faint sheen at his throat.

 

“You—” Rey starts, but her voice catches. She swallows, tries again. “Have you had much to drink, sir?”

 

Mr. Solo’s lips curl faintly at the edges. “Yes, Miss Niima,” he says, voice low and warm. “Sometimes I have to.”

 

Have to? The words puzzle her. Nobody forced him to drink. He opened the bottle himself, he poured himself some. How did he have to? She doesn't insist on understanding, however.

 

He lifts the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight. Then, without a word, he tilts it toward her in offering, his other hand still holding her waist in a firm grip.

 

“Would you like some?”

 

She blinks. “I—I can?”

 

“I’m feeling indulgent tonight,” he says, his eyes steady on hers.

 

“I’ve never tasted it,” Rey admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

He smiles slightly, as if he already knew that. Of course.

 

He brings the glass closer—not to hand it off this time, but to hold it himself. The rim hovers before her lips, his other hand still firm on her waist, steadying her. The intimacy of it is dizzying. Her mouth parts before she means it to.

 

“Just a sip, Miss Niima,” he murmurs.

 

She leans forward.

 

The whiskey touches her tongue, and instantly she winces. It’s hot and sharp and foreign, smoke and fire and something bitter beneath. She pulls back with a soft cough, bringing her fingers to her lips.

 

Mr. Solo chuckles low in his chest, the sound vibrating through her where she sits.

 

“It’s not a favorite, is it?”

 

She shakes her head, eyes watering a little. “It tastes like… varnish.”

 

That earns a real laugh from him, warm and raspy. “A fair comparison.”

 

He sets the glass aside with a quiet clink, his attention returning to her fully now. “It isn’t meant to be pleasant, not at first. It’s meant to be strong.”

 

She shifts slightly, the movement minute, but he notices. His hand at her waist firms, keeping her close.

 

“You did well,” he says, his gaze dipping to her lips, then back to her eyes.

 

Her breath catches again.

 

She feels like every inch of her skin is lit from within, as if the heat from the whiskey has traveled deeper than it should have—settling low in her belly, spreading outward.

 

“Why do you drink it, then?” she asks softly.

 

He lets out a slow breath, eyes darkening with a shadow she can’t quite name.

 

“Sometimes, a man drinks not because he wants to, but because he needs to. It steadies the mind… keeps certain impulses at bay.”

 

His hand tightens briefly on her hip, then loosens, careful.

“Without it, some evenings would be much harder to endure.”


Rey is silent, not sure what to say. Mr. Solo says such peculiar things sometimes.


“You won’t tell Maz, will you?” Rey asked, her voice low, uncertain.

 

Maz wouldn't like to know that she drank whiskey, with or without Mr. Solo's permission.

 

Mr. Solo’s lips curled faintly.

 

“No,” he said quietly. “It can be our secret.”

A pause. A beat where his eyes didn’t leave hers.

 

“Like our other one,” he added, voice dropping just a fraction lower.

He didn’t have to say it. She knew what he meant.

 

The book. Fanny Hill.

 

The night she read it aloud to him is an embarrassing memory in the back of her head. One that makes her cheeks heat, makes her feel even more aware of Mr. Solo’s proximity beneath her.

 

"Do you still think about it?".

 

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then shakes her head—quick, too quick.

 

“Don’t lie,” he murmurs, his hands tightening at her waist, fingers curling slightly over the thin fabric of her nightgown. “You can’t lie to me.”

 

His dark eyes search hers in the flickering lamplight.

 

“I know what a curious girl you are,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the seam of her waist, barely there, “My pretty, curious girl”.

 

She can feel her pulse in too many places now—her throat, her wrists… between her legs. A slow thrum that won’t quiet.

 

A humorless laugh slips past his lips. “Maybe I should blame my father for that.”

 

Her body goes still.

 

The mention of Mr. Han lands like a stone in the quiet.

 

She doesn’t speak—just holds her breath, unsure if he means it as a jest or an accusation.

 

But Mr. Solo doesn’t stop. His eyes stay fixed on her face, searching, relentless.

 

“I know you’ve been thinking about it,” he continues, softer now. “The book. The things you don’t understand.”

 

He leans in—closer than he should. Close enough that the smell of alcohol on his breath seems even stronger, and it's as if she's drinking the whiskey again, this time straight from his mouth.

 

“And I know,” he adds, his voice tightening slightly, “that you want to understand them.”

 

“You said,” she begins, hesitantly, “you said I shouldn’t read it. That I should learn those things from my husband.”

 

His jaw clenches at the word husband, and then she feels him force her back, pressing her even tighter against his chest, almost as if he wants to make sure she can't get out of there.

 

As if he wants to trap her there.

 

“Yes,” he says, voice low and bitter. “That’s what I said.”

 

His breath ghosts against her cheek as he leans in, his lips near her ear now.

 

“But every time you ask me something with that curious voice, I want to give you the answer. I want to show you everything. Even if I shouldn’t.”

 

His nose grazes her temple, and Rey’s whole body is alight with the nearness of him.

 

“But even now,” he says, voice cracking just a little, “even now, I don’t think I could stop you. Not if you asked.”

 

His voice drops even lower, so low she almost misses it.

 

“So ask, Rey.”

 

It’s the first time he’s ever said her name—Rey—and the sound of it breaks over her like a wave.

 

He’s never called her that before. Not Rey. Not like this. He always says Miss Niima, clipped and proper, sometimes teasing. A gentleman’s formality. A barrier. A line neither of them was meant to cross.

 

But now that line is gone, and the sound of her name—her first name—spoken in the shadowed hush between them feels like a match dragged across dry wood.

 

That's what Mr. Han called me, she thinks, the memory tasting bitter and sweet at the same time, Just Rey.

 

Her throat works as she swallows. She doesn’t know what she would ask. Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s known all along. Her mind races with all the forbidden questions she’s never dared to say aloud—about the book, about him, about her own body and the strange heat she’s felt ever since that night.

 

He presses her even tighter against him, her bare feet floating in the air as his legs beneath hers lift her off the ground. And she feels so vulnerable, knowing he could break her with just one move.

 

"Ask me," he urges, voice rough and commanding, and his breath grows louder against the skin of her throat, until she feels his lips brush lightly there, his hands running up and down the sides of her thighs, so big and wide they make her feel like a doll, “Ask me what they were doing in that book. Ask me why you feel like you’re burning just sitting in my lap. Ask me why I can feel how wet you are against my thigh.”

 

Rey's eyes widen, pressing her thighs together. Can he feel it? Even through her clothes?

 

“I—Mr. Solo—”

 

Before she can try to scramble out of his lap, he stops her, holding her forcibly against him, his hands everywhere they shouldn't be.

 

“Let me show you,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, almost a plea. “Let me show you what you read in that book.”

 

Rey swallows hard, the heat pooling deep inside her making her cheeks burn brighter than ever.

 

“Let me, Rey”.

 

There it comes, her name again.

 

And then she says the only thing she can force out of her lips.

 

"Yes."

 

Chapter 9

"Lift up your nightgown."

 

Mr. Solo's command makes her shiver. But she has to obey him. God, she wants to obey him.

 

Her fingers are clumsy with nerves as she reaches for the hem of her nightgown.

 

Rey can feel his breath growing heavier, his chest rising and falling under her. She can hear his heartbeat too, quick and heavy and wild.

 

When the hem is just below her knees, he says “Keep going."

 

Rey hesitates a second longer, and then his hands are at her wrists, his grip firm. He drags her hands higher, her nightgown lifting further and further up her thighs.

 

"All the way."

 

He doesn't let her go until she pulls the garment up past her hips. The white fabric pools around her waist, and she bites her lip hard to keep from crying out.

 

She's exposed now—so much of her, the skin of her legs and thighs pale in the dim light. And her drawers—she can see the damp patch in the front, the one that's grown larger the longer she's sat in his lap.

 

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know if she should say anything at all.

 

She just waits, heart pounding, breath held.

 

Mr. Solo makes a soft noise—not quite a growl, but something like it.

 

"Good girl," he whispers.

 

A voice in her — a faint, timid one — tells her she should be ashamed. That this isn’t proper. That a young woman shouldn’t sit in a man’s lap in the middle of the night, half-dressed and filled with thoughts she doesn’t even understand. Especially when the man in question is her master.

 

But there's another voice too — louder, pulsing in her blood. It tells her this is what she’s been waiting for, even if she didn’t know it.

 

His fingers skim the outside of her knee, and she stiffens—it sends a jolt through her so swift and foreign it steals her breath.

 

“You’re shaking”.

 

“I don’t—I don’t know what to do”.

 

She's not sure if she should know. Does that make her an idiot? Does he think she's an idiot?

 

“You don’t have to do anything”, he says. And then, after a long pause, he tucks his face into the crook of her neck, the faintest press of lips. His breath is warm against her ear. “Close your eyes.”

 

She hesitates, lashes fluttering.

 

“Do it.”

 

She does as he asks, and her eyes fall shut.

 

And all she can do now is feel.

 

His hand moves up, his palm sliding over the dampened fabric, and when his fingers reach the place where her legs meet, he doesn't hesitate.

 

He cups her, hard, and Rey lets out a broken gasp.

 

He shouldn't be touching... that part of her. No one should touch it. She knows that. But she feels like she couldn't force herself to push him away even if she wanted to.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he drags his fingers over the fabric, rubbing her softly through her drawers.

 

"You're already wet," he rasps, voice strained, and Rey's toes curl at the sound.

 

"Is... is that a good thing?" she asks uncertainly.

 

"Yes," he answers simply, and she hears the smile in his voice, "It's a good thing."

 

He moves his fingers up and down, his hand large and warm and firm. The friction is so much, too much, and her hands grasp for purchase on his knees, the only solid thing in her world.

 

"Does it feel good?"

 

She doesn't know if it does. Her mind is swimming, and his hand is so heavy against her, and she feels like her entire body is on fire.

 

"I don't—I can't—"

 

He rubs harder, faster, and the words die in her throat.

 

"Answer me."

 

"Yes."

 

It's not a question. It's a command, and the word falls from her lips in a breathless, broken gasp.

 

His fingers push aside the dampened fabric of her drawers and slide into the cleft between her legs.

 

His fingers are touching her, with no fabric between them now. She feels so small being touched by his big hand, and it feels like they've crossed a whole line again.

 

 She hears him let out a rough breath.

 

"Look at you," he mutters, almost to himself. "You're so sweet, and soft, and warm... A pliant, willing little creature just for me."

 

He touches her gently at first, his fingers parting her folds and dipping into the wetness. It's an unbearable tease, a caress that isn't enough, and Rey arches toward him.

 

Then his fingers find the bud of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

 

His thumb circles once, slowly, and Rey feels a lightning bolt of pleasure crack through her.

 

"Oh," she gasps, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Oh."

 

"That's it," he murmurs, the movement of his hand quickening. "You like that, don't you?"

 

Her hips are rocking against his hand now, a rhythm he sets with the steady movements of his fingers.

 

"I—I don't—"

 

"Shhh."

 

His thumb presses against her again, faster, and she's shaking now, the fire threatening to consume her.

 

"What... what's happening?"

 

She can hear how scared her voice sounds.

 

He presses a kiss to her jaw. "Do you want me to stop?"

 

"No!" she gasps. "Please... I mean, I don't— Please don't stop"

 

"Do you want to feel something good, Rey? Just like the girl in the book?"

 

"Y-yes."

 

"I'll make you feel good, but only if you're a good girl."

 

"I'll—I’ll be a good girl."

 

"Will you do as I say?"

 

"Yes," she breathes. "I'll do anything."

 

He presses another kiss to her jaw, and she shivers at the contact.

 

"So you're not going to meet that boy anymore, are you?".

 

She has no idea who he's talking about, only focused on the fire that grows with every movement he makes between her legs. So she just shakes her head, her eyes closed and her lips parted.

 

"Say it," he insists, and his fingers grow more insistent, harder.

 

"I—I'm not going to meet any boy."

 

"No, you won't," he agrees, his movements only growing more intense. "No more disrespecting the curfew. No more talking after mass. No more stupid ideas."

 

She shivers, but forces herself to nod, not sure exactly what he's saying. It's growing now, the feeling. Building. His thumb rubs faster, and when she cries out, he shushes her.

 

"You have to be quiet”, he squeezes her bud, and she bites her lip to hold back a moan, "That's right. Keep quiet and I'll take… very good care of you", he growls, the rhythm of his fingers relentless. "Come for me."

 

Rey's whole body is wound so tightly that when the release finally breaks over her, it's like a dam bursting. She shatters, and a ragged sob rips from her throat as the wave of pleasure carries her.

 

So that's it… The realization hits her hard. This was what she had been trying to achieve on her own all this time. Nights and nights of frustration where she felt like something was missing. That was it.

 

Maybe only Mr. Solo can make her feel this way. Maybe it's something she can't achieve on her own. Maybe she was doing something wrong during those nights in the dark of her room.

 

Clearly Mr. Solo knows better.

 

As her breathing slowly returns to normal, she opens her eyes. She feels dizzy. Her legs feel like they're made of jelly.

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"I'm..." Her voice sounds shaky. "I don't know. I think—good. Really good."

 

"That's right." He rubs her arm. "You did so well."

 

She feels her body relax at the praise.

 

"Did you feel good too, Mr. Solo?"

 

He smiles as if he knows something she doesn't.

 

"Yes, Miss Niima. Very good."

 

She looks at him from below, then blushes when she realizes that she is still exposed, her nightgown pulled up, his hand still inside her drawers.

 

Her chest rises and falls as he withdraws his fingers from between her legs, and she notices with embarrassment that they look sticky with her moisture.

 

He notices it too, and studies intently in the dim light of the candlestick the viscous liquid on his digits.

 

She is about to offer to fetch a cloth for Mr. Solo to clean himself up when, to her shock, he brings his fingers to his own mouth.

 

He sucks them, then pulls them out, his mouth making a lewd pop, his dark eyes never leaving hers, as if he wanted to make sure she was watching.

 

She's frozen, stunned. She doesn't know if she should feel flattered, embarrassed, or ashamed. Maybe it's all three.

 

"Does it taste good?"

 

She doesn't really know why she asks, and she wishes the question had stayed in her head instead of coming out of her mouth.

 

Mr. Solo raises an eyebrow, and holds her gaze a moment longer before speaking again, his voice dropping low, almost like a confession.

 

"Yes. Much better than whiskey," he says quietly. "And much more addictive, too."

 

Rey blinks, heat rising to her cheeks, her mind scrambling to catch up with what’s just been said. Addictive? How could something like that be addictive?

 

He glances toward the nearby bottle of whiskey still sitting half-forgotten on the table. Then, with a quiet huff of breath that might be a laugh—or a sigh—he mutters:

 

“Think I’m gonna need a lot more alcohol from now on.”

 

Rey tilts her head, frowning slightly. “Why?”

 

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks at her again, his gaze darker, quieter.

 

"Go to bed, Rey."

 

She blinks at the unexpected harshness.

 

"Mr. Solo?"

 

"I've had too much to drink," he says, his voice hoarse. "I'm not myself tonight. You should go."

 

His tone is flat, and it's hard to tell if he's angry or sad.

 

But whatever he's feeling, it's different. He's pushing her away, and Rey doesn't know what she's done wrong.

 

She stares at him for a few seconds in silence, like a kitten wanting attention, still motionless in his lap.

 

But then he clears his throat, and she jumps, her legs shaking as she slides off his lap.

 

Rey tries to adjust her nightgown as quickly as possible, embarrassed, feeling as if she has committed a crime. Her thighs feel sticky, and the space between her legs still throbs with the remnants of his finger’s attentions.

 

"I... Goodnight, Mr. Solo."

 

He just nods, reaching over to grab the glass of whiskey once more.

 

She realizes she's been dismissed – just as she is dismissed after serving him coffee – and hurries out of the room, her heart pounding, her pulse still racing, and her skin still prickling from the warmth of his touch.

 

______

 

It's hard to concentrate on her tasks the next day.

 

She has to brush her teeth three times to get the taste of whiskey out of her mouth, afraid that for some reason Maz could smell it on her breath.

 

She loses a bit of her composure every time she remembers Mr. Solo's touch, her face heating up and her hands fumbling as she washes the dishes in the kitchen.

 

She wonders if her body is supposed to feel this hot.

 

Maz doesn't seem to notice her agitation.

 

Rey is grateful for the lack of questions. She can hardly keep the thoughts in her own head, let alone voice them to someone else.

 

She wants to think that last night was a dream, but the dull ache between her thighs reminds her that it wasn't.

 

She's almost certain she's committed a sin. Maybe what she's feeling, what she let him do to her, is the influence of the devil the priest talks about so much.

 

She wonders what it is that he does, the devil. Why does he make her feel so strange? Why does it have to be such a good kind of strange?

 

Mr. Solo goes out riding in the morning, something peculiarly unusual in his routine, and Rey ends up being excused from serving him food.

 

She spends most of the morning scrubbing the kitchen floor with more force than necessary, the bristles of the brush grinding into the tiles like they might erase what happened if she just pushed hard enough. Her knees ache, her back burns, but her mind won’t stop racing.

 

She thinks of his hands again. The way they held her. Her cheeks flush just remembering the heat of his breath against her ear, the weight of him. It’s all wrong, she tells herself. It has to be. And yet, every time she thinks that, her heart betrays her with its quiet little flutter.

 

The afternoon stretches long and quiet, and Rey avoids the front of the house where Mr. Solo might return. She scrubs and sweeps and peels vegetables until her fingers are raw and her thoughts finally begin to dull.

 

When she finally hears the hooves of his horse outside, her entire body stiffens. She can hear him dismount, boots hitting the earth, the faint creak of leather.

 

Then silence.

 

She dares looking through the window. Mr. Solo stands beside his horse, brushing dust from his coat.

 

Then he lifts his head. Just slightly.

 

Not quite looking at her—more like he feels her watching.

 

Rey flinches and ducks away from the window, suddenly furious with herself. What is she doing? Waiting for him? Hoping for another night like that? Or hoping it never happens again?

 

She moves to the sink, pretending to be busy when she hears the door open. He goes silently upstairs, boots heavy on the steps, and then the house falls quiet again. The door to his room shuts with a dull click.

 

Hours pass, and Rey is distracted by her many tasks, almost certain that he won’t call her to serve him today.

 

Perhaps he feels as guilty as she does.

 

Perhaps he’d pretend last night never happened.

 

But as the sun is almost setting, Maz enters the kitchen with a bag of carrots and potatoes and places them in front of Rey without ceremony.

 

“Mr. Solo has requested that his dinner be served in the library in an hour,” she says, and then pats Rey briefly on the shoulder before hurrying out, “Don’t be late.”

 

Rey stares down at the vegetables, her stomach tightening.

 

When the hour strikes, she carries the tray through the quiet halls. The weight of it is nothing compared to the heaviness inside her chest.

 

The door to the library is ajar. Mr. Solo sits in his usual chair, posture straight, hands resting idly on a sheaf of papers, as though nothing at all is different from the countless times she’s served him here before.

 

But his cravat is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. And his hair—normally so carefully combed back—is slightly tousled, as if he’s run his fingers through it more than once. There’s a crease between his brows, and his gaze is distant until it lifts and finds her.

 

"Close the door behind you."

 

Rey hesitates only a second before obeying. Her fingers close around the edge of the door, pulling it shut with a soft click that seems to echo too loudly in the quiet room.

 

She turns, tray still in hand, and finds Mr. Solo watching her as she silently walks over to his desk and begins to set his dinner in front of him.

 

“Rey.”

 

Her name stops her like a hand to the wrist. She turns slowly, eyes meeting his.

 

He’s watching her with that same unreadable expression, and yet something in it feels changed—warmer, maybe. Or heavier.

 

“I wanted to speak with you,” he says.

 

She nods, uncertain. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mr. Solo leans back in his chair.

 

“I don’t know how far my father’s education went when it came to you,” he says slowly. “But I imagine there were certain subjects he considered…inappropriate. Or unnecessary.”

 

Rey shifts where she stands, heart thudding. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her.

 

“He was problably right,” Mr. Solo continues, “in his own way. Those lessons shouldn’t have come from him.”

 

He lifts his gaze again, pinning her with it.

 

“They should come from me.”

 

He rises then, slowly, and walks around the desk until he’s standing just in front of her. She tilts her chin up slightly to meet his eyes, but her breath catches when he lifts a hand—carefully—and brushes a strand of hair back from her cheek.

 

“The things I did to you the other night,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “they weren’t for anyone else. Do you understand?”

 

She nods, eyes wide.

 

“They should only happen when you’re with me.”

 

Another nod.

 

His hand lingers at the side of her face, fingertips warm against her skin. “Only I can touch you like this,” he says.

 

Rey’s breath hitches. Her lips part, but she can’t bring herself to speak. She simply nods again.

 

“No one else,” he repeats. “No one else can touch you like this. Do you understand?”

 

She nods.

 

His hand drops, but only to trail lightly down her arm before falling away completely. “Not even you.”

 

That makes her blink. Her cheeks go hot. Her hands stiffen at her sides.

 

Mr. Solo watches her reaction, and something dark, knowing flickers in his eyes. “You’ve already done it,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.

 

She flushes from neck to forehead, her shame so immediate and consuming she wants the floor to open and take her.

 

“I—” she starts, then falters.

 

“You mustn’t do that again,” he says, voice low and firm, almost like he’s scolding a child, “That kind of pleasure,” he goes on, “is dangerous in untrained hands. It turns wild. Selfish.” He pauses, letting the silence wrap around his words like a noose. “And it teaches you to believe your body belongs to you.”

 

He leans closer, his breath brushing her temple.

 

“But it doesn’t.”

 

Rey’s breath stutters.

 

He draws back just slightly, enough to meet her gaze again. “It belongs to me. I’m the only one who knows how to use it properly. The only one who knows how to give you what you need.”

 

He tilts his head. “You have to be good for me,” he says. “Don’t touch yourself unless I tell you to. Don’t chase that feeling unless I give it to you.”

 

Her face burns with the shame of it, but also something else—something warm and dark and dizzying.

 

“I’ll know if you do,” he adds, his voice a whisper now. “You won’t be able to hide it.”

 

Is it possible for someone to know what she did just by looking at her? Her eyes widen at the thought.

 

“Say you understand.”

 

“I understand,” she whispers.

 

A beat passes between them, electric and quiet.

 

Then, after a long pause, Mr. Solo brushes his thumb gently across her bottom lip.

 

“Good,” he says.

 

His thumb lingers for a heartbeat too long before he draws it away, but the warmth of it remains, burning into her skin. Rey stands very still, the tray forgotten on the desk behind her.

 

“What about you, sir?” she asks quietly, eyes downcast but voice steady enough to betray the question that’s been needling her ever since he spoke. “Can… can you only touch me?”

 

Mr. Solo’s lips curl, just slightly.

 

“Yes, sweet girl,” he says, voice warm and slow, “only you.”

 

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding slips from Rey’s lips as relief floods her. She doesn't like the idea of ​​him touching other girls like he touched her. Girls like Miss Kaydel.

 

Mr. Solo's gaze drops to her mouth, and it lingers there—a heavy, smoldering pause that sends a flutter low in Rey’s belly.

 

"Tell me," he says, voice low and unhurried, "have you ever been kissed?"

 

The question steals her breath. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, heat blooming across her cheeks.

 

Slowly, she shakes her head.

 

He lifts a brow, feigning surprise. “Never?” he presses, his tone teasing now, darkly amused. “Not even a peck? Not even from that stable boy?”

 

It takes her a moment—he must mean Poe. For some reason, Mr. Solo always refers to him in that clipped, slightly mocking tone. Always makes a point to bring him up.

 

“Poe has never touched me,” she says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. But it’s true.

 

Mr. Solo’s mouth twitches in satisfaction. “Good.”

 

His eyes meet hers again.

 

“Would you like to know what a kiss feels like, Miss Niima?” he asks.

 

Rey swallows. Her lips part, but no sound comes.

 

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

 

She hesitates for a second before nodding.

 

Mr. Solo's eyes darken. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in just slightly, until she can feel the heat of his body but not quite his touch.

 

“Beg me then.”

 

Rey blinks. “What?”

 

He smiles—slow and sharp.

 

“I want to hear you ask for it. Nicely.”

 

She looks at him, her expression unsure but her body still leaning in, drawn like a tide to the pull of him.

 

“I like to watch you beg me,” he adds, voice low and coaxing, "You're even more beautiful when you're desperate".

 

Rey’s lips tremble.

 

“Please,” she forces herself to whisper.

 

He raises a brow.

 

“You can do better than that, sweet girl.”

 

She swallows again, shame burning in her throat and chest and cheeks. But she wants to please him. She wants the kiss. More than that, she wants him to give it to her.

 

“Please… kiss me, Mr. Solo,” she says, a little louder this time.

 

That pleases him. She can see it in the subtle shift of his expression—something softening behind the hunger in his eyes.

 

When his hand comes up to cup her cheek, her breath stutters. He brushes his thumb once across her lower lip—light as a feather—then dips his head.

 

His lips meet hers.

 

They are warm and sure, and far softer than she expected. He doesn’t press hard—just enough to make her feel it, the shape and weight of his mouth against hers.

 

But then he pulls back, just enough to whisper:

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

She obeys.

 

This time, the kiss deepens. His hand moves to the back of her neck, guiding her, and she feels something electric spark down her spine.

 

He tastes like whiskey and cigars and something she doesn’t yet have words for.

 

She makes a soft sound—embarrassed by it the second it slips out—but Mr. Solo doesn’t mock her for it. If anything, he seems pleased.

 

When he pulls back, her lips are parted, her chest rising and falling too fast.

 

He watches her for a long, quiet moment, thumb stroking lightly beneath her jaw.

 

"There it goes," he says, "Your first kiss", his eyes dip to her lips again. “And now you’ll always remember how it felt. Who gave it to you.”

 

Rey flushes—so hot she’s sure he must feel it radiating from her skin.

 

“You should,” he adds quietly, almost an afterthought. “You should remember everything I give you.”

 

He then takes a step back, sitting back behind his desk, ignoring the way Rey tries to compose herself.

 

He picks up the cloth napkin she’d folded.

 

“You may serve me now,” he says, his tone clipped back into something cool, authoritative.

 

But when he glances at her again—just once, from over his shoulder—his eyes are anything but cold.

Chapter 10

Mr. Solo gives her access to his books again the next day. He lets her read a ladies’ version of Robinson Crusoe, but more than that, he lets her use his library, let her wander leisurely through the spines on the shelves like an excited child.

 

Under his watchful eye, of course. He wouldn’t want another incident like Fanny Hill.

 

After she pours his coffee, she selects a few titles from the shelf and shows them to Mr. Solo.

 

He nods at The Lamplighter and Night and Morning, then reaches for another, his fingers closing around the worn spine of Gamiani.

 

“This one is inappropriate,” he says, sliding it quietly out of her reach.

 

Rey frowns. “Why do you even keep it here if it is inappropriate?”

 

 “It is inappropriate for you, not for me.”

 

 “If it’s inappropriate, then it should be inappropriate for anyone who reads it. Not just me.”

 

Mr. Solo’s gaze sharpens.

 

"Books like this were written for men”, he says, “For women, such things are dangerous—disruptive. A woman’s mind is delicate, easily led astray by things better left unseen”.

 

Rey snorts, picking up the permitted books.

 

Not fair, she thought. He could read whatever he pleased, while she was left in the dark.

 

You should be grateful that you were allowed to read these books. You should be grateful that you can read at all.

 

She is about to carry the books out with her when Mr. Solo stops her.

 

"Read them here."

 

Rey turns to him with a frown.

 

"But I have work to do."

 

“I’m telling you to stay,” he says softly, but with an edge that brooks no argument, “You’re not going to disobey me, are you?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Good,” he points to the cushion on the floor next to his chair, “Come here.”

 

She moves toward him. The cushion feels surprisingly soft beneath her knees as she settles beside his chair.

 

Mr. Solo watches her carefully. For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

 

Then, his hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

 

Rey’s breath catches, but soon he pulls his hand away, picking up his own book to read in silence.

 

Minutes pass, the only sound the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional faint crackle from the fire. It's comfortable, though. Each of them immersed in their own story.

 

Perhaps too comfortable. After a while, Rey finds herself sliding to the side, until her head rests on Mr. Solo's thigh.

 

Without breaking his focus on the book, his fingers begin to trace slow, gentle circles along her hair. Rey closes her eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his touch, the steady beat of his presence grounding her in the moment.

 

Rey breathes in the faint scent of tobacco and something woodsy, a scent she’s beginning to crave.

 

Rey lets her eyes close again, leaning fully into the warmth of his thigh beneath her cheek, the steady pulse of his hand in her hair.

 

And in that quiet, wordless moment, she feels something shift—something like belonging.

 

______

 

"Have you ever been kissed, Rose?"

 

Rey asks suddenly as the two of them are leaving church on Sunday. Thankfully, Poe is far away from them, talking to a group of boys, and Maz is distracted by carrying a bag of donations to the sacristy.

 

Rose suddenly stops on her feet to look at Rey.

 

"Well..." Her cheeks flush slightly, "Maybe once or twice."

 

Rey leans forward.

 

"Who?"

 

"A girl has her secrets."

 

"Not from her best friend," Rey insists with a chuckle, "Was it the baker's son? The one you thought was cute?"

 

Rose hesitates before nodding, but then says, "Please don't tell anyone, okay? People can't know."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because it was just for fun," she says, "I don't want to marry him. And you know what people think of girls who go around kissing."

 

Rey blinks.

 

"What do they think?"

 

"Well, you know. They'd say I'm behaving like Jezebel. That I'm frivolous, that I'm sinning."

 

Rey furrows her brow as they begin walking again.

 

"But it’s just a kiss," she says quietly, almost to herself.

 

Rose glances sideways at her, "I know... At least no one ever found out. Mr. Ko Connix certainly wouldn't like that. He might even think I'd be a bad influence on his daughter," she laughs, "And I am."

 

Rey thinks about Mr. Solo. The weight of his hand on her jaw. The press of his mouth against hers. How her knees had felt weak afterward, how her breath had stuck in her throat for the rest of the evening.

 

“But it’s only a sin if someone finds out,” Rey says, “Right?”

 

"Yeah, I guess so," Rose replies, giving Rey a sidelong glance. “Why are you asking all this anyway?”

 

Rey shrugs, too quickly. “Just curious.”

 

But Rose is not fooled. “You kissed someone.”

 

“No,” Rey says.

 

“Yes, you did!”, Rose's eyes widen in delight. “Who?”

 

Rey bites her bottom lip, face suddenly hot. “I can’t tell you.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Rose hisses. “Now who’s keeping secrets?”

 

Rose narrows her eyes at Rey, a grin slowly stretching across her face. “It was Poe, wasn’t it?”

 

She doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t say it wasn’t Poe. Doesn’t admit it was Mr. Solo.

 

It’s better this way. Safer.

 

Rose is still smiling, clearly thrilled by the idea. “You lucky thing. I bet he was sweet, wasn’t he? Gentle?”

 

Rey gives a noncommittal hum.

 

Sweet. Gentle. She wouldn’t have used those words.

 

No—Mr. Solo had been deliberate. Demanding. Possessive in a way that curled around her spine like heat.

 

But she only shrugs, letting Rose fill in the blanks. Letting the lie settle between them like a folded note never opened.

 

______

 

Rey decides to make Mr. Solo an apple pie the next day. She had been up since dawn slicing, stirring, brushing the crust just so, hoping it would come out right. Hoping he’d like it.

 

Her knuckles hovered over the door to his study for a second before she knocked.

 

“Come in.”

 

She stepped inside, the pie balanced between her hands. Mr. Solo looked up, and the moment their eyes met, her heart gave a foolish little flutter.

 

“I… I made something for you,” Rey said, stepping forward.

 

He set his pen down with slow precision, and his gaze dropped to the covered pie in her hands.

 

“For what, exactly?” he asked.

 

“For the books,” she said quickly, cheeks warming. “For letting me read in the library. For… trusting me again.”

 

She stands there in the middle of his office until he beckons her over with his finger.

 

She walks around his desk until she stands next to him with the pie in her hands, the smell of spice and apple filling the room.

 

"I know you don't like sweets," she says tentatively, "But you liked it the last time I made it."

 

Mr. Solo leans back slightly in his chair, watching her the way a cat watches a trembling bird.

 

“I don’t,” he agrees, voice low. “But I liked yours.”

 

Rey’s lips tug at the corners in a hesitant smile, small but proud. She offers him the pie with both hands, the cloth warm against her palms.

 

He doesn’t take it.

 

Instead, his gaze remains on her, heavy and unwavering.

 

“You want to thank me properly?”

 

Rey blinked. “I—yes. That’s why I made—”

 

“I’d like another kind of thank you,” he interrupted gently, tilting his head. “Give me a kiss.”

 

Her breath caught.

 

“A kiss,” she echoed.

 

“A simple one. Just here,” he said, tapping his cheek lightly, “or here,” and his finger drifted lower, brushing the corner of his mouth. “You may choose.”

 

Rey’s fingers tightened on the edge of the cloth covering the pie.

 

He waited.

 

Her feet moved before her mind fully caught up. She stepped closer, and then she leaned in.

 

She kissed him on the cheek. Light. Barely there.

 

But before she could retreat, his hand came up, resting gently at the back of her neck.

 

“Is that all?” he murmured.

 

Her breath hitched.

 

He turned his head, just slightly, so that when she looked at him again, their mouths were almost touching. “Or did you want to kiss me here instead?”

 

Rey didn’t speak. But her eyes flicked down to his lips, and that was answer enough.

 

This time, she didn’t aim for his cheek. Her lips brushed his softly, uncertain at first—until his hand tightened just a little, anchoring her there.

 

Then he kissed her.

 

His mouth claimed hers with a kind of hunger that startled her, all heat and pressure and frustration. His other hand came up, sliding around her waist, pulling her closer until the pie trembled in her hands.

 

She gasped against his lips, but he didn’t pull back. He devoured the sound, deepening the kiss, tilting her head as though he couldn’t bear the inch of space between them.

 

His lips broke from hers only when she finally turned her face, gasping for air. His breath was just as ragged, brushing hot against her cheek. His hand still rested at her nape, thumb stroking the fine hairs at the base of her skull.

 

Neither of them spoke.

 

When he pulled back, he didn’t smile. He only looked at her. Steady. Serious.

 

“You’re welcome,” he said.

 

Rey could hardly breathe, but she managed a nod.

 

She remembered Rose’s words from that morning—“People think girls who kiss like that are frivolous, sinning…” The sharp sting of judgment pressed on her chest.

 

She looked down at the pie, then back at him.

 

“I should—I should go”.

 

She lowers her head and, after receiving a nod from him, hurries out of the office, not fully trusting him – and, to be honest, not trusting herself either.

 

______

 

When she returns to the empty office, there are only crumbs of pie left on his plate. She proudly takes it with her to wash.

 

______

 

Rose is coughing when they meet at the fair that day.

 

"Are you okay?" Rey asks worriedly as they make their way through the vendors.

 

"Yes," Rose says weakly, "It's just a cold."

 

"Maybe winter is coming," Rey says, "Maz taught me how to make a tea that's great for colds. I'll bring it to you later."

 

"Don't worry, it'll pass soon."

 

"I insist. You'll feel much better after drinking it, I promise."

 

After buying what they need, they say their goodbyes and Rey hurries back to Solo Manor.

 

While the water heats, she carefully prepares the tea, chopping ginger thin, squeezing the lemon, stirring the honey in until it dissolves.

 

Once the tea is ready, she pours it into a small flask, sealing it tightly, and steps back out into the cold afternoon.

 

She arrives at the Ko Connix mansion in less than thirty minutes on foot. The servants already know her, and greet her as she enters through the back entrance.

 

She finds Rose peeling potatoes in the kitchen, but she looks tired.

 

Rey steps quietly into the kitchen, setting the warm flask down on the counter beside Rose.

 

“Here,” she says softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Rose’s damp forehead. "I made you some tea. It should help."

 

Rose looks up, her tired eyes brightening a little. “You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“I wanted to,” Rey replies, smiling gently. “Maz says it works better when you believe it will.”

 

Rose manages a weak laugh and accepts the flask. She takes a tentative sip, then sighs softly, the warmth spreading through her.

 

Rey moves closer, watching her friend carefully. “You should sit down and rest,” she says. “I can finish these for you.”

 

Rose shakes her head stubbornly. "No, I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all."

 

"Don't be stubborn," Rey takes a potato from her hand, "Go rest."

 

Rose gives a small, reluctant nod and sets the peeled potatoes aside. “Alright, I suppose a short rest won’t hurt.”

 

Rey watches her go, then turns back to the task, peeling the potatoes with the precision of a maid accustomed to doing it.

 

A few minutes pass before she hears the kitchen door open. Poe steps inside quietly, his boots dragging slightly over the worn wooden floor, surprise flickering across his face when he sees her there.

 

“Rey? I didn’t expect to find you here.”

 

“I brought Rose some tea,” Rey says, smiling gently. “She’s not feeling well.”

 

Poe nods, his gaze thoughtful as he steps closer and takes a seat at the small wooden table.

 

“Good of you,” he says quietly, then gestures toward the potatoes. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Rey glances at the half-peeled potatoes scattered across the wooden counter and then back at Poe with a teasing smile.

 

“Do you even know how to peel potatoes?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Poe grinned, unabashed. “How hard can it be? I can try.”

 

She hands him a potato and a peeling knife, watching as he fumbled awkwardly at first, his fingers unfamiliar with the delicate motions.

 

“Slow and steady,” Rey coachs gently, leaning closer to guide his hand. “You don’t want to lose any fingers.”

 

He chuckles. “I think I’m better with horses than a paring knife.”

 

Rey laughs softly. “Well, that’s why I’m here.”

 

They work side by side in companionable silence, the warmth from the kitchen stove and the faint scent of apples and spices from the tea filling the room.

 

For a few moments, the kitchen is quiet except for the sound of peeling and the faint crackle of the fire.

 

Then Poe clears his throat. “You should come more often.”

 

She meets his gaze, curious.

 

“Let me court you properly,” he continues, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Not just stealing moments here and there”.

 

She blinks, caught off guard. “Court me?”

 

Poe frowns, his eyes flickering away for a moment. “Does that surprise you?”. He runs a hand through his hair, then clears his throat. “I beg your pardon, I thought my intentions were clear.”

 

"I'm sorry, I didn't—”

 

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he interrupts gently, his voice low and sincere. “I just... I want to be honest about how I feel. About what I want.”

 

Rey looks down at the half-peeled potato in her hand, then back at him.

 

"Nothing has to change between us. I just wanted you to know."

 

“I... don’t know what to say right now.”

 

Poe gives a small, understanding nod. “That’s alright. You don’t have to say anything now”.

 

For a moment, the kitchen falls into a comfortable silence.

 

Rey glances back at the potatoes, then at Poe, a small smile playing on her lips. “Well, I suppose you should keep practicing your peeling skills, if you’re going to be spending more time here.”

 

Poe chuckles, picking up the potato and knife again. “Consider it part of my courtship.”

Chapter 11

"Where have you been?"

 

Mr. Solo's question ripples through the room as Rey serves him dinner.

 

She stops on her feet, looking up with the tray still in her hand.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"I called for you this afternoon, but Maz said you were out," he says quietly, watching her, "Where did you go?"

 

A flicker of hesitation crosses Rey’s face before she speaks, careful. "I went to deliver some tea to Rose. She's sick."

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darkens, a subtle but unmistakable edge creeping in. “To the Ko Connix’s, then.”

 

She nods.

 

His gaze sharpens. “Was the boy there?”

 

"Poe is a friend," Rey says defensively.

 

"Was the boy there?" he insists, his voice harsh.

 

"No."

 

The lie tastes bitter, but she holds his gaze, steady and unyielding.

 

He sets his fork down with deliberate care and leans forward slightly, voice low but edged with warning.

 

“I don’t know what freedoms my father granted you,” he says slowly, “but you will not be going to the Ko Connix manor again. Do you understand me, Rey?”

 

"What?" her eyes widen, "Why?"

 

"For your safety."

 

"My safety?" she repeats in disbelief, “What could possibly be so dangerous about the Ko Connix house?”

 

He glances away briefly, muttering under his breath, “The household.”

 

Rey’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration rising. “My best friend lives there.”

 

"Miss Rose is certainly not a good influence either, but she’ll come find you here if she must," he says, "I won't object to that."

 

"Is this all about Poe then? You must know he doesn't—"

 

"Don't," Mr. Solo interrupts her, "mention that boy to me again."

 

“You don’t even know him!”

 

“This conversation is over, Miss Niima”.

 

"But you can't just—”

 

“Enough.” His tone is sharp. “You’re being disobedient. Stop talking back. You forget your place.”

 

Her eyes flare with fierce defiance, unyielding despite the chill settling in the air between them. “And what place is that, exactly?”.

 

A slow, cold smile spreads across his lips. “It’s wherever I decide it to be.”

 

His gaze sweeps over her, lingering at her mouth, then lower still, a flicker of something darker lighting in his eyes.

 

“And right now?” he adds, his voice dipping lower, more intimate, almost taunting. “I’d like that place to be on my lap again.”

 

Heat rises in her cheeks.

 

Her protest, her righteous anger—it falters, blurring at the edges as something else surges up in its place. She tries to summon indignation, to remember why she was furious with him just a moment ago. But her body betrays her, thrumming with a restless, dizzy warmth that pools low in her belly.

 

“Come here, Miss Niima”.

 

And she obeys, of course.

 

As she approaches, she becomes more aware of just how large he is. Seated in his chair, he still seems to take up all the space around him —like a predator at rest.

 

She stops before him, her breath shallow. And then—before she could speak—his hands finds her waist.

 

But instead of pulling her onto his lap like that night in the drawing room, he lifts her effortlessly and sets her down on the edge of the table in front of him in one fluid motion.

 

She gasps, startled, hands bracing against the polished wood at her sides.

 

He pauses, his face hovering inches from hers.

 

Her eyes are wide, lips parted.

 

She knows what comes next.

 

But he doesn't kiss her.

 

His fingers dig into her thighs, spreading them open, then his hand slides upward.

 

"I have more lessons for you, my pretty, curious girl."

 

His gaze pins her, unwavering and intense, a storm held just beneath the surface. She tries to meet it with fire, but the heat pooling inside her burns too fierce, softening the edges of her defiance.

 

He leans in, his voice low and husky, almost teasing.

“If you play your part and keep in line, I can teach you things—things you’ve only dared to imagine. Do you want that? You’re always hungry to learn more, aren’t you?”

 

The words tumble out of her before she could stop herself.

 

"Yes, sir”, she says, like the pliant, little thing she is.

 

Mr. Solo smirks, and then begins to pull up her skirts, his fingers venturing further. Soon his fingers are trailing lightly down her center, feather-light and maddening.

 

She inhales sharply, and a shudder passes through her.

 

He pauses, watching her carefully, studying the rise and fall of her chest.

 

"This is where I want to kiss you."

 

She looks at him confusedly. She has no idea what he's talking about. Kissing her... between her legs? What a silly idea. Why would anyone want to kiss someone right there?

 

Her breath stutters as his finger strokes back and forth over the fabric.

 

"There are... other ways to pleasure a woman," he explains, "The place where I touched you that day... I can put my mouth there."

 

"Your mouth..." Rey's eyes widen, "... down there?"

 

He nods, almost licking his lips.

 

"I can assure you it's an equally pleasurable experience for the man."

 

She bites her lip, unsure.

 

"Do you trust me, Miss Niima?"

 

It is a simple question, and yet it caught her off guard.

 

Does she?

 

Mr. Solo is a puzzle to her. Sometimes cold, sometimes warm. Sometimes acting like a father, sometimes like a lover, sometimes like her master.

 

But he was always there—in her thoughts, in her hesitations, in the parts of herself she wasn’t sure belonged to her anymore.

 

She was beginning to wonder if she was a piece in his game—or the whole board.

 

Her eyes drift over his face, taking in the hard set of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. His dark eyes hold hers, burning.

 

Slowly, she nods.

 

His fingers hook on the waistband of her drawers, and he tugs.

 

He pushes her legs apart and dips his head between her thighs, his dark hair brushing against her inner thigh.

 

Then his mouth closes over her.

 

"Oh," she gasps, her body jerking forward.

 

The feeling of his tongue against her is exquisite, the heat of his mouth a perfect contrast to the cool air. He is ravenous, devouring her, lapping her up like a dying man at a well. She reaches out to touch his hair, but his hand grabs her wrist, and he pushes her back, holding her in place.

 

His free hand grips her thigh, his thumb rubbing circles on her skin.

 

He groans, and she moans, the sound echoing around them.

 

"Oh..."

 

It feels so good, too good, and she knows this is wrong, and dirty, and utterly scandalous, and yet...

 

His hand moves up her thigh, his fingers digging into her skin, and his mouth continues its delicious torture, and it feels so good, so wrong, and the combination makes her feel reckless, bold.

 

She rocks her hips against him, trying to find the right angle, the perfect spot, and she does, and oh, God, yes, and it feels even better.

 

His hand releases her wrist and moves to the small of her back, pressing her against him, and she arches, her hips grinding against his mouth.

 

"Beg”.

 

"Please," she says, her voice trembling.

 

She doesn't know what she's asking for, only that she needs it.

 

"Please," she says again, a breathless, needy sound.

 

Mr. Solo roars between her legs, his mouth taking and taking and taking more than she had to offer.

 

Her head falls back, her eyes squeezed shut, and she can feel it coming, the pleasure cresting, and she hears a moan, low and harsh and rough, and it's her own.

 

The sound is ragged, and her head falls back, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps.

 

Then the white fades and the world comes rushing back.

 

Mr. Solo's head is still between her legs, but it's not his tongue she feels in her folds. No. He's kissing her mound, and then she feels his nose trail along the juncture of her thighs, through the dark curls there in the middle.

 

When he finally pulls away, almost reluctantly, his mouth and chin are glistening with her slick. Rey feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and even more so when he slowly licks the corner of his mouth.

 

Her breathing is ragged, her limbs trembling. She's so sensitive, and her mind is a foggy haze, and she can barely think straight.

 

"How—," she trails off.

 

He seems to understand what she wants to know as the corner of his lips lifts with the shadow of a smile.

 

"Do you want to know what you taste like?"

 

Rey nods, dazed.

 

Mr. Solo leans closer, and her eyelashes flutter when his mouth hovers near her ear.

 

"The sweetest," he whispers, “Like a sweet little peach."

 

The words make her shiver, and she's suddenly very aware of the fact that her thighs are wet.

 

"Do all...," she hesitates, struggling to find the right word, "Do all women taste like this?"

 

He hesitates.

 

"I couldn't say, Miss Niima. Believe it or not, you're the first woman I've ever...tasted."

 

Rey's face grows hot, and she looks away.

 

"Oh."

 

He chuckles.

 

"You're disappointed."

 

She shakes her head.

 

"I just didn't expect it", she hesitates for a moment, and then adds, "I like... well, I guess I like being the only one."

 

Mr. Solo gently strokes her cheek.

 

“You’re the only one in many ways,” and then he smiles, “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

 

Then he steps back, helping her put the skirts of her dress back in place and guiding her away from the table.

 

“Come on,” he says. “We should eat before it gets cold.”

 

Rey opens her mouth to protest, but before she can say anything, he’s already sitting and drawing her with him. She’s not sure how it happens — one moment she’s standing, the next she’s settled sideways across his lap, balanced there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

He doesn’t give her time to overthink it. His hand reaches toward the simple plate of roasted roots, flatbread, and meat. He takes a piece, breaks it, and offers it to her between his fingers.

 

At first, she hesitates — but then she leans in and takes the food from his hand, her lips brushing his knuckles. It's not often that she gets the opportunity to eat the same food as her master. He says nothing about it. Just tears another piece, this time for himself.

 

There’s a strange intimacy in the silence between them. No words, just the rhythm of sharing. A bite for her, a bite for him.

 

Every now and then, his fingers linger a moment too long as he feeds her, brushing the corner of her mouth or tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

 

And she lets him.

 

The plate slowly empties between them.

 

Rey leans her head against his shoulder, not quite looking at him, and closes her eyes, just for a moment, letting herself rest there.

 

______

 

For better or worse, Rey finds herself spending more and more time in Mr. Solo’s library or office as the days go by.

 

More often than not, he insists that she stay there after she serves him his food. Whether it’s reading one of his books while he strokes her hair, sharing a meal with him, or letting him touch her more intimately than he should.

 

She doesn’t object to any of the three situations.

 

She tells Maz that Mr. Solo asked her to catalog the books on the shelves. A perfect excuse to justify the absurd amount of time she spends with him.

 

“I have to work,” she whispers one afternoon, her voice muffled against the worn collar of his shirt. She’s curled up in his lap in the library armchair, her knees drawn up, a dog-eared fantasy novel open and forgotten in her hands.

 

“Hmm,” is all he offers, the sound little more than a breath. He doesn’t look up from the accounting ledger spread across his knee. He doesn't loosen his arm around her waist, either. His grip stays firm, as if she might try to escape—though she never does.

 

She's not even sure he really hears her anymore, not when she says she should go. He never answers with words, only with the quiet pressure of his hand at the small of her back or the slow slide of his fingers into her hair, anchoring her to the moment. To him.

 

And it makes no sense. He doesn't need her here. His attention is clearly elsewhere—on the endless columns of numbers, on correspondence from estate stewards and solicitors, on anything but her. And yet he insists.

 

Her thumb slides over the edge of the page, but she doesn’t turn it. Instead, she tilts her head back slightly to glance at him. His brow is furrowed, jaw tight in concentration as he scans the ledger in his lap.

 

“You know,” she says softly, “Maz will get suspicious if I keep spending so much time here. I need to help her with the housework.”

 

His eyes flick to her.

 

“I can hire another maid if she needs more help”.

 

"And what will I do then?".

 

“I like having you here,” he says simply.

 

“That’s not a job, Mr. Solo.”

 

"You can be rewarded for this, though."

 

Rey shifts slightly in his lap, lifting her head from his chest. Her brows draw together.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Instead of answering, Mr. Solo moves. One arm slides beneath her thighs and the other braces her back, and before she can protest, he lifts her just enough to ease her off his lap and onto the cushion beside him.

 

She blinks in surprise, watching as he stands and crosses to his desk, sliding his drawer open. He retrieves something carefully before returning to her, placing her sitting back on his lap.

 

He holds the object toward her.

 

It’s a music box.

 

Small, but unmistakably fine—carved in pale wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A delicate porcelain ballerina is poised on top, arms arched overhead, frozen mid-dance. The craftsmanship is exquisite, every detail impossibly precise. It looks like it belongs in a collection behind glass. In a noblewoman’s dressing room.

 

Not in her lap.

 

Rey’s fingers hesitate. “Is this… for me?”

 

Mr. Solo nods once.

 

She stares down at it. “Why would you give me something like this?”

 

“Because you’ve earned it.”

 

Her breath hitches. “By sitting on your lap and reading your books?”

 

His eyes don’t waver. “By being here. With me.”

 

Her heart skips a beat. “I didn’t think I had to be paid for that.”

 

“You’re not being paid,” he says quietly. “It’s a gift. You deserve to have pretty things.”

 

“I don’t… I’ve never had anything like this.”

 

“I know,” he says, his voice low.

 

She brushes her thumb over the ballerina’s skirt, marveling at how fine and smooth the porcelain is. She almost doesn’t want to open it. Almost.

 

But her curiosity wins out.

 

She lifts the lid.

 

The mechanism clicks, and soft, lilting music spills into the quiet. The ballerina begins to turn, slow and serene, dancing in place to a melody that makes something ache deep in Rey’s chest. A tune that feels like lullabies she never had, like belonging she never dared to dream of.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until his hand covers hers again.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, looking at him. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Rey leans forward, slow and unsure.

 

He meets her halfway.

 

She wanted to give him a soft kiss—something tentative, gentle, barely there. Just a way to say thank you.

 

But Mr. Solo doesn’t let it stay soft.

 

The moment their mouths touch, he deepens it—his hand sliding up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, anchoring her with a quiet urgency

 

Rey inhales sharply through her nose, startled by the sudden shift—but she doesn’t pull away. She melts into him instead, her hands finding the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric as the kiss deepens further.

 

Somehow, the next second he's pushing her back, each of her legs resting on one of the chair's arms.

 

He kisses her until she forgets about the music box entirely, forgets where they are, forgets everything except the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his hand at her waist, urging her closer.

 

"Mr. Solo..." she gasps, the words half a plea and half a warning.

 

His only response is a low hum. His tongue strokes along hers, his hand sliding under her dress. His palm glides over her bare thigh and curls around the back of her knee, pulling her leg up over his hip, the angle opening her to him.

 

He presses himself against her, and she feels something. Something right between his legs, hard and sharp, poking her bud through their clothes.

 

She whimpers, shifting in his lap, her body instinctively seeking relief.

 

His other hand cups her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple. Even through the layers of her dress and chemise, the friction feels incredible, and she arches into his touch.

 

The ache is building between her legs, making her whimper.

 

He's somehow going back and forth, that thing rubbing and brushing against her most sensitive part. He kisses her until her hips rock forward, seeking him, and her arms loop around his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

 

When she rocks her hips forward again, the angle shifts slightly, and he rubs against her just right. The pleasure is sharper than before, and Rey whines, the sound muffled against his lips.

 

The music is still playing, and the ballerina is still spinning, but it feels like the world has narrowed to the two of them.

 

Mr. Solo suddenly lets out a strange sound above her, a cross between a growl and a grunt that reverberates inside her.

 

When she looks up, his eyes are closed, his lips parted, and he suddenly stops moving, his hands clenched into fists around her.

 

And then she feels something wet between her legs.

 

Before she can look down to see what it is, Mr. Solo suddenly pulls away, pulling her skirts down and turning his back to her.

 

Rey blinks, trying to catch her breath. Her body is still wound tight, her limbs trembling, and she's not sure why he stopped.

 

“Mr. Solo…?”.

 

He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, before slowly turning to face her. His face is flushed, and his dark eyes are strangely wild.

 

"Maybe you should go help Mrs. Maz now."

 

Rey's stomach clenches, and her brows draw together in confusion.

 

"Did I... did I do something wrong?"

 

"No," he says, and then adds after a second, "Of course not."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"It's not a request, Miss Niima."

 

Her heart stutters.

 

She rises on unsteady legs, and as she moves past him, she swears she hears him hiss under his breath.

 

She doesn't stop to look. She keeps walking, out of the library and down the hall, and then down the stairs, carrying the music box carefully with her.

 

Maz, of course, has a to-do list for her, and she distracts herself by working the rest of the afternoon, still feeling the sticky sensation beneath her skirts.

Chapter 12

Rey starts coughing the next day, and then it quickly develops into a full-blown malaise that makes her want nothing more than to crawl back into bed.

 

Maz places a hand on her forehead with a worried expression.

 

"You're a little warm," she says, "You better rest today."

 

"I'm fine," Rey argues, "I'll serve this tray in Mr. Solo's office and then—"

 

"I'll serve this," Maz interrupts her, taking the tray from her hands, "You go rest."

 

"But I don't—"

 

"You don't want to infect Mr. Solo with whatever it is you have, do you, child?"

 

Rey shakes her head.

 

"Then go to your room. I'll let him know you're not feeling well."

 

Rey forces herself to return to the servants' wing, reluctant but too tired to keep protesting. Her limbs feel heavy, her skin too tight. She strips off her apron with clumsy fingers and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, barely managing to toe off her shoes before curling beneath the thin blanket.

 

She drifts in and out of sleep. She doesn't know how long it's been when she hears the quiet creak of her door opening.

 

She blinks her eyes open, slow and heavy, the room now cast in afternoon light. And there, in the doorway, stands Mr. Solo, with a plate of soup in his hands.

 

Rey blinks again, trying to sit up. "Sir, Maz said—"

 

"I know what Maz said," he interrupts gently, stepping inside and nudging the door shut behind him. “She didn’t want me catching anything. But I’m not worried.”

 

She tries to smooth her hair, suddenly very aware of how miserable she must look—her face flushed, lips chapped, hair tangled from hours in bed.

 

"You shouldn't be here," she says.

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t answer, crossing the room to her. He places the hot plate on her nightstand and kneels beside the bed, his eyes scanning her face.

 

"I needed to see how you were feeling."

 

"You know what I mean," she murmurs, "You shouldn't be in your maid's private quarters. It is not proper"

 

He lets out a soft sound—part laugh, part sigh—as if proper is the last thing on his mind.

 

"I am far from concerned with what is deemed proper at this moment, Miss Niima."

 

“You didn’t have to come”, she insists.

 

“I did,” he replies simply. “I didn’t like not seeing you today.”

 

Rey swallows, suddenly very aware of how close he is—of the way his eyes linger on her face.

 

“I’m not exactly charming company at the moment,” she murmurs, voice thin.

 

“You think I care about that?” he says, brushing a cool knuckle along her flushed cheek.

 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he reaches for the soup, settling himself beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Rey watches him lift the spoon to her lips with such careful precision it makes her chest ache.

 

“Eat,” he says gently.

 

She does, swallowing slowly, the warmth of the broth easing some of the ache in her throat.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” she whispers between sips, her voice barely audible. “You’re busy. The ledgers—”

 

“To hell with the ledgers.”

 

His words are abrupt, almost harsh, but his gaze is anything but. He dips the spoon again, holds it up.

 

“Right now, nothing is more important than you.”

 

Rey closes her eyes briefly, fighting the sudden prick of tears. It’s not just the fever making her fragile—it’s this, too. The quiet, fierce care in his voice.

 

She opens her eyes again and meets his. “You’re going to catch what I have.”

 

“Then I’ll be sick with you,” he murmurs.

 

Mr. Solo waits as she takes another sip, his gaze steady, watchful.

 

When the last spoonful is gone, he sets the bowl aside and reaches for the cloth he brought with him—damp, slightly cool. He presses it gently to her forehead, brushing back strands of damp hair.

 

She exhales softly, too tired to keep pretending this doesn’t affect her. That his presence doesn’t feel like some strange, impossible comfort. She lets her eyes close for a moment.

 

Then he says it.

 

“I knew that girl was going to get you sick.”

 

Rey blinks, cracking one eye open. “What?”

 

"Miss Rose," he practically spits her name, “You said you brought her tea a few days ago. She was unwell then, wasn’t she?”

 

Rey pushes herself up a little, frowning. “She didn’t ask me to catch her cold, Mr. Solo.”

 

“No,” he says. “But I expect she’ll be asking for something else soon enough.”

 

Her brows knit, confused. “What does that mean?”

 

Mr. Solo exhales, slowly. “It means I’ve tolerated Miss Rose’s involvement in your affairs longer than I should have. For your sake.”

 

“That’s not fair—”

 

“She’s been meddling in matters that don’t concern her,” he interrupts, his tone suddenly crisp, almost formal. “Encouraging you toward… imprudent choices.”

 

Rey doesn’t reply. She turns her head, suddenly tired again. But he watches her for a moment longer, then quietly says:

 

“I’ll send a note to the Ko Connix household. For now, it’s best you don’t receive visitors.”

 

Her eyes fly open. “You’re forbidding Rose from seeing me?”

 

“I’m protecting you from further strain,” he replies calmly. “Mrs. Maz agrees you need rest. And Miss Rose’s presence has rarely brought you peace.”

 

“That’s not your decision,” Rey says, though the words are weak.

 

“It is,” he says gently, but firmly. “When it concerns the health of someone in my care.”

 

Rey swallows.

 

He reaches for the cloth again and presses it softly to her temple.

 

“You’ll thank me later,” he murmurs.

 

And in spite of herself, Rey doesn’t argue again.

 

Time passes in silence, soft and still.

 

Mr. Solo stays at her bedside with a kind of reverent patience, as though the act of watching over her is its own necessity. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t speak. He simply sits in the hard wooden chair pulled close to her bed, one elbow resting on his knee, eyes fixed not on the door or the window, but on her.

 

Rey thinks she’s dozed off again, for when she opens her eyes, she finds him in the same place, his expression unreadable.

 

Then, his voice—soft, low.

 

“Where did you put it?”

 

She blinks. “Put what?”

 

“The music box I gave you.”

 

“Oh.” A flush creeps up her neck. “I hid it. Under my bed.”

 

There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes, though his mouth stays still.

 

He stands and kneels beside the bed, reaching beneath it. His fingers brush around in the dark, but instead of the music box, he pulls out something else—a small jar filled with coins.

 

He frowns.

 

“What’s this?”

 

Rey shifts beneath the blanket. “My savings.”

 

He glances up. “For what?”

 

She hesitates, then answers truthfully, even if the words sound a little silly out loud. “For my future.”

 

He lifts the jar slightly, turning it in his hands. “What does that mean?”

 

Rey bites her bottom lip. “For when I—” she pauses, then continues with a shrug—“when I marry. It’s not much, but… enough to help start a life. A home. There’ll be things to pay for—rent, clothes, maybe even a bit of land, if we’re lucky.”

 

Something unreadable flickers in his eyes.

 

"Why would you have to spend your money on anything? That's a husband's duty."

 

She smiles faintly, but there’s no amusement in it. “Maybe that’s how it works for your kind, sir. But not for mine”, she swallows, “Among working families, especially the ones who start with nothing, it’s different. Both of us have to contribute. If we want a home, if we want anything at all, we build it together. Brick by brick.”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darken as he sets the jar back on the nightstand a little too forcefully, the faint clink of coins sounding like a warning.

 

“So that’s your plan?” he says, voice low but sharp, “Saving enough coin to leave this house behind.”

 

Rey looks up at him, startled by the sudden edge in his tone. “I’m not planning to run away, sir.”

 

“No?” His gaze narrows slightly, but he doesn’t soften. “Because it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. That you’re preparing to build a life somewhere else.”

 

She blinks, the heat of a cough rattling her chest. “I’m just thinking ahead. Like anyone else would.”

 

Rey watches his jaw flex, the faint crease forming between his brows. Then, wordlessly, he turns back to the bed and reaches under it once more. His hand brushes against the dust and shadows until he finds it—the little music box he gave her weeks ago, the one she hadn’t dared to keep out in the open. He draws it out carefully and sets it in his palm, the delicate brass glinting in the low light.

 

He lifts the lid without a word.

 

A soft melody begins to play, delicate and clear, unfurling into the quiet room.

 

Neither of them speaks.

 

The song wraps itself around them, slow and lilting, its sweetness at odds with the tension still clinging to the air like smoke. Rey watches him, her lashes fluttering lower with each note, her body finally yielding to the pull of fevered exhaustion.

 

______

 

When Rey wakes up again, it’s not Mr. Solo who’s at her bedside, but Maz.

 

“I brought you tea,” Maz says gently. “Good for fevers. Drink while it’s warm.”

 

Rey pushes herself up slowly, the pillow at her back slightly damp with sweat. Her limbs still ache, but the worst of the weight pressing on her chest has lifted. She reaches for the cup with both hands, sipping carefully. The tea is slightly bitter, but soothing.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

 

Maz nods, folding her hands in her lap. She watches her for a moment, then speaks again, her voice quiet but edged with something Rey can’t quite name.

 

“Mr. Solo left a little while ago,” she says. “He spent the entire afternoon watching over your sleep.”

 

Rey glances up, startled. “He… stayed that long?”

 

Maz nods slowly. “Barely said a word when I came in.”

 

Rey shifts beneath the blanket, uncertain what to say. The thought of him sitting there in silence, hour after hour, fills her chest with something warm and aching. But the way Maz says it—deliberate, careful—makes her feel like it’s something she should be ashamed of.

 

“He just wanted to make sure I was alright,” Rey says, her voice small.

 

Maz’s eyes finally meet hers.

 

“Maybe so,” she says. “But that’s not usually a master’s duty, is it?”

 

Rey says nothing, but the warmth in her chest starts to cool.

 

Maz sighs and reaches forward, adjusting the edge of Rey’s blanket with precise hands. “I don’t mean to scold you, child. Truly. You’ve done nothing wrong”.

 

Rey frowns. “But you don’t think he should’ve come.”

 

“I don’t think he should be sitting in a maid’s room with the door shut, no.”

 

Rey sets the cup back on the tray, suddenly colder despite the tea. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Maz sighs, “Child, I know you think you understand men like him. You see a little kindness, and it feels like the world’s been turned on its head. But you must know the rules aren’t the same for us. He might be able to forget propriety for a moment. You won’t have the luxury of forgetting what people will think.”

 

Rey swallows, hard. “It’s not like that.”

 

Maz doesn’t argue. Instead, she squeezes Rey’s hand gently and says, “I’m only trying to protect you, Rey. You’re good. But you haven’t been out in the world long enough to know how quickly it turns cruel. How quickly it forgives him and turns its back on you”

 

She rises, smoothing her apron. “Rest now. I’ll bring more tea later.”

 

Rey watches her go, throat tight. The room feels smaller somehow. The air heavier. As Maz pulls the door closed behind her, Rey looks down at the music box still sitting on the nightstand, its lid half-open.

 

She reaches out and closes it slowly, the soft click echoing far too loud in the quiet room.

Chapter 13

The next morning, the fever has mostly broken, leaving Rey feeling wrung out but clearer. She’s propped up in bed when Maz enters with a small folded paper in her hand.

 

“This came for you”.

 

Rey takes the note, frowning slightly as she unfolds it.

 

Miss Niima,

I asked the baker to help me with this note—thankfully, you can read better than I can write.

I was told you’ve taken ill, and I’ve not been able to think of much else since. Rose’s been beside herself since she heard you weren’t allowed visitors—I don’t fare much better.

If there’s anything you need, or if you want to send word, don’t hesitate. We’re all here for you, even if Mr. Solo tries to act like a jailer.

I hope to see you well again soon.

Yours,

Poe Dameron.

 

She runs her thumb lightly over the paper just as the door creaks open.

 

Rey startles, eyes snapping up.

 

Mr. Solo stands in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. His gaze sweeps quickly to the note in her hands.

 

She moves instinctively, folding the paper and tucking it beneath the blanket, beneath her thigh.

 

His eyes narrow a fraction. “You’re feeling well enough to read, I see.”

 

She nods quickly. “A little better today.”

 

He steps further inside, closing the door with a soft click behind him. His eyes linger on her face.

 

“Was that a letter?” he asks, voice too casual.

 

Rey’s throat tightens. “Just a note. Nothing important.”

 

His gaze sharpens for the briefest second. “From whom?”

 

Rey doesn’t answer. She can feel the weight of the paper pressing against her thigh like a burning coal.

 

Mr. Solo steps closer, his gaze fixed steadily on her. “May I see it?”.

 

She hesitates, the paper pressing uncomfortably between her fingers.  She thinks for a moment about tearing up the note, but that would only make him think there was something wrong written on it. And he said that Rey should not meet with Poe, and not to receive messages from him.

 

After a long moment, with a small, reluctant nod, she slides the note from beneath the blanket. She hands it to him, her fingers brushing his briefly.

 

As he reads, his expression hardens imperceptibly. When he finishes, he folds the note deliberately and walks over to the candle flickering on the nightstand.

 

With a small, deliberate motion, he holds the folded paper to the flame. The edges catch fire immediately, curling and blackening as the note burns away to ash.

 

Rey sits up slightly, her eyes wide with a mixture of astonishment and revolt. “Why did you do that?”

 

“Apologies,” he says coolly, his voice clipped with bitter irony. “I didn’t realize you meant to keep it as a souvenir.”

 

"It was just a note…”

 

“Perhaps next time,” he says, “I’ll let him say a little more. Let him talk about how much of a jailor I am. It seems he’s eager enough to cast me as the villain.”

 

Rey falters. “That wasn’t—he didn’t mean—”

 

“You don’t need to waste your breath defending him,” he cuts her. “I don’t give a damn what a low stable boy thinks—or doesn’t think—of me.”

 

He steps closer. “What I care about is that he’s sending messages into a house where he’s not welcome. Even after I said you shouldn't be bothered.”

 

Rey’s jaw tenses. “Poe’s only trying to be kind.”

 

His laugh is short and humorless. “Kind. Right.” He takes a step closer, the distance between them shrinking to something taut. “That’s the word we’re using now?”

 

“You don’t know him.”

 

“And you do?” His gaze burns into her. “You think he cares about you?” he says, voice low, almost dangerous in its restraint. “He’s just like any other boy his age. Flash a little sweetness, a little concern, and suddenly he’s convinced he’s owed something in return.”

 

“You don’t know what he wants.”

 

“No,” he says, eyes dark and unreadable, “but I know what I want.”

 

The air crackles between them.

 

“I want you well. I want you safe. And I want every goddamn boy in this town to remember that you live in my house. That I’m the one who takes care of you.”

 

His gaze holds hers, fierce and unwavering.

 

“I’m the only one who truly cares about you,” he says. “I just don’t need to scrawl some pretty little note to prove it.”

 

He glances toward the nightstand, where the last of the ashes still smolder in the shallow dish, and his mouth curls with quiet contempt.

 

“And if I did write,” he mutters, “I’d use my own damned hand. Not ask a baker to do it for me.”

 

Mr. Solo lingers a moment longer, then straightens and smooths a hand down his waistcoat.

 

“I asked Maz to prepare you something warm,” he says, voice quieter now. “A proper meal.”

 

She doesn’t reply, but her eyes lift to his.

 

He watches her a beat longer, unreadable again, and then turns for the door. Without another word, he leaves, pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

 

______

 

Mr. Solo returns late in the afternoon with a book in his hand, but he says nothing as he sits in a chair next to Rey's bed and begins to read.

 

After a few minutes, Rey recognizes it as The Lamplighter.

 

She feels herself relax, the ache in her limbs fading with each sentence.

 

She closes her eyes and lets the story carry her away.

 

After a while, she senses what feels like a gentle press on her lips, but she isn’t sure if she’s dreaming.

 

______

 

Rey feels much better the next day. She helps Maz in the kitchen, and even ventures to clean the chandeliers in the nearly unused dining room. That’s where Mr. Solo finds her when he returns from an appointment at the Ko Connix house.

 

He stops at the threshold, gloved hands stilling as he removes his coat. His eyes trail upward—over the gleaming dining table she’s already wiped down, the silver she’s laid out to air, and finally to her perched on the stool, stretching upward toward the chandelier.

 

A muscle tightens along his jaw. “What, exactly,” he asks, voice edged with incredulity, “do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Well, good morning to you too, sir,” she smiles slightly, “I’m cleaning the chandelier, as you can see.”

 

Mr. Solo strides farther into the room, irritation flickering across his brow. “You should be resting,” he says curtly.

 

Rey glances down at him from her perch. "I was resting. For three whole days. I feel much better now."

 

He exhales through his nose, clearly unconvinced. “Where’s Mrs. Maz?”

 

“She’s in the kitchen, cutting rhubarb.” Rey wipes a spot of dust from her sleeve. “Don’t worry—she didn’t send me in here against my will. I volunteered.”

 

“You shouldn’t be climbing stools.”

 

She smiles. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tumble to my death.”

 

“Yet.”

 

She climbs down carefully. Without a word, Mr. Solo steps forward—hands coming up instinctively. One steadies the stool, the other settles at her waist, firm and sure.

 

Rey pauses, startled not by the motion but by the sudden nearness—his hand warm through the fabric of her dress, the soft pressure at her hip anchoring her.

 

Once her feet touch the ground, he doesn’t step back right away. His hand lingers a moment longer than it needs to. When he finally lets go, the absence is as palpable as the touch itself.

 

She clears her throat, suddenly aware of how close they’re standing.

 

“You really don’t need to summon Maz like I’m a wayward child,” she says evenly. "I'm fine. Truly. I don't need a babysitter."

 

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be working yet.”

 

"With respect, sir, I have to work. You don't pay me to lie around."

 

He stares at her.

 

Then, in a voice lower and sharper than she expects: “Then maybe I should start paying you to do just that.”

 

Rey blinks. “To lie in bed all day?”

 

“If that’s what it takes to keep you from collapsing in my dining room, yes.”

 

"Well, I appreciate the generous offer, sir, but I actually enjoy working."

 

 “Then get back to doing simpler tasks,” he says at last. “Like serving my coffee.”

 

Her cheeks flush despite herself. “I… I don’t think that counts as simpler.”

 

He tilts his head, as though pretending to consider it. “No?”

 

“No,” she says firmly, though her voice isn’t nearly as steady as she wants it to be. “I think that’s the most complicated thing you can ask of me.”

 

His gaze drops briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

 

“Fortunately,” he says, “I’ve found that clever girls tend to manage even the most complicated tasks… when they choose to be obedient.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Long enough for Rey to feel her pulse rise, then steady again as she tries to rein it in.

 

“I’ll fetch your coffee, then,” she says, voice carefully composed. “Since I’m apparently only qualified for simpler things.”

 

Mr. Solo’s mouth curves—not quite into a smile, but something close. A flicker of approval passes through his eyes, quickly masked beneath his usual reserve.

 

“Good,” he says simply, stepping back from her with that same unhurried deliberation that always makes her feel like she’s being studied.

 

He watches her a moment longer, then turns to leave, his voice drifting over his shoulder as he moves toward the door:

 

“I’ll be in the library.”

Chapter 14

Rey barely has time to get through the library door before Mr. Solo is kissing her.

 

As if her cold had been the only thing standing in his way these past three days. As if he’d been waiting—barely enduring the hours she was feverish, out of reach—and now that she was upright and alone with him again, he could finally give in.

 

She shouldn't be surprised. They'd already kissed and... God forgive them, he'd touched her intimately more times than she'd care to admit.

 

So no, she shouldn’t be surprised. But the truth is, she still is.

 

He doesn’t speak. Just steps forward, firm and sure, and takes her mouth like he has every right to it. One of his hands is at her back, the other in her hair, tipping her head just so. And she lets him.

 

Because the truth is, she’s missed this—missed him—more than she’d admit, even to herself.

 

Her hands find his shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, not to push him away but to steady herself. His kiss is different than before—less hesitant, more urgent. Like something restrained for too long. And she can feel it: the tension under his skin, the barely leashed need in the way his mouth parts against hers.

 

“I thought you wanted coffee,” she says, her lips brushing his as she speaks.

 

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “I wanted you.”

 

He moves her until her back is pressed against the bookshelf, the smell of the books making her even more intoxicated.

 

One hand slides from her waist, down the side of her hip, then up the inside of her thigh, rucking her dress up around her waist as it goes. The sudden feel of his warm palm on her bare leg makes her stomach clench with need.

 

His mouth finds hers again, the kiss almost bruising. And it doesn't take long for her to be swept up in the feeling of his fingers moving up the inside of her thigh, finding her slick and wanting.

 

"My pretty little creature, so ready for me already," he says, his voice a low, rumbling purr.

 

He rubs her knot of nerves, and Rey shivers as she holds on to his shoulders for dear life. But then she feels his finger slide lower, then push against her entrance.

 

She tenses suddenly, her brow furrowing as she looks up at him.

 

"Sir, what...?"

 

"Shhh," he interrupts her, and then pushes his finger in again, only to be stopped by her resistance, "Open up for me. Let me in."

 

Rey's eyes close tightly as his thumb keeps rubbing her, the rest of his fingers gently stroking the soft skin between her legs. He kisses her again, his tongue slipping into her mouth as his free hand reaches up to cup her breast.

 

"You've been so good to me," he says, "Listen to me and let me feel you inside."

 

She has no idea why he would want to feel her inside. She doesn't even know what it feels like. But when he kisses her cheek and whispers a few more words of encouragement, her body responds to his voice anyway, relaxing and opening for him.

 

He makes a pleased sound, his finger sliding inside her with ease, and Rey whimpers.

 

It's such a strange feeling. His fingers are long and thick, and they stretch her in an unusual way. The calluses on his fingertips scrape against the walls of her passage, and although it's not painful, her body tenses again at the strange invasion.

 

"How does it feel?" he asks.

 

"Weird."

 

He chuckles.

 

"It'll feel better soon. I promise."

 

Then his mouth is on her neck, kissing and licking and biting, his finger curling up, moving in and out, and she starts to move with him, her hips undulating against his hand.

 

"That's it, Rey. Good girl. My beautiful, perfect girl."

 

The words are a soothing balm, and she feels herself relax around him.

 

"Will you let me put another finger in?"

 

Rey's eyes widen, swallowing hard.

 

Another one?

 

"It—It won't fit, sir."

 

"It will. Trust me," he kisses the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing there, "I will be gentle."

 

She finds herself nodding, and closes her eyes as he pulls his finger out. Then, slowly, she feels his index and middle fingers pressing against her entrance.

 

"Breathe," he reminds her, his voice gentle, and Rey does.

 

It's even stranger. And the stretching seems to grow more intense, her walls forcibly expanding to accommodate him.

 

She still doesn't understand why he wants to put his fingers there. But she finds herself moaning, her breath growing shallow and erratic, as he moves in and out of her, and the pressure is building, her blood simmering beneath the surface of her skin.

 

"You feel so good," he murmurs, "So soft... So tight. You take my fingers so well."

 

She feels his lips against her neck, his tongue on her skin, and that's all it takes. Her eyes roll back as the pressure breaks, that good feeling floods her senses.

 

When she opens her eyes again, she's sitting in the armchair, her back resting against the soft velvet. And Mr. Solo's head is between her legs.

 

Lips and tongue, tracing up her inner thighs, tasting the wetness that seeps out of her.

 

Mr. Solo's hand slides up her leg, his thumb hooking behind her knee, drawing her leg up and out.

 

His tongue is relentless, tracing her entrance, licking her open. Lapping at her like she's made of something sweet and delicious.

 

And the sounds he makes. Like she's a meal to be savored.

 

Her head falls back against the chair, and her eyes flutter shut.

 

His tongue is insistent, and it doesn't take long before the pressure returns, rising slowly but steadily. She can hear him, groaning and sighing, his hands on her thighs, spreading her wide for his mouth.

 

Her back arches, and her hands grip the sides of the chair as her body spasms. She cries out, her legs trembling.

 

It seems to encourage him even more, and when, once again, she feels an explosion inside her, Mr. Solo pats her thigh twice as if to say 'good girl'.

 

When she catches her breath and looks down, she finds him cleaning her juices around his lips with his tongue.

 

She blushes, and then hurries to close her legs and pull her gray dress down. Mr. Solo lets her, watching her embarrassment with a small smile.

 

"I missed this," he murmurs, almost to himself.

 

Rey looks at him.

 

"I missed this – you – very much."

 

She ducks her head with a smile.

 

"You seem to be quite skilled at this."

 

He laughs softly, a deep rumble in his chest.

 

"I do what I can," then he leans closer to her, "I suppose it's easier because I enjoy... very much... having you on my tongue."

 

She bites her lip, eyes flickering to his, then away again. Her voice is tentative, almost shy.

 

"Have you ever… I mean—have there been others, sir? Besides me?"

                                                 

The mere thought fills her with a strange feeling. Similar to what she had felt when she imagined Mr. Solo dancing with Miss Kaydel.

 

Jealousy.

 

She recognized the taste of it on her tongue now.

 

Mr. Solo studies her for a moment before answering quietly.

 

"No, Miss Niima."

 

She looks up suddenly, her brow furrowing.

 

"None?" she blinks, "Not even in the years you were away from here?"

 

He shakes his head silently.

 

"But you—you're—"

 

"Old?" he suggests with a raised eyebrow.

 

Rey shakes his head, "I'm sorry, sir. That's not what I mean. But you are older than me. And the ladies are always after you, so I thought—"

 

He smiles indulgently, and then cups her cheek gently with one large hand, his thumb stroking her flushed skin.

 

"You should know that things of this nature tend to happen only after marriage," he says slowly, as if trying to find the right words, "And even after that, some wives may find some aspects of it... unpleaseant. Or... unnecessary."

 

"So most men tend to wait until marriage?"

 

Mr. Solo shifts uncomfortably.

 

"Not most, no."

 

Rey frowns.

 

"But you said—"

 

"I know," he interrupts her, and then clears his throat, "But there are some young ladies... some establishments... where these acts are offered without the need for marriage."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"You don't need to understand anything about this, my love," he says, "It's a reality far removed from yours."

 

"But I'm not married. Maybe I'm one of those girls you mentioned?"

 

Mr. Solo quickly shook his head, almost as if she had insulted him.

 

"No, never," and then continued, a little more softly, "These girls receive money in exchange for what they do."

 

"But you pay me too."

 

"Because you work as a maid in this house, not because—," he trails off, clearing his throat, "It's different. In their case, it's their job. And they... well, these girls perform intimate acts with several men."

 

"Several?" Rey's eyes widen, "So the men come... pay... and they do... things?"

 

Mr. Solo nods.

 

"And where do they live?"

 

"They call it a pleasure house, or—," he interrupts himself, looking at Rey with a hard expression, "This conversation really isn't appropriate for you".

 

"But I'm doing what they do!"

 

"No, you're not," he quickly denies, "You have nothing in common with them, Rey. You belong only to me."

 

His words make a heat grow in her chest, but she insists, shaking her head.

 

"But how do you know so much about it? Have you ever been to one of those places?"

 

Mr. Solo swallows hard, and then looks away to the window. His silence stretches long enough that Rey starts to shift.

 

Finally, he speaks—quietly.

 

"Once. A long time ago."

 

"And you chose one of those women?"

 

He nods hesitantly, "One was chosen for me, yes."

 

"But you said you never—"

 

"I didn't go through with it. The things she did to me... I wouldn't let you do them."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

His jaw clenches again, and he shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking.

 

"There are things that only women of easy virtue do behind closed doors. They use their mouths— Well, you'll never need to know about that. A virtuous girl doesn't need to know about any of that."

 

She swallows hard, her voice tentative, "Am I... am I a virtuous girl?"

 

"Rey," he begins, his voice firm, "You are nothing like those women. Nothing like them."

 

His words feel like a soft but certain reassurance, but they also make something stir inside her—something uncertain. Her heart races, and she can't help but wonder why it's so important to him to draw this line between her and those other women.

 

"But how do you know that for sure?" she asks quietly, her voice almost a whisper, as though testing him. "What makes me virtuous? I mean… who decides that?"

 

His hand reaches for hers, gently encircling her fingers with his.

 

“The simple fact that you’re asking this,” he begins, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand, “is what shows me that you are virtuous. And although there are many things that an unmarried young lady like you should not know, at least I am the one teaching them to you.”

 

"And I suppose then that I'm not supposed to know about what goes on in these pleasure houses?"

 

"No, you don't. Absolutely not."

 

"Can you at least tell me why you went there?"

 

Mr. Solo hesitates for a long moment, his grip tightening slightly on her hand.

 

"I didn't have a choice in the matter. My father took me there."

 

Rey's eyes widen.

 

"Mr. Han?"

 

She tries to reconcile the idea with everything she knew about the man. The idea of ​​Mr. Solo's father in such a setting seems almost unfathomable.

 

"Yes," he says quietly, his voice betraying a hint of bitterness. "My father, he believed in certain things—traditions. A boy only becomes a man after... taking his first woman."

 

Rey’s mind races as she processes the information.

 

"How old were you?"

 

"Sixteen."

 

Rey’s age. It’s strange to even think of Mr. Solo as a teenager. Rey imagines he always had that hard, polished expression on his face.

 

"Who was—Who was she? The woman your father chose?"

 

"I have no idea. My father made the arrangements, and when I got there, she was already waiting. I couldn’t even look her in the eye."

 

"But... you kissed her?"

 

"I did."

 

The fact that he had shared such an experience with someone else, someone she doesn’t even know, makes her feel… unsettled.

 

Her hands tense in her lap, fingers curling around the fabric of her skirt, but she tries to mask the feeling, not wanting to show how much his words have affected her. She wants to be mature about this, but something inside her just doesn’t sit right.

 

"And then?".

 

"She did... some things. But I couldn’t bring myself to let her do what my father expected".

 

"So you just left?" she asks, her mind working to understand the chain of events.

 

Mr. Solo nods, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "I left. My father wasn’t happy, but... I don’t regret it. Not for a second."

 

Rey can't help but ask, "What did you think of her, though? This woman?"

 

He looks at her, his expression unreadable. "I never thought of her like that. She was just... there. And maybe she was forced into it too, for all I know. I can barely remember her face, to be honest."

 

Rey’s thoughts swirl, and she bites her lip, trying to push down the strange twist of emotion in her chest. Why does this bother her so much? She knows it shouldn’t, that it’s his past—something he had no control over. But even so…

 

"You didn't... kiss her down there, did you?" she asks, her cheeks flushing.

 

"I didn't feel like it," he says simply, shrugging, "Not like I do with you."

 

He pats her knee through her dress, then looks down at the forgotten coffee on his desk.

 

"I think it's too late to drink now."

 

"Oh, let me go get you some more—"

 

"I think you've done enough for me today, Miss Niima," he smiles, "Why don't you help yourself to a book and keep me company while I go over some papers?"

 

"But Maz will need me in the kitchen."

 

"Maz went into town to get something for me," he says, "She won't bother us."

 

Her thoughts flick briefly to the stack of laundry waiting in the back room, the hearths that still need sweeping, and the napkins she promised to press before supper. She shifts her weight, uncertain.

 

"I still have some duties to finish," she says, quieter than before.

 

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "They’ll keep."

 

She hesitates a beat longer, but the softness in his voice, the strange patience in his gaze, weakens her resolve like a thread pulled taut and fraying.

 

“Alright,” she says quietly, moving to the shelves. “Just for a little while.”

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t respond, but she feels his eyes follow her as she browses. When she turns back, the book hugged loosely to her chest, he’s settled into the large leather chair behind his desk.

 

Mr. Solo lifts a hand, crooking his index finger in a slow, unmistakable beckon.

 

Wordlessly, she steps closer to his desk and holds the book out for him to see. His eyes flick over the title, then up to hers. He doesn’t comment—just nods once, as if granting permission.

 

She turns, intending to settle into the armchair near the window, but then Mr. Solo shifts in his chair, parting his legs, one arm remaining along the wide leather arm. His gaze is steady. He doesn’t pat his thigh or say anything further. He doesn't need to.

 

Her breath catches. “Sir…”

 

"You've been sick," he says evenly, "I'd prefer to keep you close. In case you overexert yourself."

 

“I feel quite fine now.”

 

“Then it shouldn’t bother you.”

 

She hesitates for a moment, but then steps forward. His eyes don’t leave hers as she stops between his knees. He waits until she finally lowers herself onto his lap, settling sideways with the book resting lightly across her thighs.

 

His arm comes up behind her and his other hand returns to his desk, flipping open a folder of correspondence.

 

Rey opens the book, heart beating far too fast for sitting still.

 

She clears her throat and begins to read.

Chapter 15

"That man is... insufferable!" Rose exclaims after meeting Rey at the church and making sure she's okay. "I was so worried, and he wouldn't even let me get past the gates to see you. I tried to go there one day, and one of his men just wouldn't let me through. Mr. Solo's orders, he said. Can you believe it?"

 

Rey opens her mouth, then closes it again. She folds her hands in her lap, picking at the edge of her glove.

 

"I... I think he only wanted me to rest," she says quietly.

 

Rose wheels around. "Rest? Rey, you were ill, not imprisoned. I thought something had happened. You wouldn't answer Poe's letter, and don't even get me started on Maz—she wouldn't say a word when I saw her in the village. Just scurried off like she didn't even hear me."

 

Rey winces.

 

“I thought something terrible had happened. And meanwhile he”—she jerks her chin toward some invisible figure beyond the church doors—“was keeping you locked away like you’re one of his properties. You’re his housemaid, you know. Not an object, and certainly not a slave.”

 

Rey looks down, then up again—swallowing against the knot rising in her throat.

 

She wants to tell Rose everything. She’d like to talk about the dress he gave her, or the music box, or the books. She’d like to talk about the way he touches her, the way he kisses her, the way he seems to want to spend time with her.

 

But all of that feels too fragile to speak aloud. Too private. Too easily misunderstood.

 

“He’s not like that,” she says instead, a little too quickly. “He’s not… cruel. He just cares about me, like Mr. Han did.”

 

Rose shakes her head, "He's nothing like Mr. Han, Rey. Mr. Han didn't mind me going there. Mr. Han didn't impose curfews, and he didn't monopolize you. I think if it were up to Mr. Solo, you wouldn't leave that house anymore."

 

"Of course not, don't exaggerate."

 

Rose crosses her arms, watching Rey with a look that's halfway between exasperation and affection. "Look, all I'm saying is—if it gets to be too much, if he starts treating you badly..." She leans in slightly, voice lowering, "There's always a place for you at the Ko Connix's. They've just let go of a housemaid. I could talk to the mistress."

 

Rey starts to protest, but Rose cuts her off with a pointed lift of her brows. "And, incidentally, Poe would be very pleased to have you working under the same roof."

 

A flush creeps up Rey’s neck at the mention of his name. “Rose—”

 

“I’m just saying.” Rose grins. “You’d get to work in a house where you don’t have to tiptoe around some brooding gentleman like your every breath offends him.”

 

Rey gives a short laugh despite herself, cheeks still burning. “He doesn’t glower.”

 

Rose arches an eyebrow. "Rey. The man could curdle milk with a glance."

 

Before Rey can respond, Rose’s eyes flick over her shoulder and light up. “Speaking of Poe…”

 

Rey turns just in time to see Poe Dameron walking up the church path, hat in hand and hair windswept from the breeze. He spots them and offers a charming smile.

 

“Ladies,” he greets warmly, giving a slight bow. His eyes linger on Rey a heartbeat longer. "It's good to see you out and about again, Miss Niima. You gave us quite a scare. I stopped by the Solo Manor a few times to check on you, but..."

 

Rey’s throat tightens. "Yes. I'm sorry I didn't respond to your letter."

 

“I figured you weren’t feeling up to it,” he says quickly. “But it’s a relief to see you now.”

 

Rose glances between them, then very deliberately steps away toward the church doors. “I’ll just… go light a candle,” she says, with an unsubtle smile. "For your continued recovery. And for the soul of a certain grumpy employer."

 

Rey shoots her a warning glance, but Rose only winks and disappears inside.

 

Poe turns back to her. “You really do look well,” he says. "But a little tired. Are they working you too hard?"

 

Rey swallows hard, cheeks burning as she remembers Mr. Solo's head between her legs.

 

“No,” she says finally, voice soft. “It’s not that.”

 

Poe nods and shifts his weight, then gestures gently to the bench beneath the elm tree near the path. "Do you have a moment to sit? I promise not to keep you too long."

 

She hesitates, glancing toward the church. Rose’s figure is just visible through the doorway, intending not to peek.

 

“All right,” Rey says quietly.

 

They walk side by side in silence, and Poe lets her sit first, settling beside her, not too close, but close enough for his warmth to reach her.

 

"You know," he says after a pause, resting his forearms on his knees, "I meant what I wrote in that note. Well, the baker wrote it, but the words were mine." He shrugs, smiling softly. “The point is that I want you to know… if you ever need help, or a place to go, or—anything—I’ll be there. You don’t even have to ask.”

 

Poe’s eyes meet hers, steady and sincere.

 

He smiles again, softer this time. “I think about you a lot, you know. More than I probably should. Especially these past few weeks. Just… hoping you’re all right. Wishing I could see you.”

 

“Mr. Solo—”

 

“Yes, I know about his rules,” he sighs, “You don’t have to follow them forever, though.”

 

“I’m his maid.”

 

“Yes. But he won’t be able to impose a curfew, or forbid you from seeing anyone, once you’re married.”

 

Rey’s breath catches, and she turns to Poe, eyes widening. “Married?”

 

He gives her a sheepish smile, then straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. "I—I’m not proposing. Not yet, at least. But you know about my intentions. Maybe you should think about it."

 

Rey thinks about marriage to Poe. Thinks about a little cottage on the edge of the village. There would be children—warm, messy, laughing children with dark eyes and scraped knees. She imagines reading to them in the evenings, sewing clothes by lamplight, baking bread in the mornings.

 

She would belong to someone. She would have a family.

 

But as the image settles, her brow knits.

 

It should feel right.

 

But it doesn't.

 

There’s a hollowness in it she can’t explain.

 

It seems wrong to marry someone who can't read. Someone who doesn’t know the difference between Mary Shelley and Mary Russell Mitford. Someone who would never understand the thrill of a sentence so beautiful it aches. Someone who doesn't make her heart skip a beat, or her insides ignite with a strange, exciting heat. No man who reads her mind with a look and leaves her breathless with a whisper.

 

Someone who isn't Mr. Solo.

 

She bites the inside of her cheek and forces the thought away.

 

The idea of ​​marrying Mr. Solo is... impossible. A man like him doesn’t marry girls like her. He might kiss her when no one is looking, touch her like he needs her more than air—but marry her? Bring her to dinner parties? Let her bear his name?

 

No. That would be a kind of madness. A kind of dream she doesn't have permission to want.

 

Poe can marry her. Poe would.

 

And maybe—maybe that should be enough.

 

Still, Mr. Solo's name sits on her tongue like a bruise.

 

And that’s the part she can’t explain to Poe.

 

So instead, she looks up and says gently, “I’ll think about it.”

 

Poe nods, a soft exhale of hope escaping him. “That’s all I ask,” he glances toward the church entrance. “I suppose I should go let Rose know I haven’t whisked you away forever.”

 

Rey smiles faintly. “She wouldn’t let you, even if you tried.”

 

Poe chuckles and rises, brushing off his coat. "Will I see you again? Soon?"

 

Rey nods. “At mass next Sunday, yes.”

 

He nods, satisfied.

 

"See you later, then."

 

______

 

Rey is busy over the stove, stirring the bubbling pot of jam with practiced rhythm, humming softly to herself, when Maz suddenly appears in the doorway, arms crossed. "Mr. Solo wants to see you in the library."

 

Rey blinks, startsled. "Now? But it's not even time for his breakfast."

 

Maz shrugs. "He didn't say what it was about. Just that you should come."

 

Rey frowns, turning to glance out the window at the slant of morning sun. “Should I bring his coffee, then?”

 

“No,” Maz says, already turning back toward the hallway. “Go see what he wants first.”

 

Rey sighs, wipes her hands briskly on her apron and smooths her skirts before making her way upstairs.

 

The library door stands half-open. She knocks lightly once, then steps inside.

 

“Sir?” she asks, pausing just past the threshold. “Maz said you wanted to see me?”

 

At the sound of her voice, he turns—and instead of remaining at his desk, he crosses the room to her in long, deliberate strides.

 

He stops just in front of her, close enough for her to see the gold flecks in his eyes, the softness at the corner of his mouth.

 

“You’ve been in the kitchen,” he says lowly, more observation than question.

 

“Yes,” she replies, lifting her chin, “I was making jam.”

 

Without a word, he reaches up and brushes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, slow and careful. She starts slightly, catching breath.

 

She thinks for a moment that he is going to kiss her. That he will ask to taste once again the place between her legs where he loves to spend his time so much. But instead he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks the tip of his thumb.

 

“Strawberry,” he murmurs.

 

Rey’s cheeks go pink in an instant. "Oh—I must have forgotten to wipe it off. I apologize, sir."

 

Mr. Solo’s gauze lingers on her flushed cheeks for a moment longer before he steps back.

 

“I called you here because I wanted to show you something.”

 

Curiosity flickers through Rey’s chest as she follows him to his desk. There, resting unobtrusively against a stack of papers, is a curious contraption she hadn’t noticed before—a wooden box topped with a large, flared horn.

 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she studies it. “What is that?”

 

He steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly over the polished wood as he explains, “I ordered it directly from Paris. It’s called a gramophone. A machine that plays recorded music. You place a disc here,” he taps a flat round object near the base, “and when you turn this handle, the needle picks up the sounds etched into the disc, which are amplified through the horn.”

 

Rey’s brows knit in concentration. “So it can play music without anyone singing or playing live?”

 

“Exactly.” He smiles faintly. “Music from far away, captured and stored, waiting to be heard again.”

 

Her fingers hover just above the machine, hesitant. “May I?”

 

He nods, stepping aside.

 

Carefully, she lifts the handle and begins to turn it. At first, a faint scratchy sound emerges—then, gradually, a melody fills the room. Soft, haunting notes drift from the horn, filling the space between them.

 

Rey’s eyes widen in wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Mr. Solo watches her, his expression unreadable. “I thought you might like it”.

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes never leave her as the music plays on, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare, almost tender smile.

 

Then, without warning, he gestures toward the space in front of the desk. “Dance for me.”

 

Rey blinks, started by the request. She hesitates, her heart skipping a beat. "Dance? Here?"

 

He tilts his head, voice low and steady. “I know you like to dance. I can’t take you to a ball—not yet, anyway. But here, now, you can dance for me. Just for a moment.”

 

The music plays on, soft and coaxing. Rey’s hesitation lingers a moment longer, then the music pulls at her, at something deeper inside.

 

Slowly at first, then with more confidence, she sways, each step measured and deliberate. The small, private dance is a secret gift between them, the room shrinking until it holds only the two of them and the music.

 

Mr. Solo watches with a quiet intensity, the corners of his mouth curving just the faintest hint of a smile.

 

Rey lets herself be carried by the music, her movements growing freer, more fluid. The tension in her shoulders unwinds as she sways gently, the familiar rhythm easing something inside her that she hadn't known was tight.

 

Then, unexpectedly, a firm but gentle hand slides around her waist. She freezes for a heartbeat, then looks up into Mr. Solo’s eyes, surprised.

 

He steps closer, drawing her into a slow, deliberate dance.

 

“I thought you said you didn’t dance,” she murmurs, breath warm against her cheek.

 

“I don’t.”

 

The way he guides the dance is unlike anything Rey has ever experienced at the village parties. His movements are refined, deliberate—every step measured with quiet precision.

 

Instead of the loose, carefree spins and stomps she’s used to, Mr. Solo’s touch is controlled, elegant. He moves her with gentle certainty, anticipating each shift and sway as if they've danced together a thousand times before.

 

She lets herself relax and rest her head on his chest when the music slows down. She feels him kiss her forehead gently, and then his hands bring her even closer, until she can feel his heartbeat.

 

She stays there a moment longer, wrapped in the quiet warmth of his embrace. But then the music stops, and even then Rey doesn't move her head from his chest.

 

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low against her ear. “Is one dance not enough, my love?”

 

Rey shakes her head slowly, reluctant to pull away from the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

 

He laughs again. “I bought the gramophone for your amusement,” he says, his voice light but sincere. “You can come listen to it – or dance – whenever you like”

 

She lifts her head then, meeting his gauze. The quiet invitation in his eyes makes her heart flutter anew. “Thank you,” she whispers.

 

She leans up on her tiptoes, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. His hands tighten around her waist, steadying her, and she feels the sharp intake of his breath.

 

When she draws back, his eyes have gone dark.

 

She smiles, then kisses his other cheek. When she goes to pull away, however, his hands tighten, and his lips find hers instead, soft and lingering.

 

She makes a quiet noise of surprise, then melts into the kiss, her body instinctively curling closer. He pulls her nearer still, the heat and solid weight of him enveloping her entirely.

 

Then, with a groan, he draws back.

 

For a moment, his face is an open book. Raw hunger, stark and undisguised, lingers on his features.

 

But then he swallows, and the emotion vanishes.

 

His jaw tightens, his brows drawing together. He clears his throat, pulling his hands from her waist.

 

"You should go back to the kitchen. Otherwise I'll have a hard time letting you leave here for the rest of the day."

 

Rey blushes and nods. Then, with one last look, she turns and exits the library, the sound of music still dancing through her mind, and her lips still tingling from Mr. Solo's kiss.

Chapter 16

Mr. Solo is to attend a recital at the mayor's house that evening, and although he doesn't speak of it in any detail, Rey overhears Maz mention the names of several guests while dusting the parlor.

 

He leaves just after luncheon, dressed impeccably in a charcoal waistcoat and black gloves, a glint of gold at his cuff. Rey happens to pass him in the hall as he pulls on his coat, and for a moment he pauses, gauze lingering on her face for longer than appropriate.

 

And then, in a tone low enough for only her to hear, "I'd like you to accompany me. You'd like to hear the people playing the piano."

 

"I'm sure I would, sir."

 

They both fall silent.

 

The moment stretches.

 

Rey lowers her. She feels the unspoken words settle like stones in her throat. She can't go. Not to the mayor's house. Not dressed in her simple gray dress and apron, smelling faintly of jam and woodsmoke. She's just a maid. A servant. She knows it. He knows it too.

 

Mr. Solo clears his throat and glances toward the parlor, where Maz’s footsteps echo faintly on the polished floors. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before, touched with something unfamiliar. “I may be late returning. But the gramophone is yours while I’m gone.”

 

Her eyes flicker up in surprise, and he offers a smile. “No one else will touch it. You can play whatever you like.”

 

Rey nods, the smallest of cursies following. “Thank you, sir.”

 

He lingers for just a second more, gauze raking over her face before he pulls his gloves tighter over his fingers and steps back.

 

And then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him, the soft sound of hooves on gravel fading into the damp air.

 

Rey keeps busy for a while, but finally escapes upstairs when she has some free time.

 

The gramophone waits patiently on his desk. She closes the door behind her, a shiver of anticipation running up her spine as she approaches.

 

Rey selects one of the flat, delicate discs from its leather sleeve and places it carefully on the turntable, just as he showed her. Her fingers tremble slightly as she turns the crank.

 

A low hiss fills the air—then, slowly, the music blooms.

 

It's not the same tune as before, but similar. Softer. Melancholy.

 

She moves to the chair beside his desk, careful not to disturb anything, and sits with her hands folded in her lap, listening.

 

Her eyes drift shut.

 

She wonders if he is hearing something like this now. She wonders if Miss Kaydel will be playing something similar on the piano for the mayor's guests—quick, graceful fingers gliding over ivory keys, elegant and effortless.

 

Rey imagines Miss Kaydel with her golden hair pinned up in a soft twist, a gown of deep plum or sea-glass blue rustling as she moves. She imagines Mr. Solo’s hand at the small of her back, the way it sometimes rests at Rey’s waist.

 

The thought stings.

 

She looks back at the gramophone, the strange, wondrous thing he said was hers to use—hers, in a house where so little truly belongs to her—and for a moment she doesn't feel wonder at all.

 

She feels small.

 

Small and foolish for hoping. For letting herself imagine what it might feel like to walk beside him into a brightly lit room, not as a maid but as—

 

She swallows.

 

The music plays on, winding toward its quiet, inevitable end.

 

______

 

She doesn’t ask him how the recital went the next day, and he doesn’t seem keen to mention it either.

 

But he does ask her to read to him, helping her here and there with a few difficult words as she makes her way through the pages of The Heir of Redclyffe on his lap. He never lets her settle anywhere but there.

 

At some point in the story, he starts trailing kisses along her collarbone. Though she feels herself losing focus for a moment, she keeps reading, her voice slightly affected as he continues his path of distraction.

 

His kisses grow bolder, teeth scraping at her skin and causing her to gasp, her voice breaking mid-sentence.

 

But it’s when he pulls up the skirts of her dress that she effectively drops the book on the floor.

 

Before she can think about what’s happening, he gently bends her over his desk, her palms flat on the wood. He stands behind her, big and warm, and she feels him caress her backside, his hands slowly feeling her there before sliding her small clothes down.

 

He pushes the hem of her dress up and over her bottom, baring her to him. She can hear him take a shaky breath and he parts her legs with a foot.

 

She feels so vulnerable and exposed, especially in this position.

 

Her head drops forward, a few strands of her hair coming undone from the bun and falling around her face, and her mouth opens in a silent cry as he begins stroking her there.

 

He leans over her and she can feel the fabric of his shirt on her back. His arms come up beside hers, and his hands close over her own, squeezing gently as his chest covers her back.

 

His nose nuzzles the back of her head, and his hips move, grinding into her from behind. She feels the fabric of his pants, and then something harder, pressed against her.

 

Oh.

 

It must be the same thing she felt the day he gave her the music box.

 

A thrill shoots up her spine and she presses back into him. He groans and pulls away for a moment, just long enough for Rey to hear the rustle of fabric.

 

But then he comes back, and then she feels that same hard thing against her, but now without his pants between them.

 

It feels soft and hard at the same time, and she gasps as it moves over her.

 

His hands leave hers and one wraps around her middle, holding her close, while the other trails down and between her legs again.

 

She feels his thing slide between her folds, moving up and down as he rubs her, and her eyes flutter closed, her lips parted as he touches her like this.

 

"I want to—," he interrupts himself with a grunt, "Hell, I need you, my love."

 

"I'm here," Rey replies confusedly, feeling her juices cover him wetly.

 

"It's not enough. I need... inside you."

 

Rey turns her head to the side and looks back at him, not understanding. He looks strained and tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes dark and heated as he gazes at her.

 

She doesn't know what to say, so she stays silent, biting her lip as she stares back at him.

 

He shifts, his hips angling and she feels his hardness slip further down.

 

Rey frowns when she feels pressure down there, exactly where he used to put his fingers inside.

 

"What..." she begins, but her words get lost when he presses harder.

 

Rey's eyes go wide as she feels him part her with his thing. She feels her inner walls stretching around the tip of it, the sensation strange, unnatural.

 

And uncomfortable.

 

She instinctively pushes forward, and whatever was inside her slips out.

 

She twists her neck to look back at him.

 

"What—What are you—?"

 

He ignores her, his grip on her middle tightening as he pulls her back into him. She feels him push forward, but her body resists him, the discomfort growing as she tries to twist away from him.

 

"Mr. Solo—Wait—"

 

"Shhh," he interrupts her, trying to force her body to open for him.

 

The pressure grows, and her inner walls start to sting.

 

Rey groans in discomfort and tries to get away from him again, closing her legs, although he continues to keep her pressed against the desk.

 

"Spread your legs, Miss Niima."

 

His order is harsh.

 

"But, sir—"

 

"Why don't you show me how obedient you can be?" His hands trail down her inner thigh, "Don't you want to make me happy?"

 

She nods.

 

"I would be immensely... invariably... incredibly... happy if you would let me be inside you."

 

Rey hesitates, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

 

“Would you?” she asks tentatively.

 

She feels his lips on the back of her shoulder, moving up her collarbone until they rest on her ear.

 

“Yes,” he answers, kissing her there, “Yes.”

 

Rey inhales, her throat closing with anticipation. It doesn’t feel right. And it doesn’t feel as pleasurable as the other things he does to her.

 

But it would make him happy. He said so himself.

 

And he’s so good to her. Ever since Mr. Han left, there’s been a void inside her that nothing seems to fill. Mr. Han had been like a father to her — he’d ruffled her hair when she brought him his evening tea, called her “kid,” and he saw her, really saw her — not as a servant girl, not as someone to be pitied, but as a person with sense and worth. She never told him how much that meant to her. She never had to.

 

But Mr. Solo... Mr. Solo is something else entirely.

 

When he touches her, when he whispers in that voice like velvet and smoke, he doesn't fill the space Mr. Han left — he turns it into something new.

 

If letting him inside her will bring him some measure of the joy he brings her, then she will do it.

 

So she spreads her legs.

 

"That's a good girl," he praises.

 

She feels him slide his thing over her again, and this time, she doesn't pull away.

 

He holds her still, her bottom half bent over the desk, and she feels him trying again.

 

This time, there's more pressure, and the sensation is sharper.

 

Rey bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut.

 

His grip tightens on her hips, and his thing starts to slide in.

 

She feels tears start to roll down her cheeks as the tip of his thing starts to stretch her.

 

It burns, and the deeper he goes, the more it hurts. But she forces herself to stay quiet, biting her lower lip to keep from making any sound.

 

Maybe there’s something wrong with her. Maybe she shouldn’t be feeling this much discomfort, but she feels like she’s too small for whatever he’s forcing inside her.

 

She cries out as she feels a sharp pain, and his thing stalls.

 

He stops moving.

 

And then, suddenly, he’s turning her around to face him on the desk, his thing sliding out of her.

 

She doesn’t dare look down to see what it is. Instead, she stares up at Mr. Solo’s face, her cheeks wet with the tears that continue to flow.

 

She must be a mess. Crying, anxious, scared.

 

He stares at her with wide eyes, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths, the darkness of desire in his eyes clouded by regret.

 

“Rey—” he whispers, and her name on his lips only makes her cry harder.

 

"I'm sorry," Rey manages through her tears, "I didn't mean to cry, you can—"

 

"No," Mr. Solo shakes his head, "No."

 

He takes her face in his hands and wipes away her tears with his thumbs, and then he pulls her into his arms, crushing her to his chest, his hands clutching at her as if she might disappear at any moment.

 

"Rey," he says her name again, and she feels his lips brush her temple.

 

"I didn't mean to disappoint you," she forces herself to say in a choked voice, afraid that he will push her away.

 

His arms tighten around her and he kisses her again, her cheek this time.

 

"You could never disappoint me," he says quietly, "You're perfect."

 

She feels his fingers stroke her hair.

 

"Do you hear me? You're perfect."

 

She sniffs, and she feels his hold relax a bit.

 

She leans back and wipes the remaining tears away, looking up at him.

 

"You're not angry?" she asks, her voice still watery.

 

He looks at her intently.

 

"No," he answers, "No, I'm not."

 

"But I didn't—"

 

"I wasn't thinking straight," he interrupts her, shaking his head, "Which seems to have become a frequent occurrence when it comes to you. And a desk is hardly the ideal place to—," he stops himself, clearing his throat, "Never mind."

 

She doesn't know what to say, so she just stays quiet as he adjusts his pants.

 

She feels a strange sensation between her legs. Her hand slips instinctively down her thigh, and when her fingers return tinged with red, a chill runs through her.

 

No. Not now. Not here.

 

Rey stares at her hand in stunned disbelief. A hot flush creeps up her neck, into her cheeks, burning with shame.

 

A trembling breath escapes her. She hadn’t even felt it coming. It wasn’t supposed to come until the end of the month. And definitely not when she was on Mr. Solo's desk.

 

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, not from pain, but from sheer, helpless embarrassment. She feels twelve again, and small, and dirty.

 

Before she can try to hide it, Mr. Solo looks up and stares at her stained fingers. He freezes for a moment, and then his eyes dart to her, a mixture of concern and guilt etched into his features.

 

He’s silent for a long moment, which only makes her want to disappear even more.

 

“Let me get you clean,” he finally says, moving to open one of the desk drawers.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rey stammers, drowning in embarrassment, “I didn’t realize that— My—My courses normally—”

 

“These aren’t your courses,” he interrupts without looking at her, his jaw clenched in discomfort.

 

Rey blinks, confused.

 

“No?”

 

“No,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair before looking back at her, “This... this is a different kind of blood. It goes to show that you’re still untouched... that no man has ever... been inside you before.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She looks at the red on her fingers, feeling her stomach twist and a shiver run down her spine.

 

“So—so I’m not untouched anymore?”

 

Rey feels a sick feeling in her stomach. It certainly sounds like a sin. A big sin. Is she going to hell for this? Will Mr. Solo go too?

 

He probably doesn't even believe it.

 

Rey doesn't realize how long she's been staring at her fingers when Mr. Solo gently takes her hand and wipes it with a linen handkerchief.

 

“Am I...” Her voice comes out small. “Am I wicked, now?”

 

She doesn’t look at him when she says it — she can’t. Her eyes sting, not with tears exactly, but with a heaviness she can’t blink away.

 

“Will God be angry with us?” she adds, barely above a whisper.

 

She hates how childish she sounds. How foolish.

 

But she means it.

 

Mr. Solo’s hand still cradles hers, warm and steady, his thumb brushing across her knuckles as if trying to soothe the shame out of her skin.

 

“I’ve done things worth God’s anger, Rey,” he says, eyes fixed on hers now. “This isn’t one of them. You are not one of them.”

 

Her breath hitches. She looks down at their joined hands, the white handkerchief now streaked faintly with red, and feels something in her chest loosen — just slightly.

 

Then, without a word, Mr. Solo kneels before her.

 

Rey tenses instinctively, clutching the edge of the desk behind her, suddenly hyperaware of her body — the mess between her thighs, the tacky discomfort, the way her dress cling to her skin.

 

His fingers gently lift the hem of her petticoat.

 

“Let me,” he says softly.

 

She nods, barely.

 

The cloth strokes between her thighs. He works carefully, wiping away what little blood remains, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration. Then it’s over. He folds the stained linen neatly and places it aside, rising slowly to his feet. He doesn’t make a face. Doesn’t turn away. He buttons the cuff at his wrist like this is the most natural thing in the world.

 

Then he leans close, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

 

And in its gentleness, it undoes her more than anything else.

Chapter 17

Rey is polishing the silver in the dining room, the rhythmic scrape of cloth against tarnished metal soothing in its simplicity.

 

She doesn’t notice the figure beside her until a small glass vial clicks against the wood.

 

She startles slightly, blinking down at the dark bottle that’s been placed just inches from her hand. Then she looks up.

 

Mr. Solo is standing close — too close — the scent of his cologne mingling with beeswax and the faint bite of polish. She hadn’t heard him come in.

 

“Sir?” she asks, eyes flickering from the bottle to his face. There’s a small frown of confusion between her brows.

 

He taps the vial with two fingers, the gesture deliberate. “Laudanum,” he says quietly. “The doctor said it helps with... occasional soreness.”

 

Her lips part — she's about to ask what he means when it hits her.

 

“Oh.” Her cheeks flush hot, and she squeezes her thighs together, suddenly aware of the discomfort in the place between them. “Right.”

 

She fumbles for composure, setting down the spoon too quickly and nearly knocking it off the edge of the table. "Thank you, sir. That will… certainly help."

 

He nods once, but doesn’t move, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

 

Rey looks at him, unsure if he needs anything or if she can get back to work.

 

But before she can speak, he glances once toward the doorway, then steps closer.

 

And then, without a word, he kisses her.

 

It’s quick — almost chaste — but it steals the breath from her lungs. His lips press softly against hers, warm and certain, and for one dizzying second her fingers forget how to grip the cloth, the silver, anything.

 

By the time she opens her eyes, he’s already gone.

 

______

 

Mr. Solo receives a visit from Mr. Ko Connix the next day, and Rey makes sure to prepare some biscuits to serve with Maz's tea.

 

But as she approaches the tea room with the tray, she realizes that Mr. Ko Connix has not come alone.

 

A young woman sits beside him, poised and gleaming like a polished statue. Her dress is of pale green silk, expertly tailored to her slender figure, the bodice embroidered with thread-of-gold so fine it looks like the sunlight is being trapped in her very clothes. Jewels glitter at her throat and wrists, tasteful but undeniably expensive. Her gloves are cream kid leather, spotless.

 

And her hair — blond and impossibly thick — is twisted into an intricate coiffure that must have taken over an hour to achieve. No village girl could have managed it alone. Rey imagines a team of maids fussing over her in a perfumed bedroom, pressing warm irons to each golden strand until perfection was reached.

 

Miss Kaydel.

 

Of course.

 

“…and the recital was utterly enchanting,” she says. “I made sure to prepare a score especially for that night.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix chuckles, clearly pleased.

 

"As you can see, Benjamin, my Kaydel is quite a skilled girl. I've never seen a girl play the piano as well as she does. A talent she certainly got from her mother."

 

Kaydel beams at the compliment, tilting her chin in a way that makes the pearls at her throat catch the light. “Papa exaggerates, of course. But I do hope the mayor’s guests found it enjoyable. The acoustics in the drawing room were quite excellent, don’t you think, Mr. Solo?”.

 

Mr. Solo hums in agreement.

 

But Mr. Ko Connix, ever eager to extol his daughter’s virtues, leans forward with a grin. “Of course, that’s only one of her many talents. Not a week goes by without someone calling at the house to inquire after her. Musicians, attorneys, two sons of aldermen…” He waves a hand in the air. “I daresay we’ve had half the county sniffing about our doorstep.”

 

Kaydel offers a demure smile, eyes lowered. “Papa…”

 

“It’s true, my dear,” he insists, laughing warmly. “You’ve turned down more proposals than most girls get in a lifetime. I keep telling her she ought to choose soon. She’s quite the prize, Benjamin — well-bred, accomplished, and not one to chatter endlessly like some of the other girls of her age. No — Kaydel’s been raised properly”.

 

His eyes glint toward Mr. Solo as he says it, a slight pause hanging between them like a baited hook.

 

Rey is just then stepping into the room with the tray, careful not to make a sound, though her hands are suddenly colder than they were a moment ago.

 

Miss Kaydel doesn’t so much as glance at her.

 

Her father continues speaking as if Rey were no more than the firewood or the rug beneath her slippers.

 

“She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife”.

 

Rey sets the tray down as gently as she can, but the porcelain gives a soft clink that momentarily cuts through the conversation.

 

She finally glances up, her hands hovering over the sugar tongs.

 

Mr. Solo’s seated in his usual chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, his glass resting idly in his hand.

 

He’s not even pretending to listen to Mr. Ko Connix.

 

His eyes are on her.

 

Her stomach twists, a strange, tight ache blooming in her chest.

 

“Ah, biscuits,” Mr. Ko Connix says with a pleased grunt, reaching out without hesitation. His fingers close around one with practiced ease, lifting it to his lips, “Hm,” he murmurs, nodding slowly. “Hm, these are quite good. Quite refined.”

 

Mr. Solo’s lips curve in a faint, knowing smile as he replies smoothly, “The credit belongs entirely to Miss Niima,” he manages lightly in Rey’s direction, “Your daughter may have good hands on the piano, Bryan, but my maid has even better ones in the kitchen.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix and Miss Kaydel both turn their heads simultaneously toward Rey, their eyes finally resting on her for the first time.

 

Rey feels heat rush to her cheeks, a sudden flush that spreads quickly beneath her collar. She instinctively lowers her eyes, her fingers tightening around the edge of the tray.

 

Mr. Ko Connix’s eyes narrow thoughtfully as he looks toward Rey. “It’s a rare thing nowadays, a servant with good hands in the kitchen,” he says. “Too many lazy ones about—I’ve already had to dismiss two kitchen maids myself—lazy, careless girls who couldn’t be trusted with a simple task.”

 

He shakes his head with a sigh. “There are no more servants like there used to be. Good were the times when a firm hand kept them in line.”

 

Miss Kaydel lets out a soft, tinkling laugh. She lifts a gloved hand delicately to her lips and quips with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “Well, Papa, we live in more civilized times now. Slavery’s been out of fashion for some time, hasn’t it?”

 

"Oh, but Miss Niima knows very well how to obey," Mr. Solo says slowly, "She is a... very good girl."

 

His words hang in the air, heavy and deliberate, as Mr. Solo’s gaze never wavers from Rey’s lowered eyes. His steady gaze pins her in place, every syllable a quiet command that stirs a rush of longing she can hardly name aloud.

 

Miss Kaydel’s playful smile falters for a brief moment, and she studies Mr. Solo carefully, then shifts her gaze to Rey.

 

“Oh, I do believe I should taste one of these biscuits myself,” she says sweetly. “One must be absolutely certain before praising a servant’s skills so highly.”

 

She leans forward gracefully, her movements slow and calculated. But just as her fingers reach the edge of the tray, her wrist slips and one of the porcelain teacups tips and crashes to the floor.

 

“Oh no,” she says with a delicate pout, fingertips brushing her chest as if the sight pains her. “What a mess I’ve made. Truly, I’m so terribly sorry. That must have been one of the finer cups…”

 

Before she can say more, Mr. Ko Connix waves a dismissive hand, already chuckling.

 

“Nonsense, my dear,” he says. “Don’t fret about a thing. That’s what the girl is here for.” He nods toward Rey without so much as looking at her. “She’ll clean it up in no time. Won’t you, girl?”

 

Rey’s hands pause just briefly over the shards, her cheeks burning anew.

 

“Yes”, Rey nods, already sinking to her knees, the hem of her plain dress brushing the tea-stained carpet. “Yes, sir”.

 

Her fingers find the broken porcelain carefully, gathering the sharp pieces as the liquid spreads warm against her palms.

 

“Oh,” Miss Kaydel says airily, rising just slightly from her seat and peering down. “Do be careful, Miss Niima — you missed a spot just there.” She points delicately with one gloved finger to a patch of damp carpet a few inches beyond the spreading stain. “And I believe a few of the biscuits might have fallen as well. Can’t have crumbs lying about like that.”

 

Rey swallows, teeth pressed tight behind her lips, and moves to collect the scattered crumbs one by one, her fingers brushing the hem of Kaydel’s gown as she does.

 

Miss Kaydel flinches — “Careful,” she adds with a light laugh, “we don’t want you tugging on silk. This dress was imported.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix chuckles, entirely unbothered. “She’s not likely to understand that, my dear.”

 

And then, unexpectedly, the scrape of a chair.

 

Mr. Solo rises.

 

The movement alone stills the room.

 

He steps forward, smooth and unhurried, and lowers himself beside Rey, one knee pressing into the carpet beside her skirt. His coat brushes the edge of her shoulder as he reaches for a particularly jagged piece she hadn’t yet dared touch.

 

“Careful,” he murmurs — only for her. “You’ll cut your fingers.”

 

She looks up, meeting his steady gaze, and feels a heat bloom deep inside her.

 

Behind them, a soft, awkward silence settles.

 

“Mr. Solo,” Mis Kaydel finally says. “Surely that’s not necessary. The girl’s quite capable of handling a bit of china.”

 

He doesn’t look up or answer her, focused on picking up the sharpest pieces and placing them out of Rey's reach.

 

They finish gathering the broken pieces in silence, the world narrowing to just the two of them on the carpet.

 

Mr. Solo straightens, dusting off his coat with a subtle grace. Rey rises as well, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes lowering instinctively to the worn leather of her shoes.

 

“May I go now, sir?” she asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper, laden with shame.

 

He nods once. “Of course. You’re dismissed, Miss Niima”.

 

Rey curtsies, heart pounding, and steps back toward the door, feeling every eye in the room on her as she retreats.

 

Then she hears Mr. Ko Connix clear his throat, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet.

 

“Benjamin,” his voice carries just enough for her to catch, “we are organizing a ball at our house soon—my daughter’s twentieth birthday celebration. It would give her great pleasure to have you attend.”

 

Miss Kaydel’s soft laugh follows. “Oh, Papa, you do spoil me. But I trust Mr. Solo will not disappoint us on such a special night”.

 

A quiet murmur of agreement drifts from Mr. Solo’s chair, and Rey finally turns and slips away down the hall, the weight of the invitation settling heavily on her shoulders.

 

______

 

Mr. Solo decides to have dinner in the dining room that night – a rare event since he arrived at the mansion. Maz roasts a lamb for him, and Rey helps prepare the side dishes, washing and peeling the vegetables and adding spices.

 

When Rey goes to set the platters on the table, she pauses mid-step, blinking at the arrangement. Two places had been set: one at the head of the long dining table — clearly Mr. Solo’s — and the other just to his right, the silver polished, the napkin carefully folded, a goblet already filled halfway with water.

 

She turns, puzzled, and carries the platter of glazed carrots back into the kitchen, where Maz is carving the lamb with slow, deliberate strokes.

 

“Is Mr. Solo expecting company this evening?” Rey asks, trying to sound casual. She just hopes it's not the Ko Connix again. She's not particularly fond of Miss Kaydel.

 

Maz doesn’t look up from the roast. “He just ordered two places to be set.”

 

“That’s all?”

 

“That’s all.”

 

Rey watches her a moment longer, noting the tightness in Maz’s shoulders, the way her jaw flexes slightly before she speaks again.

 

“You’d best take the lamb out before it gets cold.”

 

Rey nods and returns to the dining room, her heart ticking a little faster now. She sets the lamb carefully in the center of the table, steam rising in delicate curls. The room is dimly lit — a single chandelier overhead, casting golden reflections in the cut crystal and silver.

 

She smooths her apron with damp hands, her eyes once again drawn to the second place setting.

 

It couldn’t be for her.

 

Would he really—

 

The sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway cuts through her thoughts, steady and firm.

 

Mr. Solo.

 

He stops in the wide doorway of the dining room, just beyond the reach of the chandelier’s soft glow. He’s dressed plainly for once — no waistcoat, just shirtsleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, dark trousers pressed crisp.

 

His eyes are already on her.

 

He takes three slow steps into the room, the hardwood floor creaking gently beneath his boots, and without a word, he reaches for her hand.

 

Rey inhales sharply as he lifts it.

 

His lips brush the back of her fingers, warm and deliberate.

 

She glances toward the hallway, a flicker of panic sparking in her chest — but there’s no one there.

 

Only them.

 

He holds her gaze as he lets her hand fall gently back to her side. “Why don’t you put on the blue dress I gave you, my love?” he suggests, voice low, coaxing. “And then we can have dinner together.”

 

Her breath catches. “I… no, sir. It’s not—” She swallows, looking down at the hem of her plain apron. “It’s not my place to dine with you.”

 

“You dined with me before,” he says quietly. “In my office.”

 

“That was different.”

 

“How so?”

 

She hesitates. Her fingers brush the edge of the table, almost as if for support. “Because this is the dining room,” she says finally. “This is formal. This is…”

 

Her voice falters there. She doesn’t know how to say the rest.

 

His office is different. It’s tucked away, hidden behind heavy doors and tall bookcases. Private.

 

But this room — this dining room — is the heart of the house. Broad and open, with tall windows and gleaming floors.

 

She stares at the chair beside his, its place setting flawless.

 

That’s where a wife would sit.

 

Where his mother must have sat when she was alive — proud, elegant, belonging.

 

Rey’s pulse beats in her throat.

 

She is none of those things. Nothing like the late Mrs. Leia. Not proud. Not elegant. And certainly not someone who belongs there.

 

She peels her hand away from the table’s edge, suddenly unsure what to do with it.

 

He watches her in silence for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. And then he steps closer, the soft scrape of his boots on the polished floor breaking the silence.

 

“Rey,” he says quietly, “I'm not asking much of you. You will put on that dress. You will sit beside me. We will have dinner together”

 

His gauze pins her, unwavering and intense.

 

“You belong where I say you belong. And right now, I’m saying you belong at this table—with me.”

 

She wants to refuse again—to say she shouldn’t, couldn’t. But the way he’s looking at her leaves no room for argument.

 

Her lips part, then close again. She looks down, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

 

“Yes, sir,” she says softly.

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t smile, but something in his face shifts — a subtle satisfaction. He nods once.

 

“Go on, then,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’ll wait.”

 

Rey nods again, barely lifting her eyes, and turns toward the hall. In the quiet of her small room, the blue dress hangs from the wardrobe door — the one he gave her. She hadn’t dared wear it since that day in his office.

 

But now, she reaches for it with hands that tremble just slightly.

 

She smooths the bodice down, glancing at herself in the small, cracked mirror above the basin.

 

Taking one last breath, she makes her way back to the dining room.

 

He is standing where she left him, near the table, one hand resting loosely against the carved back of his chair.

 

His eyes lift when she enters.

 

They roam over her without shame or apology, a silent inventory that prickles across her skin and makes her spine straighten.

 

Rey swallows. Her voice barely rises above a whisper. “Is this all right?”

 

He steps forward, slowly. “It’s perfect.”

 

A moment passes between them, thick with silence. Then he moves toward her and offers his hand again.

 

He leads her toward the table, guides her to the chair beside his — the one already waiting.

 

And when she sits, Mr. Solo takes his place at the head of the table.

 

He reaches for the wine bottle and pours for them both — just a touch in her glass, more in his.

 

Then he raises his own and tips his head toward her.

 

Rey mirrors him, the wine swirling gently in the goblet.

 

A toast. She's not sure for what.

 

Her cheeks flush as she remembers the last time she shared alcohol with him. When he told her to lift up her nightgown and touched her between her legs until she felt good. Really good.

 

She feels the weight of his gaze even as she sips the wine. It lingers over her like a hand, a soft, gentle stroke.

 

He takes a slow sip of his own wine, still watching her.

 

"So..." she clears her throat, looking shyly down at the glass she's holding, "I didn't mean to hear, but... Mr. Ko Connix mentioned something about Miss Kaydel's birthday ball, didn't he?"

 

Mr. Solo nods, looking disinterested.

 

When he doesn't say anything else, Rey tentatively asks, "And... will you be attending?"

 

He lets out a sigh that sounds almost tired.

 

“It’s expected of me,” he says, glancing down at his glass. “When you come from a certain family, everyone assumes you’ll keep playing the part. Show up to the right places, speak to the right people”.

 

Rey nods faintly, not sure what to say.

 

He looks up at her, his expression unreadable. “It was easier to avoid when I was away. But now…” His jaw tightens. “Now they expect me to settle. Apparently I’m old enough that every father with a daughter thinks I’m ripe for snaring.”

 

"You're not that old," she says, though she's never really given much thought to Mr. Solo's age.

 

"I'm more than twice your age, my love," he smiles behind his glass, "I think that's old enough."

 

He sets down his glass.

 

“They expect me to choose someone like Miss Kaydel,” he says finally. “She’d look the part, I suppose. A man like me is supposed to want that. Someone polished. Well bred. Easy to parade around.”

 

Rey looks away, her throat dry. She thinks of Kaydel — the poise, the perfect curls, the effortless confidence.

 

“I suppose Miss Kaydel would be pleased,” she says quietly.

 

He lets out a sound — something between a huff and a scoff. “I’m sure she would be.”

 

He studies her over the rim of his glass, the candlelight catching in his eyes — sharp, amused, unreadable.

 

“You’re jealous,” he says.

 

Rey’s head jerks up, her eyes wide. “What? No, I—”

 

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate. “You are.”

 

She frowns, looking quickly down at her plate. “I’m not,” she mutters, a bit too quickly.

 

He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath him. One arm rests along the top rail as he watches her, clearly enjoying himself now.

 

“You don’t like the thought of me and her. You’re imagining it now, aren’t you?” he asks. “That’s what’s making you angry.”

 

“I’m not angry,” she says, though her voice trembles just a little.

 

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, “Let her preen and flutter and flirt. It doesn’t matter,” he leans forward now, resting his forearms on the table, “My interest is already elsewhere.”

 

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmurs, unable to look away from him.

 

“And if I said I wanted more nights like this?” His eyes flicker briefly to her dress, then back to her face. “With you in blue silk and nothing underneath?”

 

A breath hitches in her throat. She looks down again, the heat creeping up her neck.

 

He leans forward then, his voice soft, firm. “You shouldn’t be jealous. There is no one else I want to undress with my eyes.”

 

Her eyes flick up sharply. His expression hasn’t changed.

 

“Eat,” he says gently, like a command. “Before I forget my manners entirely.”

 

She reaches for her fork, hands unsteady, her appetite lost — or perhaps just overwhelmed by the strange, intoxicating ache blooming low in her belly.

Chapter 18

She's reading Middlemarch in Mr. Solo's library chair when he starts kissing her collarbone.

 

And he's done it enough times for her to know what it means. She just hopes he doesn't try to do what he did last time—try to put that thing of his inside her. She didn't like that. Didn't like the pain it caused. It's fine when he just touches her with his fingers, or with his mouth, or with his tongue...

 

She sits on his lap in the chair, as usual, and his hands follow the rhythm of the kisses as he caresses her hips through her dress.

 

He pushes up the fabric slowly, so slowly, until it bunches at her waist, and Rey can see her bare legs and feet in the space between his parted knees.

 

His hand drifts from her waist, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

 

She squirms. She doesn't want him to do that again, doesn't want to feel that strange, unpleasant intrusion.

 

But before she can ask, his lips travel upward, tracing her throat and the line of her jaw, until his mouth covers hers.

 

His lips move with a slow, languid intensity, like he wants to take his time. Like they have all the time in the world.

 

He pulls her closer, and she feels the stiff bulge in his trousers rub against her center.

 

Then his hand continues downward, fingers following the curve of her body, dipping into her waist and then down the front of her pelvis.

 

He cups her there, gently, and she inhales sharply against his mouth.

 

Then his thumb slips between her folds.

 

She moans as he brushes her.

 

"That's it," he murmurs against her mouth, "You're getting wet for me, aren't you, my love? Such an eager, obedient creature for me."

 

His breath is hot on her neck, his tongue darting out, licking and sucking and tasting.

 

His free hand finds her breast, squeezing gently, his thumb teasing her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.

 

She arches into his touch, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.

 

"You like that, don't you?"

 

She nods, breathless.

 

He laughs, low and hungry.

 

He presses harder, deeper, his fingers curling, finding a spot that makes her gasp and tremble.

 

"Is that it, my love? Is that where you need me?"

 

She nods, too overcome with sensation to speak.

 

But then he suddenly stands up from his chair, taking her with him. He wraps her legs around his waist, walking out of the library, unconcerned about the wet mess she makes on the front of his shirt.

 

Rey despairs as she watches him turn the doorknob.

 

"No, sir—," she gasps, looking around the hallway with wide eyes, "Someone will see—"

 

"Shhh," he hushes, carrying her to the door of what she knows is his chambers, "No one will know if you stay nice and quiet for me."

 

It is not Mr. Han's quarters. Mr. Solo has never even entered his late father's chambers. Instead, the servants have cleaned and arranged a different wing of the mansion, which has been unused for many years.

 

Rey wonders who it originally belonged to as Mr. Solo carries her across the threshold in his arms.

 

Whoever it is, it smells like Mr. Solo now. A faint trace of him lingers in the air—leather and cedar and smoke.

 

And when he lays her down on the bed, his scent envelopes her, surrounding her, her heart pounding, her skin tingling everywhere he's touched her.

 

He leans in to kiss her, distracting her with his own lips as he undoes her clothes.

 

"Wait, sir--," she sighs, feeling her bare skin against the soft sheets as he discards her gray dress on the bedroom floor, "We can't— These are your—"

 

"My quarters, yes," he murmurs, trailing kisses down her neck to her exposed breasts, "I suggest you get used to the scenery. I intend to make sure you spend a lot of time here, Miss Niima."

 

Before she can respond, his lips close around one nipple, sucking and lapping.

 

Her eyes roll back.

 

"Oh god," she whimpers, arching her back, pushing her chest against his face, "Mr. Solo—sir, please."

 

His lips lift into a smile.

 

"Such a lovely thing you are," he growls, cupping her breast in his palm, his mouth traveling lower, kissing her stomach and the hollow of her navel.

 

He knees between her thighs, spreading them gently, exposing her glistening sex. Suddenly she becomes aware that she is completely naked, while he has not yet removed a single item of his clothing.

 

"Look at this," he rasps, tracing her folds with his thumb, "Such a pretty little cunt… so pink, so tight, so wet... and all mine."

 

Cunt. The word is unfamiliar, but it feels wrong, something she certainly shouldn't repeat.

 

His eyes meet hers, dark and intense, and without looking away, he lowers his mouth to her center.

 

Rey's hips buck as his tongue glides over her slick flesh.

 

"Sir," she gasps, her hands gripping the sheets, "oh, god, sir."

 

He growls, the sound vibrating through her body.

 

She whimpers as his lips and tongue devour her, lapping and sucking, his hands holding her hips steady as he feasts on her.

 

It doesn't take long.

 

The pressure builds quickly, and her release hits her hard and fast, her body shaking with the intensity.

 

She's so overcome with that good tingle that she doesn't realize Mr. Solo has slipped out of his breeches until she feels him spit between her legs, spreading the wetness with his fingers.

 

Then something hard and warm presses down on her.

 

Her eyes suddenly widen.

 

"Sir," she pants, still recovering from her climax, "wait—”

 

But he's already pushing inside her, his shaft thick and rigid.

 

"Relax, my love," he whispers, his voice strained, "let me in."

 

She whines, writhing under him. "It hurts," she breathes, "Please—it hurts."

 

He lets out a soft grunt, his jaw clenched.

 

"You're just nervous," he says, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead, "Just breathe, sweetheart. You're going to feel so good."

 

She closes her eyes, trying to steady her breathing.

 

His fingers find the bundle of nerves between her legs, rubbing slow, firm circles.

 

She shudders.

 

"That's it," he rasps, easing in further, "you're doing so well. Open up to me... Let me in…"

 

Rey whimpers, clinging to him, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt.

 

He groans as he thrusts deeper, filling her completely. She feels her channel expanding beyond what she thought possible to accommodate it, her walls stretching around his girth.

 

Mr. Solo trembles for a moment, and when she looks up, she notices that his eyes are closed, his lips pressed together as if he's holding himself back.

 

She feels the rapid beating of his heart against her chest.

 

He's inside me.

 

There's a man inside her. Or at least a part of him. Inside...inside a place she shouldn't let him touch.

 

She wonders where he got the idea to get in there. Why does he seem to want to be inside so badly? Why—

 

His thumb presses between her legs, and her thoughts dissolve.

 

He draws back and pushes in again, and this time there's no pain, only the slick friction of him moving inside her.

 

It hurts less now. But it still feels strange and uncomfortable.

 

"You're such a good girl for me," he murmurs, his breath hot on her skin, "Taking me so well. Making me feel so... fucking... good."

 

His movements are slow and steady, and soon, the discomfort starts to fade, giving way to a different sensation.

 

"How does it feel, my love?"

 

"It feels..." Her eyes flutter, her breath hitching. "It feels good, sir."

 

He hums, his hips moving faster.

 

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his lips grazing her neck, "so beautiful when you're filled with me. So beautiful beneath me. That's where you belong. Beneath me, panting for me. You know that, don't you?"

 

She nods absently, her eyes closed as his thrusts grow harder, more insistent.

 

"Open your eyes," he commands.

 

Her lashes flutter, and she looks up at him, her pupils wide and dark.

 

He groans.

 

"I want you to look at me," he rasps, his voice thick with lust, "I want you to know who's claiming you."

 

Her heart skips a beat.

 

His words send a shiver through her body, and her walls clench around his shaft.

 

He groans again, his hips pumping faster, the bed creaking beneath them.

 

"That's it, my love," he grunts, his eyes never leaving hers, "My darling Rey… My pretty little creature… I'm going to fill you up, until there's no more room inside you, until I'm all you can think about, all you can taste. Until there is nothing in your world but me."

 

Her body tightens, the pressure builds, her skin flushed and slick with sweat.

 

His thrusts are relentless, his rhythm punishing.

 

"Tell me," he demands, his eyes dark and wild, "Tell me you're mine."

 

Her lips part, her voice a trembling whisper.

 

"I'm yours, sir."

 

His eyes close for a moment, and his hips stutter.

 

"No. My name."

 

His thumb presses down on the bundle of nerves between her legs, rubbing furiously.

 

"Say my name, Rey."

 

"Benjamin," she whimpers, her hands clawing at his shoulders.

 

And then.

 

"Ben."

 

The name escapes her lips like a prayer.

 

It's the first time it's left her lips. Not even in her thoughts does she call him by his name. It's strange to think of him as anything other than Sir or Mr. Solo.

 

But not now.

 

Not when he's inside her, and her body is trembling with desire and need and the pleasure and pain of his touch.

 

"Yes," he rasps, "Yes, come on, Rey. Come for me. Say my name."

 

"Ben."

 

His grip on her waist tightens, his fingers digging into her skin.

 

"Again," he hisses, his hips slamming into her, his thing pistoning in and out.

 

“Ben, Ben, Ben”.

 

His lips close over hers, swallowing her moans, muffling her cries as the pleasure sweeps through her body.

 

He groans into her mouth, and she feels him swell, his shaft throbbing inside her, a deep rumble rising from his chest.

 

"Such a pretty thing, letting me fill you. Taking every drop."

 

She's not sure what she's taking, but the next second she feels something warm filling her. Something warm and wet filling her walls, trickling out of her.

 

She is startled for a moment, until she realizes that it is Mr. Solo who is doing this inside her.

 

And somehow, when she feels it filling her, her release follows right after, tearing through her, her walls spasming around his shaft, milking him as he pumps into her, again and again and again.

 

She doesn’t even remember to be silent. She doesn’t remember Maz, or the other employees outside. All she feels is the explosion in the pit of her stomach, stronger than she’s ever felt before, and how she’s never felt so full before, with him filling up all the space inside her.

 

She’s never felt so…happy.

 

Her breath comes in short, ragged gasps, her limbs limp and trembling.

 

He rests his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy.

 

"Such a good girl," he murmurs, brushing his lips over her cheek. "So perfect for me."

 

She lets out a sigh.

 

Her whole body is sore, and sticky, and tired. But it's a good kind of tired. A satisfied, contented kind.

 

He remains inside her for a long time, as if he doesn't want to leave.

 

Finally, he pulls out slowly, withdrawing from her channel, the thick, sticky fluid pouring out of her, dripping down her thighs and onto the sheets. His softening thing slips out of her, and she winces slightly.

 

He presses his lips to her forehead again. "Shhh," he soothes, stroking her hair, "it's all right. Just rest now." She feels his fingers down there, sliding through the mess between her thighs before plugging inside her again.

 

She nuzzles against him, her eyes closing.

 

"You did so well, my love," he murmurs, his hand gentle and soothing, "you took me so beautifully."

 

She lets out a small, sleepy noise, her body sinking into the mattress.

 

"Sleep, Rey," he whispers, his lips brushing her temple, "I've got you."

 

She has work to do. Fireplaces to clean, food to cook, clothes to dry. Maz is going to need her. She tries to tell him this, but she feels so spent that his voice is the last thing she hears before sleep claims her.

 

Chapter 19

She wakes up to something moving behind her.

 

Moving... inside her.

 

Her eyes blink open, her lashes heavy.

 

For a moment, she forgets where she is. Then her surroundings start to take shape, the large bed and the dark-colored furnishings.

 

A deep, low voice.

 

"I'm sorry for disturbing your sleep, my love," Mr. Solo rasps, his arm wrapped around her middle, "But I needed you. I needed you... so much... I couldn't wait."

 

She realizes, then, that he's inside her, and that he's slowly moving, sliding his thing in and out. She doesn't know how long this has been going on before she wakes up.

 

Her head is resting on his shoulder, his face buried in her neck, his lips brushing her ear. She's still lying on her side, her chest against her back, her legs tangled with hers.

 

His thrusts are slow, and shallow, and gentle, and his arms tighten around her, holding her close.

 

She whimpers softly as he fills her, and his hand comes up to her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple in small circles.

 

"So perfect," he groans, "Still so tight and wet for me."

 

He shifts his hips, changing the angle, and his thrusts deepen, driving into her harder, his hands gripping her waist.

 

"Yes, that's it," he breathes, "Take me, Rey. Take all of me."

 

Her breath catches, her hips moving instinctively, meeting his thrusts.

 

His free hand slides down her front, fingers tracing the lines of her pelvis, then slipping between her folds, finding the sensitive bud.

 

"I'm going to fill you, Rey," he growls, his thumb working her nub.

 

She cries out, her walls tightening around his shaft.

 

"You want that, don't you?" he murmurs, his hand squeezing her breast, his fingers pinching her nipple. "You want me to fill you, and fill you, and fill you."

 

His thumb works her nub harder, and his hips move faster, his teeth biting into her neck.

 

And suddenly, her entire body goes rigid, a cry tearing from her throat as the tension releases, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her, his hard length pulsing inside her.

 

His shaft drives into her again, and again, and he comes undone, a warm liquid filling her, his voice breaking, his fingers digging into her skin.

 

They stay like that for a few minutes, both panting, their chests heaving.

 

Then, finally, he slips out of her, and rolls her onto her back, his large frame hovering over her.

 

He dips his head and presses his lips to hers, his mouth warm and soft.

 

She kisses him back, her arms winding around his neck.

 

When they break apart, he stares down at her, his dark eyes shining.

 

"How do you feel?" he asks, and then she feels his hand cup the spot between her legs, "Are you sore?"

 

Rey blushes and nods shyly.

 

"A little."

 

He leans down and kisses her, his hand gently stroking through the wetness on her sex, as if to alleviate the pain of the stretch there.

 

"I guess I was... more eager than I should have been”, he says, his voice apologetic, "It'll be easier for you next time... or so I've heard."

 

Rey reaches up and brushes the hair from his forehead, and smiles at him.

 

"It's alright," she says, "I...I liked it."

 

His eyes meet hers, his brow furrowed.

 

"Are you sure?" he asks, and his thumb strokes her cheek.

 

She nods.

 

He kisses her again, his lips moving to her neck, his tongue licking the delicate skin behind her ear.

 

"I've never felt like this before," he whispers, his teeth grazing her collarbone, "It's like a madness... Like I've never wanted anything more than I want you."

 

Her eyes flutter shut, and her fingers wind in his hair.

 

"You've got me," she says, and her heart skips a beat.

 

He pauses, his lips lingering on her skin.

 

"Yes, I do," he murmurs, his voice low, and deep, and thick.

 

He hugs her silently for a long moment. Then, his voice rumbles in her ear, his words sending a shiver through her.

 

"And I'm not going to let you go."

 

She just shakes her head, thoughts swirling in her head as she stares at the ceiling of his chambers.

 

She has no idea what time it is, only that the sky outside his window is beginning to clear.

 

She must have spent the night there. Doing... she doesn't really know what she can call it.

 

"What—" Rey hesitates, looking up at the ceiling, "—what did we do? What do you call it?"

 

Ben props himself up on one elbow to look at her, his eyes soft.

 

"We made love."

 

Her cheeks flush.

 

"Love?"

 

"Yes," he lifts his hand to caress her cheek, "It's what a man and a woman do when they love each other."

 

She hesitates in silence for a moment.

 

"Does—Does this mean you love me then, sir?"

 

He smiles.

 

"I thought you already knew."

 

She shakes her head.

 

"You never told me."

 

"It's difficult for me to tell you now."

 

"Why?", she asks.

 

"Because I've never been in love before."

 

“Never?”.

 

“Never”.

 

Neither has she, she thinks. She loves Rose, and she loves Maz, but it's a different kind of love.

 

"How do you know you love me then?", she asks.

 

He stares at her, and sighs.

 

"I can't explain it to you. It's not something I can control," he pauses, looking away, "But whatever it is, I guess it's what people call love."

 

She falls silent, absently running her fingertips over his bare chest.

 

He said something similar when he said he didn't believe in God, months ago, in the silence of his library.

 

I think people like explanations, especially for things they can't control. It's easier to say 'God's plan' than admit there's no reason at all.

 

Maybe he hasn't realized it yet, but love and God, in his words, seem like very similar things. Even though he only believes in one of them.

 

She has no idea how long they stay like that, his fingers stroking her hair, his lips brushing hers, his heartbeat strong against her cheek.

 

"I— I love you too".

 

Her heart pounds as the words come out of her mouth.

 

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

 

"Say it again."

 

She smiles, her chest full of warmth.

 

"I love you, Mr. Benjamin Solo."

 

His eyes search hers, and he smiles.

 

"I think I like hearing you say it."

 

She is about to repeat it when suddenly they hear a knock on the door.

 

Rey freezes in his arms.

 

"Mr. Solo?", it is Maz's voice, "Shall I bring you breakfast now?"

 

Suddenly Rey realizes the state they are both in. Mr. Solo has the sheet covering him up to his waist, but Rey is completely naked, her dress and underwear discarded somewhere on the floor, her thighs smeared with her and his juices in a big mess.

 

She looks up at Mr. Solo in despair.

 

But he doesn't seem too concerned.

 

"Thank you, Maz," he replies, his fingers absently stroking Rey's bare back, "But I'll pass. I have an appointment this morning."

 

Maz is silent for a moment, and Rey feels her breath catch, fearing that the doors will open at any moment.

 

"Alright, sir. Let me know if you need anything else." the woman's voice finally replies, and then she hears the footsteps walking away.

 

Rey lets out a sigh of relief, realizing that she was shaking with nerves.

 

"Oh my god," she breathes, pulling the sheets up to cover her nakedness, "She almost—Oh my god. I have to go. If she comes to my room she'll—"

 

Rey makes to get out of bed, but Mr. Solo grabs her by the waist, keeping her in place.

 

"You can't leave now," he says quietly, kissing her shoulder, "You have to lie down for a few minutes after I make love to you."

 

"What?" She turns to him confused.

 

"That's how it works," he explains patiently, continuing to kiss her skin absently, "When a man spills inside a woman, she has to keep it inside her. Some even lift their hips afterward."

 

Rey blinks.

 

"Really?"

 

He nods.

 

"Why?" she asks, "I— Could I get sick if I don't?"

 

"No, not exactly," he shrugs, "But your body might react badly."

 

Her eyes widen, then she nods.

 

"All right, all right," she leans back on the bed, pulling the covers up to cover herself, "Is that good? Please tell me when I can get up."

 

"That's great," he caresses her cheek, and then his hand slides down her thigh, pulling it until her feet are planted on the bed, "Some would say that's even better."

 

She nods again. Mr. Solo certainly knows best.

 

______

 

She tiptoes back to her room, silently praying that Maz won't find her on the way. She's already over thirty minutes late for her shift, even though all she wants to do is crawl under the covers with Mr. Solo again.

 

Thinking about him makes her suddenly aware of the ache between her legs. It's not an unpleasant sensation, and she wonders how long it will last.

 

She's almost to the servants' quarters, about to let out a sigh of relief, when suddenly Maz emerges from one of the hallways, carrying a pile of blankets.

 

"Oh, Rey, there you are! I need you to take—"

 

She stops suddenly, her eyes taking in the figure of the girl in front of her.

 

Her hair is a mess, the tight bun long undone in Mr. Solo's hands. Her dress is wrinkled, her corset is badly laced, and she knows Maz can see the red stains on her neck, the bite marks that adorn her skin like a necklace.

 

The older woman looks at her for a long moment, her face unreadable.

 

"Rey," she says, and it's just one word, but it's loaded with so much that Rey can't even distinguish between the pity, the anger, the regret, "What have you done, child?".

 

In a second, Rey knows that she knows. She knows that she was with Mr. Solo.

 

"I don't—"

 

Before Rey can finish, Maz drops the white blankets to the floor and walks towards her, her eyes roaming over her face, every inch of visible skin.

 

"Oh, Rey," she murmurs, and Rey is startled to see tears well up in her eyes, "What have you done?"

 

Maz's hands tremble as they hold Rey's arms, though her grip is still firm—too firm. Rey winces, but doesn't pull away. She can’t. There’s nowhere to go, not with the weight of Maz’s gaze holding her in place like a vice.

 

"Maz—please," Rey says, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracks, raw with shame, guilt, confusion, everything she hasn’t had time to process yet.

 

Maz breathes in sharply, like she’s trying to stop herself from saying something she’ll regret. Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment she simply stares at Rey, the tears in her eyes not falling, just hanging there like glass waiting to shatter.

 

"You think you know what you're doing," Maz finally says, voice low and ragged, "but you don't. That man—he doesn’t care for you, Rey. Men like him, they don’t think twice about what they take. And they always take."

 

“You don't understand. He didn’t—"

 

"He didn’t… what? He didn't touch you? He didn't claim your maidenhead?"

 

Rey shakes her head, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She wants to speak, to say something that will make it all right, that will make sense of what happened between her and Mr. Solo, but the words aren’t coming.

 

"He disgraced you."

 

"No—"

 

"He did," Maz insists, "And he'll do it again. And again. Until he gets tired of you."

 

"No. He loves me...", Rey whispers in a whisper.

 

"He what?"

 

"He loves me!" she says louder now.

 

Maz steps back, her eyes narrowing. “He loves you?” Her voice is low, almost like a warning. “Rey, don’t be so foolish. He cannot love you. You’re a maid, and nothing more than that. He might say the words, but they don’t mean anything.”

 

Rey shakes her head vehemently, feeling the sting of Maz’s words. “No, you don’t understand. You don’t know him like I do.”

 

Maz steps forward, her face softening just a little, but there’s still a hardness there, like a shield protecting her heart. “And when he’s done with you, Rey? When he’s bored of you, or finds someone else to fill his bed, what will be left for you? He’ll never make you his. You’ll never be more than a passing fancy. He will never marry you.”

 

Maz's voice grows quieter.

 

“If word gets out—what then? Who will take you into their home? Who will trust you to serve near their sons? Their husbands?”.

 

Rey’s throat tightens, her breath catching in her chest.

 

“No one will hire you, Rey,” Maz says gently now, but there’s no softness in her gaze. “No one will take in a girl who’s been used and cast aside”.

 

Rey blinks hard, trying to hold back tears, but they fall anyway—slow and silent down her cheeks. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She hadn’t let herself.

 

“And marriage?” Maz continues. “Even a poor match would be out of reach. No decent man would take a girl who gave herself away to another.”

 

Rey looks away, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. Shame claws at her throat, wrapping tight around the flicker of defiance still burning deep inside her.

 

Maz lets out a long, tired breath. "Please promise me you won't let this happen again."

 

“I…” Rey starts, but the words catch.

 

How can she promise that?

 

Maz sees the hesitation in her eyes and her expression hardens. “Rey.”

 

The name lands between them like a stone.

 

“I just want better for you, child. But you have to want it, too.”

 

Then Maz reaches out and pulls Rey into a tight, unexpected embrace. Her small arms are strong around her, firm with a kind of desperate protectiveness.

 

And suddenly, Rey realizes that she is the closest thing to a mother she's ever had.

 

“Promise me, Rey”.

 

Rey hesitates. The flicker of defiance is still there—but it’s quieter now. Humbled. Diminished beneath the storm of shame, guilt, and something else she can’t name.

 

Something like grief.

 

I can still love him. I don't have to stop loving him.

 

“I promise,” she whispers, the words trembling in the space between them.

 

Maz studies her a beat longer, searching her face for sincerity. Whatever she sees there must be enough, because she nods slowly and lets go of Rey’s arms.

 

"Wipe your tears," she says gently, "Go wash up. I want you clean and new to help me fold the blankets."

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Rey murmurs, brushing the back of her hand across her damp cheeks.

Chapter 20

Rey stands beside Maz at the wide kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing carrots into even rounds. They don’t talk much. Just the sounds of the kitchen, the bubbling pots, the wind rattling faintly outside.

 

Then the door creaks open.

 

A house servant steps into the room. He clears his throat.

 

“Mr. Solo is asking for Miss Niima.”

 

The knife in Rey’s hand stills.

 

Maz doesn't look up. “For what?”

 

He swallows, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “He asked for coffee. Said he wants Miss Niima to bring it.”

 

Maz sets down her own knife with deliberate care. The sound of it hitting the cutting board is louder than it should be.

 

She turns to the man, her voice calm, but hard enough to slice through the kitchen air like a blade. “Rey is busy.”

 

He opens his mouth, clearly unsure if he should argue. “But—Mr. Solo said—”

 

Maz is already moving. She lifts the waiting tray from the side table, the fine china cups rattling faintly with the motion. She pushes it firmly into the man’s hands.

 

“You take it,” she says, and now her voice carries the full weight of authority. “Tell him the kitchen is short today, and Rey has duties that can’t wait.”

 

The man looks from Maz to Rey, as if hoping for someone to overrule the other. But Rey doesn’t say a word. She’s still staring down at the carrots, trying to keep her face blank even as heat rises in her chest.

 

“Go,” Maz says, quieter now, but firm. “Before it gets cold.”

 

He stammers a quick, nervous “Yes, ma’am,” and hurries out with the tray.

 

The door swings shut behind him.

 

For a long moment, there is only silence again. The bubbling pot. The wind.

 

Finally, Rey says, “He won’t stop.”

 

“I know,” Maz replies simply. “But neither will I.”

 

______

 

Maz makes Rey follow her like a shadow for the rest of the day.

 

Wherever Maz goes—upstairs to polish the old brass sconces in the hall, down to the pantry to inspect the root cellar, across the gardens to inspect the herb beds—Rey is behind her. Not a step behind, but close enough that Maz can reach her, catch her eye, speak to her without others hearing.

 

At one point, near late-afternoon, they pass a side corridor near the drawing rooms. Maz stiffens for just a fraction of a second. Rey follows her gaze and sees him.

 

Mr. Solo.

 

He stands at the far end of the hall, one hand resting on the back of an armchair, a casual stance that’s anything but casual. He’s watching them. Watching her. His expression is unreadable—dark eyes shadowed, jaw tight.

 

He says nothing. Doesn’t call out. But his gaze lingers.

 

Rey’s steps falter.

 

Maz’s hand snaps out and catches her wrist—gently, but firmly. Not a reprimand. A tether.

 

They keep walking.

 

Rey doesn’t look back. She doesn’t have to. She can feel his eyes burning between her shoulder blades.

 

They scrub the silver in the dining hall after that. Maz makes her re-do the same spoon twice. When Rey’s fingers ache, when the polish burns her skin, she doesn’t complain. She just keeps working, silently, doggedly.

 

By evening, Rey is exhausted. Her feet ache, her arms are sore, and her back feels like it’s tied in knots.

 

Still, Maz doesn’t let her go.

 

She has her stay to help with the baking—kneading dough until her hands are red. She’s given another tray to carry, then another, and still another task when the rest of the maids have already been sent to their beds.

 

And finally, when the kitchen is quiet and the last pot has been cleaned, Maz looks at Rey and speaks.

 

“You hate me yet?”

 

Rey looks up, eyes rimmed with fatigue. “No.”

 

Maz nods. “Good. Because I’m not doing this to punish you.”

 

Rey says nothing.

 

“I’m doing this,” Maz continues, “so that man can’t find a second to be alone with you. So he knows he doesn’t own your time. Or your body. Or your future.”

 

Rey stares at her, throat tight.

 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Maz says as she begins to bank the fires. “Just make sure I never have to do this again.”

 

Rey nods, voice caught somewhere between a sob and a whisper. “I won’t.”

 

Maz gives a short, quiet sound—part grunt, part sigh—and finally waves her toward the door. “Go to bed, child. And lock the door”

 

______

 

The exhausting routine is repeated the next day. And the day after that.

 

And then, on the third day, an unknown woman appears at the back door, carrying a suitcase, glancing around with quiet apprehension.

 

It’s mid-morning, and Rey is shelling peas at the kitchen table, her apron already damp with the morning’s work, when she sees the woman through the window.

 

Maz appears in the doorway a moment later, wiping her hands on a towel. She steps out, and Rey watches from her seat as the two women exchange a few words. She can’t hear what’s being said, but Maz’s posture is stiff, arms crossed. The stranger nods once, then hands over a folded slip of paper.

 

Rey sees Maz scan it, her mouth tightening just a little.

 

Then, just as quickly, she ushers the woman inside.

 

When Maz returns to the kitchen a few minutes later, she’s alone.

 

Rey can’t help it—she stands from the table, hands still streaked with pea juice. “Who was that?”

 

Maz doesn’t respond immediately. She moves to the sink, rinsing her hands, taking her time.

 

Finally, she says, “Mr. Solo hired a new maid.”

 

Rey’s heart skips a beat. Her throat goes dry.

 

She swallows hard. “A replacement?”

 

Her mind is already running ahead, faster than her breath.

 

He's sending me away.

 

Maz gives her a long, unreadable look over her shoulder.

 

“No,” she says. “A distraction.”

 

Rey frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

Maz dries her hands on a cloth, then turns to face her fully. "He hired her because he's hoping I'll ease off. That I'll let you out of my sight. But he won't get the chance," Maz says, her voice low and firm. "Let him play his games. Let him throw servants and orders at the walls to see what sticks. I'll keep you out of reach."

 

Rey looks at her hands, still trembling slightly. “For how long?”

 

Maz's jaw sets. “As long as I have to.”

 

And then, a little softer, as she brushes a strand of hair from Rey’s face: “I’m not going to lose you. Not to him”.

 

______

 

The wind picks up outside Rey's small window, brushing its cold breath against the glass. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, the scratchy wool digging into her skin, grounding her in the quiet of the room.

 

But sleep doesn't come.

 

Even as her body lies still, her mind roams—backward, forward, nowhere safe. She sees his face again. The way he looked when he said he'd never loved anyone before.

 

Rey squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face into the thin pillow.

 

She hates herself for missing the way he used to say her name. Hates that her body remembers the warmth of his hands. Hates that she doesn't know how to forget.

 

She turns over, restless, and ends up finding herself staring at the unopened music box on her nightstand.

 

Before she can think straight, her arm reaches out to open the lid, to watch the ballerina spin.

 

But then she hears footsteps outside her room.

 

Rey freezes.

 

She doesn't move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the door as if her stillness might make her invisible.

 

Then, a voice—low, familiar, too close:

 

“Miss Niima.”

 

His voice. Mr Solo.

 

“I know you’re awake.”

 

She doesn't answer.

 

“I just want to talk.”

 

She presses a hand over her mouth, willing herself not to make a sound.

 

A long pause.

 

“I miss you.”

 

Her chest tightens like a snare. For a moment, she hates how badly part of her wants to answer.

 

But Maz's voice cuts through the fog like a blade: He doesn't own your time. Or your body. Or your future.

 

The hand at the door withdraws. Silence falls again.

 

And then—slowly, finally—his footsteps retreat down the hall.

 

Only when the sound has faded completely does Rey allow herself to breathe.

 

She doesn’t sleep for a long time after that.

 

But she doesn't unlock the door either.

 

______

 

On Sunday, Rey goes with Maz to church. She greets Rose and Poe at the door, and everyone heads to their pews for mass.

 

Mass is solemn, familiar. But Rey doesn’t hear the sermon, the jumbled thoughts in her head too loud for her to hear anything. All the more reason to ask God for forgiveness.

 

When service ends, she lingers, kneeling at the altar longer than she needs to. People file out. The priest retreats behind the curtain near the confessional. The door to the booth creaks open.

 

Rey rises and turns to Maz, who waits near the last pew, arms folded and eyes narrowed, watching the crowd. She walks over and says, quietly, “I’m going to confession.”

 

Maz gives a short nod. “I’ll wait outside.”

 

Rey nods, turns back toward the confessional, and walks down the side aisle, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. But when she reaches the small wooden booth, she stops in her tracks.

 

The priest is already stepping out.

 

And standing just behind him, shadowed in the alcove, is Mr. Solo.

 

The priest gives Rey a polite nod as he brushes past. “All yours,” he murmurs to Mr. Solo, who clasps his shoulder like an old friend.

 

Rey’s mouth goes dry. She steps backward.

 

She turns to leave.

 

But his hand is already on her arm, firm and fast. “Wait,” he says, too quietly for anyone to hear. “Please.”

 

She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn’t.

 

But she stops.

 

They stand in the shadows of the alcove, half-lit by flickering votives. His eyes search hers like he’s starving. She opens her mouth to speak, but he silences her with a kiss—fast, desperate, and full of every word neither of them has said in days.

 

Her body responds before her mind catches up—his kiss is hungry and his hands are rough and the world melts away, her thoughts gone quiet.

 

His lips are warm and soft and perfect, and she doesn't want it to end.

 

But then she pulls back.

 

“No,” she says breathlessly, shaking her head. “We can’t.”

 

He looks at her, jaw tight. “Why not?”

 

"We shouldn't--," she trails off, swallowing hard, "What we did was wrong."

 

His expression hardens. He pulls away, but only just enough to look her in the eyes. His hand still rests lightly on her waist, as though he could just pull her back into him at any moment.

 

"Wrong?", he repeats, his voice irritated, "Is that what you think?"

 

She tries to step back, but his hand doesn't let her.

 

“That old bitch is putting this in your head, isn’t she?” he demands, “Trying to keep you away from me.”

 

Rey flinches at his words, her breath catching in her throat. She knows he’s angry, but there’s something in the raw edge of his voice that unsettles her.

 

“Don’t,” she whispers, trying to pull back, but his grip tightens, holding her in place. “It’s not about her.”

 

“It is,” he insists, “We were fine until you left my chambers. She’s filling your head against me, keeping you away from me.”

 

“She’s trying to protect me,” Rey murmurs, her voice barely audible.

 

His eyes flash with something dark, a dangerous mix of anger and frustration. “Protect you?” He repeats the word like it’s something distasteful, a bitter pill in his mouth. “From me? From this?” His hand tightens at her waist, pulling her closer, until she feels the hard line of his body against hers.

 

"What we did was wrong," Rey says again, "If anyone finds out, I'll be ruined. No respectable house will hire me. No decent man will ever marry me, not after—"

 

"You're not going to marry anyone," his voice a harsh whisper that slices through her words like a blade, "I won't let you."

 

Rey recoils, her heart pounding. “What?”

 

His gauze locks onto hers, intense and suffocating. “You heard me. You will never marry anyone. You belong to me. You gave yourself to me—and now you're thinking you can just walk away and find some future with another man?”

 

She shakes her head, her hand instinctively reaching for him to push him away. "Please—Please, I don't want to be that girl. The one who... who gave herself away like that."

 

“You think that’s what this is about?” His voice lowers, raw with frustration. "You think I've been playing some game with you? That you're just some girl I used and then cast aside?"

 

Her heart beats faster, the pit of her stomach tightening. "What else am I supposed to think? You can't marry me. I'll just be something you can just discard once you're done with me."

 

The silence stretches between them like a taut wire, too sharp, too full of everything unspoken. His eyes flash, and before she knows it, his hand is on her wrist—tight enough to bruise, but not cruel.

 

“You think I’d discard you?” he asks, voice low and threatening. “You think I’d ever let you go?”

 

Rey swallows hard, the words caught in her throat.

 

"I don't know what you want from me anymore," she admits, her voice barely a whisper.

 

He lets out a harsh laugh, though it lacks any humor. “What I want, Rey, is you.” His thumb presses into her wrist as if to emphasize his words. “I’m not letting you go. I don’t care about your damn reputation or what anyone thinks. You’re mine. I will have you.”

 

Her breath hitches. She feels like she’s drowning, like the weight of his words is pressing down on her chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

 

“I can’t be yours,” she says, shaking her head desperately, tears threatening to spill. “I can’t... I can’t let you ruin my life.”

 

He moves in closer, his other hand reaching up to cup her face, forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushes gently over her cheek, tracing a path she’s memorized too well.

 

“You think I’m ruining your life?” he says quietly, his voice softening for the first time. “No, Rey. I’m the only thing in it that matters. You can fight me all you want, but you’re not walking away from me.”

 

Rey shuts her eyes, trying to block out the feeling of his hands on her, the soft pressure of his lips against her skin. “Please,” she says again, this time more firmly. "I can't... I can't stay with you. It's not right."

 

His fingers trail down her spine, sending another wave of heat through her. “You don’t have a choice,” he whispers, his voice low and thick with desire. “You never did.”

 

Her body betrays her, warmth blooming in places it shouldn’t.

 

His mouth finds her neck, trailing hot kisses down her throat. Her head falls back, her body reacting before her mind can catch up.

 

It's so wrong, and yet she can't stop herself from giving in, from surrendering to him.

 

His hand slides lower, gripping her thigh, pulling her leg up around his waist. His hardness presses against her, making her gasp.

 

"Mr. Solo," she gasps, trying and failing to regain control of her breathing, "Mr. Solo, please. Stop."

 

He groans against her neck, his hand gripping her tighter.

 

She shudders, her fingers tangling in his hair. She doesn't have the strength to resist him, to fight back. Not when his body is pressed so close to hers, his lips so soft and insistent.

 

"I can't," she gasps, her body aching for him, even as her mind screams that this is wrong. "I can't do this. Not here. Not now."

 

He pulls back, his gaze fixed on hers. "Then when?"

 

"I..." She can't answer. She doesn't know.

 

He leans forward, his lips brushing against her ear. "When, Rey?"

 

She shivers, her heart racing. She shouldn't give in. She shouldn't.

 

"Tonight," she says, the word falling from her lips before she can stop it.

 

He pulls back, his eyes dark and hungry. "Tonight," he echoes, his voice rough and low.

 

She knows she's going to hell. She knows this is a mistake. But she can't help herself.

 

He kisses her again, hard and deep. It feels like a promise, a vow.

 

He pulls away, his eyes searching hers. "Tonight, Rey."

Chapter 21

 

It’s late in the afternoon when Rey wipes her hands on her apron, elbow-deep in flour, kneading dough with methodical focus. Her arms ache from days of extra labor — not that she’s complained.

 

Maz is at the far counter, sorting through jars of preserves, muttering about the state of the pantry when the door creaks open and Sabine enters.

 

The new maid moves with quiet efficiency. She’s older than Rey — late thirties, maybe forty — with dark hair pinned tight and a face that betrays little. Rey doesn’t know much about her yet.

 

Maz glances over her shoulder. “Sabine. Take a tray up to Mr. Solo. He asked for coffee.”

 

Sabine nods wordlessly and begins to gather the service.

 

Rey stiffens slightly, but keeps her gaze fixed on the dough. Her hands move automatically, fold, press, turn, as if nothing has changed. As if the weight in her chest isn’t real.

 

Maz waits until Sabine leaves, the kitchen door swinging gently shut behind her, before she speaks.

 

“Well,” she says, brushing her hands on a towel, “I suppose that’s that.”

 

Rey doesn’t look up. “What is?”

 

Maz gives a soft, dry sound, not quite a sigh. “He’s not calling for you anymore. Today he just said he wanted his coffee, not Miss Niima serving it.”

 

Rey swallows hard, trying to rid herself of any expression that shows her guilt.

 

Maz leans against the counter, wiping her hands slowly, watching Rey with a gaze that’s neither sharp nor cold — just steady, bracing.

 

“Don’t take it so hard, girl,” she says gently. “This is a good thing. A start.”

 

Rey doesn’t answer. She keeps her eyes fixed on the dough in front of her, though her hands have stopped moving.

 

Maz steps closer, her voice low, meant only for the two of them. “Let him take his coffee from Sabine. Let him take his meals alone. One day, soon enough, he won’t even think of you. Not like that.”

 

Maz places a hand on her back, warm and firm between her shoulder blades. “You’ll be better for it, Rey. You’ll heal. You’ll find someone your own age. Maybe that boy who once came here – Poe, I think. He seems like a decent man. Someone who can give you a respectable home, a ring”.

 

Maz pauses, her hand still resting on Rey’s back.

 

“And Mr. Solo… He’ll do what men like him always do. He’ll marry some girl from a good family. Someone like the late Mrs. Leia. He’ll have heirs. He’ll grow old in this very mansion”.

 

Rey’s fingers sink deeper into the dough, her nails digging into the soft surface as if she could bury the ache with it.

 

She imagines him in the study, lifting a porcelain cup brought by someone else’s hand.

 

She imagines a girl in pearls, her hand on his arm, her smile perfect and practiced.

 

And it burns. Quiet and slow and deep.

 

Suddenly she wants the night to come faster. That she can be sure that he is hers...

 

And only hers.

 

Maz’s hand lifts from her back and moves to her shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

 

“You gave him more than you should’ve,” she says. “But it doesn’t mean he took everything.”

 

Rey nods faintly, but her jaw is tight. She doesn’t trust her voice, not yet.

 

Maz moves back to her jars of preserves. The clinking of glass resumes, soft and steady.

 

She presses the dough into a round and sets it aside. Begins another. Her fingers are steady now, but inside she’s anything but.

 

She should feel ashamed.

 

Instead, her pulse is quick with something hotter, darker.

 

Tonight.

 

______

 

It's midnight when she sneaks out of bed. She stops at Maz's bedroom door first, and only leaves when she's sure she's asleep, tiptoeing up the stairs still in her pajamas, her breath held so as not to make any noise.

 

She is walking down the second floor hallway when suddenly the library door opens and she is pulled inside by a pair of strong arms.

 

Rey lets out a soft gasp, but before she can form a word, his mouth is on hers—urgent, greedy. Mr. Solo kisses her like he’s been starving for it, his hands already at her waist, dragging her closer.

 

She doesn’t resist. Her fingers twist in his waistcoat, pulling him down to her, her mouth parting to let him in.

 

His hands slide beneath the hem of her nightdress, fingers splaying across her bare thighs, and she gasps as he hoists her up against one of the shelves. She wraps her legs around his hips without thinking, her back pressed to the spines of leather-bound volumes.

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he groans, burying his face in her throat, kissing and biting until her skin prickles with heat. “You drive me mad, do you know that?” he mutters. “Every single hour without you was hell.”

 

He pulls back just enough to catch her gaze, eyes burning with an intensity that takes her breath away. “I miss you. I miss everything about you—your laugh, your mind, your voice, your cunt. I didn’t play the gramophone anymore, not since you stopped coming to me”.

 

Rey bites her lip, hesitant. “Maz wouldn’t let me be near you,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “She watches over me like a hawk.”

 

"I don't fucking care about Maz," he growls, his hands tightening on her waist as if to prove it. "I care about you. And if she thinks she can keep you from me, she’s dead wrong."

 

“Maz only wants what’s best for me,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “She’s just protecting me”.

 

“Do you trust me?”  he asks suddenly.

 

Rey doesn't have to think too much.

 

She nods.

 

“Then trust me when I say I will protect you”.

 

His hands tighten slightly around her waist, steady and sure, grounding her trembling body.

 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ll keep you safe, my love. Always. No one will say anything about you, ever. Because I won't allow it.”

 

His hands tighten around her thighs, lifting her higher against the shelf.

 

The books are cold against her back, but his skin is warm as he drags her nightdress over her head. His palms glide over her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, the friction making her arch.

 

When his lips brush the peak of her nipple, her gasp fills the silent room. He sucks, laves, and the heat spirals through her, her thighs tightening around his hips.

 

He shifts his grip to her hips and drags her forward, until her center is flush against him. His erection is thick and straining behind his trousers, and he grinds into her, a ragged groan leaving his throat.

 

She's wet. She can feel it, the evidence of how badly her body wants this.

 

Of how badly she needs him.

 

His eyes are fixed on her face, watching her as he grinds against her again.

 

"I need to be inside you," he mutters, and there's a desperation in his voice that makes her shudder.

 

He steps back, setting her down on the floor, his gaze never leaving her.

 

"Spread your legs for me, my love."

 

The command is gentle, but no less commanding.

 

She obeys, her breath coming faster.

 

He drops to his knees in front of her, nudging her legs even wider. He pushes her thighs apart and his mouth descends, hot and hungry.

 

Rey chokes on a gasp, her hips jerking forward.

 

It's obscene, the sounds his mouth makes on her, but the shame only feeds the pleasure.

 

He slides a finger into her and her hips jerk, a soft cry leaving her throat.

 

"Yes," she hears him murmur. "Good girl. Just like that."

 

He adds a second finger, thrusting slowly, stretching her.

 

Her legs are trembling, her breath coming in fast, shallow gasps.

 

He curls his fingers, finding the spot inside her that makes her cry out.

 

His tongue moves faster, laving her with hard, fast strokes, and Rey's fingers are twisting in his hair, holding him against her as she grinds on his face.

 

She can feel that delicious tightening in her belly.

 

She's so close—

 

But suddenly his mouth and fingers are gone, and Rey is left panting, her hips arching up, chasing the sensation.

 

"Sir—"

 

“Beg”, he orders with a gasp of breath, "Beg me to be inside you."

 

She can feel his thing sliding against her, hot and thick, spreading her wetness through her folds.

 

"Please," she breathes. "Please, sir—"

 

“You can do better,” he urges, pressing himself against the bundle of nerves between her legs, “Show me how much you need me inside you, my love. How much your tight, warm little cunt needs me. I want to hear the words. Don't hold anything back."

 

Her cheeks flame, but her desire is stronger.

 

"Please," she says, louder now, her voice trembling. "Please, sir. I need you. I want you inside me. Please, sir, I can't—I can't—"

 

She's panting, her chest heaving, her hips rocking against him, desperate for friction.

 

He presses the tip of his member into her, and her breath catches.

 

"Tell me," he says roughly. "Tell me that you're mine."

 

"I’m yours," she whispers.

 

He eases deeper, stretching her, and she arches her back, a moan escaping her lips.

 

"Say it again," he demands, thrusting slowly, his fingers gripping her hip.

 

"Yours," she says, her voice a gasp.

 

"Mine," he growls, thrusting deeper, sliding against her walls.

 

"Yes," she breathes, "Yours. All yours."

 

Her hands are gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, but he doesn't seem to care.

 

He's staring at her, and the sight of him, his face flushed with desire, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light, makes her heart stutter in her chest.

 

He leans forward, his mouth ghosting over hers, and she meets him eagerly, their kiss hot and messy.

 

They are both breathing hard when they finally break apart, and his forehead rests against hers.

 

His thrusts become faster, more urgent, and she moans, her body arching to meet him.

 

She can feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling tighter, and she cries out as it hits, her channel clenching around him.

 

He buries his face in her neck, his breathing ragged, and she feels his thing pulse as he empties himself inside her.

 

They stay like that for a moment, clinging to each other, their breaths mingling.

 

Some of what he spilled inside her begins to leak out around his member, and she feels it slide through her folds towards the carpet. She'll certainly make a mess of it.

 

At least you're the maid. You can clean it up.

 

He seems hesitant to pull out of her, almost as if he wants to enjoy the last moments inside the warmth her body provides.

 

He kisses her breasts, and then her throat, and then her face, until he finally slides out of her.

 

And then she feels his fingers down there, pushing what had leaked out back in.

 

Rey arches at the sudden invasion of his fingers.

 

"What are you doing?" She asks, breathless.

 

"You can't let any of it go to waste, remember?".

 

Oh. They made love, so she has to lie down for a few minutes, like he taught her.

 

She nods, blushing, and then quickly covers herself with her nightgown before planting her feet on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

 

"Tell me when it's enough," she says.

 

He gets dressed, and she feels him staring at her as the minutes pass.

 

And then, "I think that should do."

 

She quickly stands up, straightening her nightgown. Her hair is already a lost cause.

 

When she looks up at Mr. Solo, he’s staring at her with a smile on the corner of his mouth.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and then touches her face, wondering if there’s something there.

 

He takes a step toward her, and before she can react, he kisses her on the forehead.

 

“You look beautiful, that’s all,” he says, his eyes never leaving hers, “Especially after making love.”

 

She blushes, looking away, but he pulls her by the chin, forcing her to look at him.

 

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, my love," he says gently. "Your beauty is a gift. But only for me."

 

She feels her cheeks grow hotter, but she can't look away from his eyes.

 

"Thank you, sir," she murmurs.

 

His lips curve in a small smile, and she can't help smiling back.

Chapter 22

Morning comes later than usual.

 

Rey wakes with the scent of old books still on her skin, her limbs heavy with the memory of Mr. Solo’s mouth, his hands, the rasp of his breath against her neck. The fire he lit in her hasn’t gone out—it smolders, low and constant beneath her ribs.

 

She dresses quickly and quietly, slipping into her plain day clothes and pulling her hair into a quick braid.

 

The hearth in the kitchen is already glowing when Rey comes downstairs, but the room feels oddly hollow.

 

She expects to hear Maz humming over the chopping board or complaining about the damp in the cellar. Instead, it’s Sabine at the sink, sleeves rolled up, rinsing a kettle. The hush in the air is unsettling.

 

Rey blinks, brushing sleep from her eyes.

 

“Good morning, Miss Sabine”.

 

“Morning, Miss Niima.”

 

She turns back to the kettle, setting it on the stove with precise movements. The clink of metal on iron echoes in the stillness.

 

Rey moves toward the table, glancing instinctively at the open back door—no sign of Maz returning from the yard, no garden basket in sight.

 

She shifts her weight. “Is Maz out back?”

 

Sabine shakes her head. “No, miss. She’s in the office. With Mr. Solo.”

 

Rey’s fingers pause where they hover above the flour tin. “The office?”

 

Sabine nods once. “Went in just after sunrise.”

 

Rey hesitates. Maz rarely entered the study, and never without a reason. Not at this hour.

 

She wants to march down the hall and put her ear to the door. But she doesn’t.

 

Instead, she moves toward the pantry, where the fruit bins sit half-empty.

 

“I’ll go to the village,” she says abruptly. “We’re low on fruit and carrots. We’ll need fresh greens for supper.”

 

Sabine gives another nod, impassive. “Take the wide road, if you can. Rain last night made the back path a mess.”

 

The walk to the village is familiar, and her shoes tap against the dirt road, rhythm steady, almost calming. And yet her thoughts run wild behind her eyes.

 

Why would Maz go to him so early?

 

Had she seen something last night? Heard something?

 

Rey shakes her head, as if she can banish the memory of the night before. Mr. Solo inside her. His mouth on her neck. The scrape of his stubble against her skin.

 

She should be ashamed. She is ashamed. But the ache between her legs and the flutter in her belly say something else entirely.

 

By the time she reaches the village square, the market is in full swing. Stalls line the street in a patchwork of linen and wood, overflowing with produce and chatter. Rey weaves through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces.

 

At the far end of the square, she spots Rose standing near a honey stall, bonnet tipped back, cheeks flushed.

 

Rey smiles despite herself. “Rose.”

 

Rose turns, her eyes lighting up. “Rey! There you are.”

 

They embrace briefly before Rose links her arm through Rey’s. “Maz didn’t come today?”

 

“No,” Rey says, adjusting the basket on her hip. “She’s at the manor. In the office with Mr. Solo.”

 

Rose arches a brow. “That’s unusual.”

 

“I thought so too,” Rey murmurs, but lets the matter drop.

 

Just then, Poe appears beside them, a handful of grapes in one hand, a crooked grin on his face.

 

“Miss Niima,” he says with an exaggerated bow. “How fortunate we are to find you at market today.”

 

Rey nods. “Poe.”

 

He straightens and tucks something behind his back. “Got you something.”

 

She blinks. “Have you?”

 

He produces a small, purple wildflower, half-crushed from his fist but still vibrant.

 

“It’s just a weed,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “but it looked like you. Well— not like you, but... soft. Pretty.”

 

Rose snorts behind her hand.

 

Rey’s cheeks warm, but she reaches for the flower and takes it gently.

 

“Thank you,” she says, and means it.

 

Poe shrugs. “Figured you could use something nice.”

 

Rey looks down at the little bloom in her hand.

 

She glances up at him. “It’s lovely.”

 

He gives a small nod. “Good.”

 

Rose hooks her arm through Rey’s again and nudges her playfully. “Well, look at you, Miss Niima. Gifts in the morning, market air in your hair. Careful, people will start thinking you’re being courted.”

 

Rey laughs, but it’s breathy and uncertain.

 

They walk the square together, stopping for radishes and late-season strawberries.

 

She shouldn’t be here, in the sun, laughing with friends. She shouldn’t feel this flutter of guilt when Poe brushes her elbow, or when she meets his kind eyes and can’t meet them for long.

 

Eventually, Rose peels away to speak to the jam-seller, and Poe falls into step beside Rey as she approaches the herb stall.

 

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly.

 

She startles a little at the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

He shrugs, not quite looking at her. “You just seem… far away.”

 

Rey hesitates, fingering the edge of her basket. “I didn’t sleep well.”

 

That’s not a lie.

 

Poe nods slowly, eyes scanning her face. "Because of Mr. Solo?"

 

She freezes, and looks suddenly up at Poe's face, wondering for a moment if he knows what Mr. Solo did to her last night.

 

But no.

 

There's no way he could know.

 

Does he?

 

She takes a deep breath, wondering for a moment if it's possible for someone to look at her and know she's no longer a maiden.

 

Her voice comes out smaller than she intends. “What makes you ask that?”

 

Poe looks down, his thumb rubbing the worn strap of his basket. “I’m not trying to pry,” Poe says. “I just… I worry. He doesn't seem like a good person. And sometimes you look—” he falters, “—trapped.”

 

She opens her mouth, unsure what words will come out.

 

“I—” her voice cracks. She clears her throat. "I'm fine, no need to worry. Mr. Solo is a good— master."

 

She says goodbye shortly after, claiming she has to get the vegetables home before they spoil.

 

Poe helps her lift the basket into her arms, and his fingers linger briefly on hers. “Take care of yourself, Miss Niima.”

 

______

 

The mansion looms ahead as Rey returns from the village, her arms aching from the weight of the basket.

 

She pushes the door open with her shoulder and steps inside.

 

“Maz?” she calls softly, setting the basket on the kitchen table.

 

No answer.

 

She moves through the rooms, peeking into the parlor, glancing up the stairs. Nothing.

 

Frowning, she finds Sabine at the scullery sink again, sleeves damp. She glances over her shoulder at Rey.

 

“Sabine?” Rey asks. “Have you seen Maz?”

 

Sabine straightens and dries her hands on her apron. “She’s gone.”

 

Rey frowns. “Gone where?”

 

“She doesn’t work here anymore.”

 

Rey blinks. “What?”

 

Sabine shrugs. “Took her bags, walked out the front. Mr. Solo said she doesn’t work here anymore.”

 

The words hit Rey like a slap. Her mouth opens, then shuts again.

 

“No,” she says, breathless. “That’s not possible. She wouldn’t just leave. Not without a word. Not without telling me—”

 

Sabine gives a slight shrug. “Perhaps she didn’t have time.”

 

Rey’s pulse races. Her chest tightens like something’s closing in around her. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Maz would never just… leave. Not without telling me.”

 

Something hardens in Rey then—confusion giving way to disbelief, disbelief to hurt. And somewhere under all of it, something hotter: a sting of betrayal.

 

She doesn’t even excuse herself—she just turns, skirts brushing behind her as she heads down the hallway. She barely hears her own footsteps over the thrum of her heartbeat. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches the study door.

 

She doesn’t knock.

 

She throws it open.

 

Mr. Solo looks up from behind his desk, sleeves rolled and ink on his fingers. A single candle burns beside him, casting a long shadow across the paper he was writing on.

 

He doesn’t seem startled. Only lifts his eyes slowly to meet hers.

 

"Hello, my love".

 

“You dismissed her. You dismissed Maz.”

 

He sets the pen down with quiet precision and leans back in his chair, utterly unbothered.

 

“I did.”

 

“How could you? You had no right!”

 

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “I didn’t think I needed your permission.”

 

“You didn’t need to dismiss her at all!”

 

“She was becoming... disruptive,” he says, voice measured, almost bored. “I thought it best.”

 

Rey stares at him, stunned. “Disruptive? She’s worked here for decades.”

 

He gives a slight shrug. “And now she doesn’t.”

 

“She gave her whole life to this house!” Rey says, her voice rising. “She served day and night—without complaint, without rest. She cared for this place like it was her own, even when it never truly belonged to her”.

 

A pause.

 

“And you threw her out like a stranger.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression remains unreadable when he speaks, "Her service in this house will not be forgotten. She was given a good reward, and a generous pension. But she was paid to serve. And lately she’s taken too great an interest in things that don’t concern her.”

 

Rey stares at him. “You mean me.”

 

A pause. Then, “Yes.”

 

“You dismissed her,” she says slowly, “because she was trying to protect me.”

 

“She was meddling. Whispering poison in your ear. Turning you against me. I did what was necessary.”

 

Rey’s eyes burn with unshed tears, a storm of betrayal and grief raging behind them. “She was the closest thing I had to family,” she says, voice trembling with raw emotion. “And you didn’t even let me say goodbye.”

 

“She didn’t want you to know. Thought it would be easier that way.”

 

“That’s a lie.” Her voice cracks. “She would never leave me like that.”

 

Silence.

 

Her hands clench into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms to hold back the flood of anguish. “How can you be so cold? How can you not see what you’ve done?”

 

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you don’t understand what I’m willing to do for you. For us.”

 

Rey takes a step back, breath caught.

 

“She was right to protect me from you,” she whispers.

 

“No,” he says, finally rising from his chair. “She was wrong. I would never harm you.”

 

“You already have.”

 

He stops.

 

The candle flickers between them, casting golden light on his features, shadowing the sharp angles of his face. His expression darkens.

 

“I’ve given you more freedom than anyone else in this house,” he says softly. “More than any other woman in my life. And still you fight me.”

 

She’s shaking now—quietly, but visibly. Her hands tremble at her sides. Her voice is barely audible.

 

A tear escapes despite her will, trailing down her cheek. “You don’t understand,” she whispers. “She was all I had.”

 

He watches her. His voice softens. “You have me.”

 

He steps closer, the faint scent of ink and smoke lingering around him. Before Rey can move, his arms wrap around her, pulling her close against his chest.

 

“You don’t need her. Or anyone else,” he whispers against her hair, his voice soft but insistent, “I’ll be your family now.”

 

Rey tries to step back, her hands pushing weakly at his chest, but his hold only tightens, grounding her in a way she hadn’t known she needed. The dam holding back her emotions crumbles, and tears spill freely down her cheeks.

 

She lets out a quiet sob, her body trembling against him.

 

He strokes her hair gently, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “I’m here. You’re not alone anymore. You have me, Rey.”

 

The room feels smaller, quieter — just the two of them in the flickering candlelight. And though part of her aches with betrayal, part of her aches for this.

 

For a moment, silence stretches between them—heavy, charged, impossible to break.

 

Then he lowers his head, resting his forehead against hers.

 

"Come," he whispers softly, "You need some rest."

 

She barely registers as he carries her through the quiet halls, the faint crackle of the hearth lighting their path. When they reach his chambers, he sets her down gently, his hands steady as he kneels to untie her worn shoes. His fingers brush her ankles with careful tenderness.

 

Rey watches him, breath catching as he eases her feet free.

 

He guides her toward the bed, settling her down with utmost care. Her head rests against the soft pillows, and he curls around her like a shield, his hand moving to caress her hair with slow, soothing strokes.

 

His touch is gentle, patient. Gradually, her breathing deepens, the tension in her muscles unwinding as sleep claims her.

 

Chapter 23

Rey’s eyes flutter open to the soft light filtering through the curtains

 

She lies still for a moment, the weight of sleep retreating and leaving a hollow ache behind.

 

She's in his quarters, she remembers. Of course she is. Her bed has never felt as comfortable as the one she's in now.

 

As she turns her head slowly, she notices a shadow near the door. Mr. Solo stands there, motionless, watching her with an unreadable expression. His arms are crossed, but there is a softness in his eyes that unsettles her.

 

“Good morning,” he says quietly.

 

Rey swallows hard, her heart still heavy. She looks away, unsure how to meet his gaze after everything.

 

“I want Maz back.”

 

Mr. Solo’s gaze sharpens for a moment, but his voice remains calm, almost measured.

 

“You know I'd give you anything you asked of me, my love”, he says with a small smile, which quickly fades, "But not that. Maz is gone, Rey. She’s not coming back.”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes soften again, though a flicker of steel remains beneath.

“You must be hungry,” he says gently. “I sent Miss Sabine to bring your breakfast and a fresh set of clothes.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face.

“But Sabine—she’ll see me. And what if she says something?”.

 

"You don't need to worry about that," he says calmly, "Sabine's been with me for a long time. She's discreet and loyal—more loyal than you realize."

 

He steps forward.

 

"And she already knows about us."

 

Rey’s breath catches, a flush rising to her cheeks.

“She knows?” she whispers, her voice barely steady.

 

Mr. Solo nods slowly, watching her reaction.

 

Before Rey can speak again, a soft knock sounds at the door.

 

He turns his head. “Come in.”

 

The door opens with a quiet creak, and Sabine steps in, calm and composed as ever, balancing a tray of food in one hand and a neatly folded bundle of clothes in the other. Her eyes flick briefly to Rey, then to Mr. Solo, but her expression remains unreadable.

 

“Breakfast, sir,” she says simply.

 

“Thank you,” Mr. Solo replies.

 

Sabine walks to the side table and sets the tray down—porridge still steaming, a cut of bread with butter, and a cup of dark tea. Beside it, she places the folded clothes.

 

Rey sits up slowly, pulling the coverlet to her chest. She avoids Sabine’s gaze, though she can feel the heat creeping back into her cheeks.

 

But Sabine says nothing. She only adjusts the tray slightly, her movements practiced and brisk.

 

 “Ring the bell if you need anything, ma’am.”

 

And with that, she turns and walks out, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

 

Rey stares at the door for a long moment.

 

Ma’am.

 

The word rings hollow in her chest. Foreign. Not hers.

 

She lowers her eyes slowly to the breakfast tray, the steam curling up from the porridge as if nothing were amiss—as if she belonged here, tucked in Mr. Solo’s bed, with food brought to her and her clothes folded neatly at her side. As if she were mistress of the house.

 

But she isn’t.

 

She is not a ma’am.

 

She’s just… Rey.

 

Mr. Solo walks toward the bed and sets the clothes within her reach. Then he sits beside her, one hand resting lightly atop the coverlet.

 

“She won’t speak a word of it,” he says, gently.

 

She has no idea how he's so sure. But he must know better.

 

Mr. Solo’s hand lingers for a moment on the edge of the blanket, his eyes searching her face with quiet intensity.

 

“Eat, Rey,” he says softly. “You haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

 

She doesn't know how he knows that.

 

She stares at the tray. The food looks warm, fresh, lovingly arranged—but her stomach feels like a stone. She shakes her head faintly. “I’m not hungry.”

 

His fingers graze her wrist—barely a touch, but enough to make her look at him.

 

“You will be,” he says gently but firmly. “Please. Eat.”

 

He stays there, unmoving, watching as she reaches for the spoon with hesitant fingers.

 

She eats in silence. The porridge is sweetened with a touch of honey, the bread still warm. It should be comforting.

 

It isn’t.

 

Mr. Solo sits by her side the whole time, his presence both steadying and suffocating. Not once does he look away. When she pauses too long, he murmurs, “All of it, Rey.”

 

She swallows the last bite, then places the spoon back down with care.

 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle lightly against her cheek. She flinches almost imperceptibly.

 

He stands, taking the tray and setting it back on the side table. “You should change now.”

 

Rey looks to the bundle of clothing Sabine brought—neatly folded, soft fabric in a shade of yellow she’s never worn. She picks up the dress slowly, running her fingers along the bodice, and then lifts the underthings beneath.

 

Her brow furrows.

 

“These… these aren’t mine,” she says, glancing over at him.

 

Mr. Solo smiles faintly, still standing with his hands folded behind his back. “No. They’re new.”

 

“New?”

 

“I had them made for you,” he says simply.

 

She looks back at him. “But I already have clothes.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is low, careful. “Old aprons. Stiff collars. Dull wool.”

 

She frowns. “They’re mine. They fit.”

 

“You deserve pretty things, Rey,” he says. “And I can give them to you. All of them.”

 

He reaches out then—deliberate, slow—and runs a finger down the fabric she still holds, as if to anchor her attention.

 

“I like seeing you in colors,” he says softly. “Not just grey. I like knowing that what touches your skin is something I chose for you.”

 

He reaches up, brushing her hair gently behind her ear.

 

“I like dressing you,” he murmurs. “And undressing you even more.”

 

She lowers her gaze, heart beating too quickly. A part of her wants to argue—to say she didn’t ask for any of this.

 

But she says nothing.

 

She clutches the dress a little tighter.

 

Rey waits—holding her breath, hoping he’ll retreat to the door, offer her some semblance of privacy. But he only watches, eyes steady, arms folded behind his back.

 

She shifts beneath the blanket, uncertain, her skin prickling with awareness. “Could you…” she starts, voice soft, uncertain. “Could you turn around?”

 

“No.”

 

Just one word. Soft, but final.

 

Rey looks down again. A flush creeps across her cheeks, throat tightening. Still, slowly, she begins to move.

 

He's been inside her before. Three times, to be exact. Watching her get changed can hardly get more intimate than this.

 

She swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet touch the cool floor. The silk chemise brushes her knuckles as she lifts it. Her breath hitches.

 

She doesn’t look at him—but she feels him.

 

Feels his gaze as surely as if it were hands.

 

With trembling fingers, she slips out of the linen nightgown. It falls to the floor in a whisper.

 

She doesn’t have time to reach for the underthings before he’s there, silently, like a shadow. Mr. Solo steps closer, and his hands, warm and deft, catch the corset before she can. He holds it out to her.

 

“Here,” he says softly. “Let me.”

 

She freezes. He waits.

 

Then, with slow, aching reluctance, she turns.

 

His fingers brush her spine as he fits the corset to her, drawing the ribbons gently but firmly. Not too tight. She hears his breath, steady and measured, as though he’s holding himself back.

 

She closes her eyes.

 

He fastens the final hook. She can feel the heat of him behind her—close, too close—but his hands never stray. When he lifts the dress and slides it over her arms, he does so with careful restraint.

 

She says nothing.

 

He steps back, jaw tight, gaze flickering down her form, now shaped by the dress he chose.

 

"Beautiful," he whispers, eyes darkening, "My little, pretty Rey."

 

______

 

The pretty yellow dress he gave her was hardly made for work.

 

But Rey ties her apron over it anyway and heads downstairs with a determined step.

 

But the moment she lifts a rag from the cleaning cupboard, Sabine appears.

 

“I’ll take care of that, ma’am.”

 

Rey blinks. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

 

“I know.” Sabine’s voice is calm but firm. “But you shouldn’t. Not in that dress.”

 

Rey hesitates. “I can change.”

 

Sabine offers a small, polite smile. “No need. Mr. Solo left very specific instructions.”

 

Rey’s heart sinks. “Instructions?”

 

Sabine nods, already reaching for the rag Rey still holds. “He doesn’t want you working anymore.”

 

The words clang through her like a bell.

 

She tries again—halfheartedly, uncertainly—but every corner she turns, another maid is already there. Dusting, straightening, tending. Quiet glances are exchanged, some curious, none unkind. They don’t sneer. They just... let her be.

 

And that somehow feels worse.

 

By the time the clock strikes eleven, Rey finds herself adrift, hands idle, her apron abandoned. She wanders back upstairs on soft steps, restless and coiled with energy she can’t use.

 

The door to the library is open.

 

He isn’t there.

 

She pauses on the threshold, uncertain if she should enter without him. But then her eyes land on the rows of books, spines worn, familiar and rich with scent, and her feet carry her forward before she can think better of it.

 

She doesn’t let herself think too hard. She just sinks into the corner chair by the window and opens a book on her lap, the yellow fabric of her skirt pooling softly around her.

 

Rey doesn’t notice how much time slips by as she reads—minutes melting into hours, the outside world fading until all that exists is the soft rustle of pages and the quiet hum of the room.

 

The afternoon light wanes, shadows stretching across the wooden floor, when the door creaks open quietly.

 

Mr. Solo stands in the doorway, a stack of paperwork held loosely in one hand. His gaze settles on her and the book open in her lap.

 

“Enjoying the reading?”

 

Rey looks up, startled. She closes the book slowly.

 

“There isn’t much else to do,” she replies, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “You made sure of that.”

 

He steps fully into the room, setting the papers on the nearest desk.

 

“I didn’t order you to be bored,” he says softly. “I only wanted you to rest.”

 

She snorts, a short, bitter laugh.

 

“Rest? I'm your maid, sir. You don't pay me to rest."

 

"I'd like you to do other things with your day," he says softly, "Something besides cleaning and cooking."

 

"I've worked here since I was eight, sir. I don't know how to do anything else.”

 

"I could provide some distractions."

 

"Distractions?"

 

“I can arrange for you to have lessons—music, literature, languages. Something to occupy your mind beyond the chores.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen at the suggestion, a flicker of excitement stirring within her.

 

“That sounds… lovely,” she says quietly, a smile tugging at her lips. But almost immediately, a shadow crosses her face. She looks down, voice dropping. “Still, I’m not sure it’s my place. Lessons like that are not for people like me—not for a maid.”

 

Mr. Solo lets out a soft, amused laugh.

“Those lessons are for anyone who can afford them.”

He steps a little closer, his eyes fixed on hers.

“And I’m willing to pay for yours.”

 

Rey looks away for a moment, biting her lower lip as she wrestles with the unfamiliar feeling swelling inside her—something between fear and anticipation.

 

“How about we begin with piano? Maybe next week?” Mr. Solo suggests softly.

 

Rey hesitates, biting her lip, a mix of excitement and uncertainty swirling inside her.

 

“I’ve never played,” she admits quietly.

 

“That’s all the more reason to start,” he replies with a faint smile.

 

She meets his eyes, a small, tentative smile forming.

 

“All right,” she whispers. “Next week, then.”

Chapter 24

 

Dear Maz,

I miss you. Very much.

I’m sorry it came to this. I’m sorry you had to go.

I don’t know how to move forward without you here. But I hope wherever you are, you know how deeply you are loved, and how much you are missed.

And I hope—more than anything—that you’re safe, and somewhere warm. Somewhere you can finally rest.

But please, don’t worry about me.

Mr. Solo has been kind to me. He’s made sure I’m cared for. He gives me everything I need. I’m not afraid.

I know that might not bring you peace, but I want you to have it anyway. You’ve spent your whole life taking care of others. You don’t need to carry my burdens too.

If ever you find it in your heart to write back, know I would cherish it more than words can say.

With all my love,
Rey.

 

It's been a week since Maz has been gone when Rey offers the carefully folded letter to Mr. Solo.

 

He says nothing, only watches her with that calm stillness that always unnerves her.

 

"Would you—could you manage to send it to her? Please?"

 

He glances at the letter, then at her. For a moment, she thinks he won’t take it. His expression tightens—jaw clenched, mouth flat.

 

The silence stretches long enough that her hope begins to wilt.

 

But then, wordlessly, he reaches out and takes the letter from her hands.

 

“Of course,” he says at last.

 

She almost sags with relief.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers.

 

He watches her a moment longer, then leans back in his chair, fingers steepled in thought.

 

“And how are your piano lessons progressing?”

 

She blinks, caught off guard by the shift. “Oh. They’re… going well,” she says slowly. “Madame Giraud is a very skilled teacher.”

 

He arches a brow. “But?”

 

Rey hesitates, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the weight in her chest. “She’s very strict. I’m not sure she even likes music. Or people.”

 

He nods. “She was a concert pianist once, before she lost a finger in the fire at the Théâtre du Châtelet.” He pauses, watching Rey’s face carefully. “If you don’t like her, I can find someone else.”

 

Rey’s eyes snap up. “No,” she says quickly, then catches herself, softening. “I mean… no, that’s not necessary.”

 

He tilts his head slightly, watching her more closely now. “You’re sure?”

 

She nods. “She’s hard, yes. But she’s brilliant. I’ve already learned so much.”

 

He studies her in silence for a moment longer. “Very well,” he says finally. “But if she ever crosses the line,” he adds, his voice lower now, firmer, “you tell me.”

 

Rey nods quietly, but after a beat, she lifts her chin, and something steadier comes into her voice.

 

“I’ve been thinking…” she begins, carefully. “I’d like to return to my duties. Around the house, I mean. Cleaning. Helping in the kitchen. Laundry.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression shifts at once—sharpening, cooling.

 

“No.”

 

She blinks, caught off guard. “But—”

 

“You’re not a maid anymore, Rey.”

 

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean exactly that,” he says. “You’re not a servant anymore.”

 

Rey’s eyes flicker with confusion. “Are you… dismissing me?”

 

Mr. Solo chuckles.

 

“No,” he says, rising from his chair with a graceful, deliberate motion. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

 

She watches warily as he crosses the room. He comes to stand in front of her, looking down with a hint of indulgence in his eyes.

 

“I’m relieving you of duties that no longer suit you. I won’t have you on your knees scrubbing floors. I won’t have you taking orders from Sabine or anyone else in this house. That part of your life is over.”

 

“If I’m not a maid, what am I supposed to do? Just… sit here?”.

 

He shrugs lightly, a faint, almost teasing smile touching his lips.

 

“If you want to”.

 

"You're certainly not serious."

 

He lets the smile deepen, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

 

“Oh, I am serious,” he says softly, taking a slow step closer. “But if sitting here doesn’t suit you, I can arrange new activities. Maybe painting lessons? I know what a creative soul you have.”

 

"But... what about my salary?" she asks, her thoughts returning to the jar of coins under her bed, "You're not going to pay me to do the things I enjoy. That's not how it works."

 

“I believe I decide how I spend my own money, Miss Niima. And you will receive a fair allowance every month,” he says, reaching over to his desk. He pulls a sealed envelope and hands it to her with deliberate care. “Enough to spend as you wish.”

 

Rey takes the envelope, her fingers trembling slightly. She opens it and peers inside. The sum is more than she expected, more than she’s ever held at once.

 

She shakes her head slowly, hurt flickering in her eyes.

 

“No, that’s not right,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

She tries to return the envelope to his hands.

 

"It's yours, my love," he says gently, keeping it in her hands.

 

"No," she shakes her head again, "You're treating me like—like those girls you mentioned."

 

"What girls? What are you talking about?"

 

She swallows hard, struggling to find the words. "The—the pleasure girls. The ones you said get paid to... sleep with men."

 

He blinks, surprised.

 

“Of course not,” he says, sounding almost irritated that she’d even suggest it. “That money—I just wish you could have anything you want, Rey. Money isn’t an issue for me.”

 

She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off gently, though with finality.

 

“You deserve to be taken care of,” he says, and now his voice has taken on that quiet, authoritative tone she’s come to recognize. “You’re here to be cared for.”

 

He steps closer, the warmth of his presence filling the room, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that leaves no room for doubt.

 

“Do you remember what I told you before?” he asks, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”

 

“But I don’t want to just sit and play the piano and take walks and—”

 

“You will do exactly that,” he says. “You’ll rest. You’ll read. You’ll eat properly. You’ll take your lessons and learn to enjoy having things done for you, not by you.”

 

She stares at him, lips parted slightly, confusion and frustration warring in her eyes.

 

Mr. Solo’s gaze softens, yet remains steady and commanding. Without another word, he leans down, closing the small distance between them. His lips brush hers—light at first, a tentative promise—but then deepen with a quiet intensity that steals her breath away.

 

When he finally pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, his voice is a husky whisper.

 

“This is how I care for you, Rey. In every way.”

 

______

 

"Oh, God—," Rey gasps, tightening her thighs around Mr. Solo, "Sir... The table— Please— The table... It's going to break..."

 

It's only three in the afternoon. She should be finishing reading The Tempest, but instead, she's sitting on top of Mr. Solo's desk, her dress bunched up around her waist, her thighs spread so he can thrust between them.

 

"The table can take it," he interrupts her, his thrusts becoming more desperate between her legs, his desk creaking under the force of his hips, "Just like you can take it."

 

His hand closes around her throat, just tight enough for her to feel it and her back arches up off the desk, a moan leaving her lips.

 

How easy it would be for him to break me, she thinks. One slightly stronger movement of his hand and there would be nothing left of her.

 

But she is not afraid. She trusts him. He knows just how much he can squeeze her. He knows exactly how far he can push her before she falls over the edge.

 

"You can take it, can't you, Rey?" he growls in her ear, one hand squeezing her throat while the other travels south, sliding under her skirt to rub the slick, wet lips between her thighs, "You can take anything I want to give you."

 

"Yes, sir," Rey answers, her cheeks burning at the thought of the servants being able to hear the desk squeaking every time he thrusts inside her. She feels her nipples harden against his chest and a shiver runs down her spine. "I'll take… whatever… you want."

 

"That's my girl." His mouth trails down to her breasts and he yanks her dress down, revealing her nipples before pulling one into his mouth, sucking it hard. "That's my good girl."

 

She whimpers, her head falling back as his tongue swirls around her nipple, his teeth scraping across the sensitive flesh.

 

"My name, Rey," he whispers, kissing his way to her other breast, his shaft pushing deeper into her, "Say my name. I want to hear it."

 

"Ben," she breathes.

 

His hips snap forward and she contracts, feeling the tip of his member brush somewhere deep inside her.

 

"Again," he hisses, “Sing it to me. Let me know how much you need me”.

 

"Ben—Ben, please…"

 

"Say it. Admit that you don't need anyone else. Admit that you only need me."

 

"Only you," she cries out, her hips rocking against his, meeting his every thrust, "I need you, Ben. Just you. Only you."

 

He groans, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he moves his hips, and she wants to live there forever. To freeze the moment right there, when they can't get any closer than they already are.

 

"I love you," she breathes, "I love you."

 

"I know," he whispers, his thumb brushing her cheek, his nose nuzzling hers, "I know you do, my love."

 

She wraps her legs around him, urging him closer, needing him deeper. Her walls are clenching around him, her arousal dripping down his length, and when his mouth finds her neck, she feels like she's floating, like her body is no longer her own.

 

He's everywhere. In her mouth, her ears, her mind, her body, and all she can think of is him. The taste of his lips, the feel of his arms around her, the way his member stretches her open, filling her until she feels like she's going to burst.

 

He moves his hips, the head of his member brushing against a spot deep inside her that has her toes curling, and she gasps, her eyes wide, her body trembling.

 

"That's it. You're doing so well, my love. Come, let me hear you."

 

His words have the effect of a whip and her muscles contract, a scream tearing from her throat.

 

She can't breathe, can't move, can't think. All she can do is feel.

 

He grabs her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck, and she can feel his hot breath on her skin.

 

"One more," he whispers, and the way his voice is strained and husky, makes her whimper, "One more. For me. Come on, one more."

 

She doesn't think it's possible, but then he shifts his hips, changing the angle, and she can't stop the tears that run down her cheeks.

 

She's drowning in him, and the more he talks, the deeper she sinks.

 

"You can do it. So do it for me, Rey. Let go. Let me feel you."

 

She lets out a strangled sob, her fingers digging into his back.

 

"One more. Just one more. For me."

 

"I— I can't. I can't—"

 

"Yes, you can. And you will."

 

Her eyes are watering, and the tears are making her vision blurry.

 

"It hurts," she whispers, "I'm too sensitive. I can't—"

 

"Yes, you can."

 

And then he shifts, and his hand is between her legs, his finger finding the tiny bundle of nerves between her legs and all she can do is cry out.

 

His fingers stroke her swollen flesh and her body tenses, a scream tearing from her lips as the coil in her belly snaps, her nails digging into his shoulders, her walls clenching around him so tightly that it must hurt, but she can't stop herself.

 

"There," he breathes, "See? You can. You did it, Rey. I’m so proud of you.”

 

She's still riding the waves of her pleasure when she feels his release. His arms tighten around her, his breath hitching, his lips pressing into her shoulder. He fills her with him. Floods her sensitive, overused channel with him.

 

But she's too exhausted to notice anything else. It's like her muscles are made of jelly. Like she's nothing more than a rag doll on his desk.

 

She's sore, and tired… and she's never been so satisfied.

 

He stays inside her for a few minutes, taking advantage of their position to kiss her without rushing.

 

His lips roam over her face, her neck, and she closes her eyes, allowing herself to be caressed and pampered by him.

 

When he finally slips out of her, she winces, and he stops immediately, kissing her forehead.

 

"Are you well, my love?"

 

"I think you might have killed me," she whispers, her lips curved into a faint smile, and he chuckles, kissing the tip of her nose.

 

“I won't apologize," he smiles, “Come, let me carry you to a proper surface,” he gently lifts her off the desk in his arms as if she weighs no more than a sheet of paper, “You deserve to rest after what I’ve done to you.”

 

“Yes, you were very demanding of me today,” she says, snuggling into his warm chest as he walks out of his office.

 

“And you loved every second of it.”

 

She doesn’t respond, hiding her smile against his chest.

 

There’s no one in the hallway when they leave. There never is. Mr. Solo has ordered that no one is to go up to the first floor unless he calls.

 

So she doesn’t even bother covering her exposed breasts as he carries her. It wouldn’t result in anything other than Mr. Solo pulling them free again.

 

She expects him to take her to his quarters, as usual, but he ends up walking into the door right next to them.

 

Rey frowns, looking over his shoulder at the rooms around her. Instead of the dark colors of his room, this one is brighter. The furniture is white, the walls are covered in delicate wallpaper with pink and orange floral designs. There is a fireplace with fresh flowers on top, a large vanity in the corner.

 

Rey doesn't remember going in here before. Not even to clean.

 

"Where are we?" she asks, and she is even more confused when Mr. Solo deposits her on the bed, the soft, lavender-scented pillows welcoming her as if she were lying on a cloud.

 

She immediately plants her feet on the bed, lifting her hips slightly. She doesn't want to get sick from letting anything slip away from her.

 

Mr. Solo smiles, "Did you like it?"

 

"These chambers?" Rey looks around once more, "Yes, of course. I mean, just look at this. They're beautiful. But what are we doing here?"

 

"These were my grandmother's rooms. Her name was Padme," he says with a hint of affection, "I asked Sabine to clean them. I want you to stay here now."

 

“Stay here?” she frowns, “But I have my own room.”

 

“In the servants’ quarters,” he notes, sounding almost irritated.

 

“Well, I’ve been sleeping there since I was eight, sir,” she argues, “It’s served me just fine.”

 

Mr. Solo’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, Rey feels a flicker of frustration in his gaze. “I don’t want you sleeping there anymore.”

 

“I don’t see what the problem is,” she snaps, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s just a room. My room. I don’t need anything more than that.”

 

Mr. Solo looks at her, his jaw clenched.

 

"It's too small, too dark, too damp..." he pauses, "And too far away from me."

 

Rey blushes, but quickly shakes her head vehemently, "It doesn't matter, sir. I can't sleep in your grandmother's chambers."

 

"Why not?" he raises an eyebrow casually, "You said yourself you liked it here."

 

"It's beautiful, but that's not the point..." she sighs. "You can't put a maid in the lady's chambers. That's not right."

 

"You're not a maid anymore."

 

"What am I then?" she retorts, lifting her chin, "Because even I'm not sure anymore."

 

Mr. Solo's face softens, and he takes a small step closer to her. He reaches up and gently caresses her cheek, as if he can wash away her doubts with his touch. And maybe he can.

 

"You're mine, Rey," he says softly, looking into her eyes, and she can't look away, "My sweet, little Rey," he sighs, "Do you need to be more than that?"

 

Rey’s heart flutters at his words, a mixture of warmth and confusion flooding her chest.

 

“I don’t know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, as if she’s unsure of even her own thoughts. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be. I don’t know what you want from me.”

 

“Right now? I want you to stop answering me and accept that these are your new quarters,” he smiles, “You can redecorate it if you want, of course. Just let me know what you need.”

 

“What? Of course not. This looks perfect,” she says quickly, and then, more hesitantly, “But your grandmother…”

 

“Would have loved you,” he interrupts, pressing their foreheads together, “You look just like her, you know.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen, “Me?”

 

"Yes", he smiles, "You have the same eyes. The same stubbornness. The same sweetness. The same kindness", his hand gently brushes her hair back from her face, and for a brief moment, the world outside seems to disappear. “You’ve always been like this. That’s what makes you... special. Just like her.”

 

Rey's throat tightens, and a feeling she can't describe floods her chest.

 

"Do you miss her?" she asks quietly, and his gaze drops to the mattress.

 

"Sometimes."

 

"And you— Are you sure you want me to sleep here?"

 

"When you're not sleeping in my bed, yes," he squeezes her waist, "I could keep you there, but you deserve your own space," he stands up slowly, "Sabine already brought your things here."

 

"Everything?" she asks, surprised, though she doesn't have much to call her own.

 

Mr. Solo nods.

 

"You can check for yourself later," he shrugs, "I'll call her to help you with the bath."

 

"I can manage on my own, sir."

 

"I'm sure you can," he winks, "But you don't need to. Not anymore."

Chapter 25

 

Sabine is quick and focused as she helps Rey out of her dress, her expert fingers gently undoing the laces of her corset.

 

There is a room adjacent to the bedroom with towels, perfumes, and a private porcelain bathtub. Sabine has carefully filled it with hot water and sprinkled herbs in it, and Rey can see the steam rising and smell the sweet scent even from a distance.

 

But when the dress falls to the floor, Rey is immediately aware of her own body. Not just because Sabine is seeing her naked – something that would make her shy in itself – but also because Mr. Solo's marks are all over her.

 

She stammers something, but Sabine doesn’t pay attention. She ignores the bite marks on Rey’s breasts and thighs, the purple and red bruises spreading across her skin, the way her nipples look raw and sore. In fact, Sabine doesn’t even blink when she pulls down Rey’s undergarments and a trickle of Mr. Solo’s fluid runs down her leg.

 

"Careful, ma'am," she says as she helps Rey into the tub, supporting her to make sure she doesn't slip.

 

The warm, fragrant water embraces her, and she forgets for a moment the soreness of her body, the aching of her muscles, and the fact that she is using the bathtub that belonged to the former lady of this mansion.

 

It almost feels like sacrilege, no matter how much Mr. Solo tries to convince her otherwise.

 

Sabine moves to wipe her arms with a wet cloth, but Rey shakes her head.

 

"I can do it, Sabine. Thank you."

 

"Mr. Solo asked me to help you with your bath, ma'am," she insists.

 

"And you've helped enough already," Rey smiles, "I don't want to take up your time."

 

"But my time is yours, ma'am."

 

Rey doesn't know how to respond to that, so she just takes the washcloth from Sabine's hand.

 

The older woman hesitates, then says softly, "I'll be waiting in your bedchamber. Please call me when you're done."

 

Rey nods, and watches Sabine give a small curtsy before leaving her alone.

 

She sits in the warm water, the fragrant steam curling around her like a soft embrace, but beneath the comfort, a knot of unease tightens in her chest. The room’s delicate curtains flutter slightly in the breeze, the faint scent of lavender and rose filling the air—luxuries she never imagined belonging to her.

 

It feels strange to have someone serve her in any way. To have someone so attentively tending to her, waiting on her needs without hesitation or complaint, feels both comforting and unsettling.

 

She closes her eyes and relaxes for a few more minutes, letting the soothing fragrance of the herbs and the warmth of the water work their magic on her.

 

She scrubs herself clean, washing Mr. Solo's scent off her, sucking in a breath when she touches herself between her legs and realizes how sore and swollen she is.

 

When she's done, Sabine helps her out of the tub and leads her back to the bedchamber, walking toward a closet Rey hadn't noticed before.

 

“Would you like to wear the green dress today, ma’am?” she asks, pulling out a beautiful dress, followed by another, “Or the pink one, perhaps?”

 

Rey frowns in confusion.

 

“But those aren’t my dresses.”

 

“Of course they are,” Sabine says calmly, “Mr. Solo had them made especially for you. They arrived yesterday.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen as Sabine holds up the dresses, the rich fabrics shimmering softly in the light.

 

"That...", she swallows uncomfortably, "That's completely unnecessary. Where are my old dresses?"

 

"Mr. Solo ordered me to throw them away."

 

"What!?"

 

Rey's stomach twists. The thought of her worn, simple dresses—threadbare and patched from years of hard work—being discarded feels like another piece of her slipping away without her consent.

 

"Forgive me, ma'am. I figured you knew."

 

"I didn't," Rey rubs her forehead in frustration.

 

And then she looks down at the soft fabric of the green dress, the reality settling in like a slow tide.

 

"I suppose...", she begins hesitantly, "There's not much I can do about it now."

 

Sabine shakes her head. Rey sighs.

 

"Let's go with the green one then, I guess."           

 

______

 

They eat dinner in the dining room that day, alone at the long mahogany table polished to a mirror shine. Rey's chair is pulled close—closer than propriety would allow—until its leg nearly touches Mr. Solo’s.

 

There’s more food than two people could possibly eat. Silver domes have been removed by unseen hands, revealing dishes that steam and glisten in the golden light of the chandeliers. Roasted duck, herbed potatoes, a glistening platter of asparagus—each item more ornate than the last. None of it feels personal.

 

A servant leans over Rey’s shoulder to refill her glass with a practiced ease.

 

“Thank you, but it’s alright,” she says, smiling shyly. “Could you just leave the pitcher? I can take care of it.”

 

The servant pauses, hesitates, then gives a short nod and sets the crystal pitcher down beside her plate.

 

Mr. Solo watches the exchange. He lifts a single finger and the servant bows slightly before disappearing through the side door, leaving them alone with the quiet clink of cutlery and the scent of butter and wine.

 

A long minute passes. Rey pours her own water, slowly. She doesn’t look up.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Mr. Solo says.

 

She glances at him. “Do what?”

 

He tilts his head slightly, as though it’s obvious. “Not accept people serving you.”

 

“I’m capable of lifting a pitcher.”

 

“That’s not the point. The staff is paid to serve.”

 

“They also have a hundred other things to do. Have you thought about that?”

 

His knife pauses halfway to his plate. “It’s none of my concern,” he says flatly. “And it’s not yours either.”

 

Rey sets the pitcher down with a soft thud. Her voice is quieter now. “It used to be.”

 

There’s a flicker in Mr. Solo’s expression.

 

“You’re not the maid anymore,” he says, and goes back to cutting the food on his plate.

 

The candles flicker, casting warm shadows across the tablecloth, softening the tension that still lingers in the air.

 

Rey spears a piece of asparagus, chews, and tries not to feel the weight of his gaze until it's too obvious to ignore.

 

She glances up.

 

He’s watching her.

 

“You look pretty in that dress.”

 

Rey lets out a small, surprised snort and drops her eyes to her plate. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice, do I? You threw away all my old ones.”

 

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even blink. “They didn’t suit you.”

 

"You shouldn't have thrown them away without telling me, though," she mutters.

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t respond to her muttered protest. Not right away. He places his fork down with a quiet, deliberate click, pushes his chair back, and stands.

 

Rey looks up, startled. “What happened?”

 

He doesn’t answer. Just walks around the table with slow, unhurried steps. She twists in her chair to follow his movement with her eyes, but he stops directly behind her.

 

Her spine straightens instinctively. She can feel the heat of him at her back.

 

Then she hears it. The soft metallic clink of a clasp being opened.

 

Her breath catches.

 

“Mr. Solo—”

 

“Stay still,” he says gently.

 

She does.

 

His hands are steady. Cool fingers brush the nape of her neck as he lifts her hair, and then she feels it—the whisper of something fine and cold settling against her collarbone. A chain. The weight of a pendant rests just above her chest.

 

When she looks down, a diamond shines back at her.

 

Her lips part, but she says nothing. Her heart beats a little faster.

 

“There,” he murmurs, the clasp clicking shut behind her. “Now you look even better.”

 

She reaches up, almost instinctively, her fingers brushing the cool surface of the stone.

 

She wants to take it off.

 

Not because she doesn’t like it. But because she does. Because it’s delicate and rare and terrifying, and she doesn’t know how to carry it without feeling like she might drop it.

 

"You— You can't give that to me, sir," she shakes her head, "Please take it away before I damage it."

 

"It's yours, my love," she feels him kiss the top of her head from behind, "Custom-made especially for you. There's none like it in the world."

 

"No," she shakes her head again, "It's too expensive. I don't deserve it."

 

Mr. Solo stays behind her, close enough that she can feel his breath against her hairline. Her hand is still frozen over the diamond, trembling slightly, as though afraid it might burn.

 

“You deserve so much more,” he says again, softly, “I intend to give you so much more."

 

His voice lowers, just a touch—smooth, deliberate. “I’ve imagined you wearing a necklace like that many times.”

 

He leans in, not touching her yet, but near enough that the words seem to warm her skin.

 

“Sometimes,” he says, “wearing nothing but it.”

 

A flush spreads across her cheeks, fast and hot, crawling all the way to the tips of her ears.

 

Mr. Solo laughs and kisses her hair again before walking back to his seat, as calm and composed as if nothing had happened.

 

“Now finish your dinner, Miss Niima.”

 

______

 

Sabine is stoking the fireplace in Rey's new quarters when she and Mr. Solo walk through the doors.

 

When the older woman notices them, she quickly rises, bows with practiced grace, and slips out without a word, closing the door behind her.

 

Rey stares at her shoes, blushing. She shouldn’t. Not after Sabine has already witnessed firsthand the reminiscences of the indecencies that pass between Rey and Mr. Solo. But there’s something disconcerting about having a man in her quarters, and Sabine being fully aware of it.

 

She tries to shake off her uneasiness as she moves to the dressing table in the corner of the room and opens a small velvet box she finds there. With trembling fingers, she removes the diamond necklace from her neck and places it gently inside.

 

It will certainly be safer there than around her neck.

 

Mr. Solo watches from the edge of the bed, his collar undone, the looseness of his shirt making him seem more vulnerable than before. Rey’s eyes flicker up to him, then back down at the necklace.

 

Rey draws in a breath, steadies her voice.

 

“Sir… I was wondering if… Did you manage to send my letter to Maz?” Her voice is soft, hesitant.

 

He stiffens, a brief shadow crossing his features, but then nods. “I did.”

 

She exhales quietly, a mixture of relief and lingering worry. “That's good. Thank you.” She shifts her weight on her feet, “Do you know where is she living now?”

 

“She’s staying at a boarding house for now—until she finds a more permanent place.”

 

Rey bites her lip, thoughtful.

 

A boarding house. It wasn’t bad, necessarily. Mr. Solo must have certainly provided a nice place. But for someone like Maz, it must feel like exile. Rey could picture her: small and proud, unpacking her few belongings into a room with thin walls and unfamiliar windows. Alone.

 

As if sensing her distress, Mr. Solo rises from the edge of the bed and crosses the room to her. He doesn’t say anything at first—just stands in front of her at the dressing table, his presence filling the space. Then, with a quiet sigh, he reaches out and gently lifts her chin, turning her face toward him.

 

“Don’t trouble yourself, my love,” he says, voice low but firm. “Maz is taken care of. You don’t have to worry about her.”

 

She nods, though unease stirs in her stomach.

 

He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering longer than they should. Then he pulls away and extends his hand.

 

“Come,” he says softly. “It’s time for bed.”

 

"Won't I be sleeping here?" she asks.

 

"Sometimes, maybe," he replies, "I'd rather you sleep in my bed, though."

 

The idea isn’t unpleasant, but Rey hesitates.

 

“I thought…” she pauses uncertainly, “I thought only married people should sleep together.”

 

Mr. Solo smiles at the corner of his mouth.

 

"Only married people should make love, too. Neither of us have been burned by the devil or anything like that yet, though," he raises an eyebrow, "Sleeping in my bed is hardly going to change that."

 

Rey flushes at his words, glancing away.

 

“I suppose not,” she murmurs.

 

Mr. Solo watches her for a moment, the smile still faintly curving his lips, and gently laces his fingers with hers and guides her toward the far side of the room.

 

Rey’s brow furrows as she realizes they aren’t heading toward the main doors. Instead, he approaches a section of the wall she had paid little attention to before—paneled and unadorned, just shadowed enough to be overlooked.

 

With practiced ease, he pushes it open, revealing a narrow corridor bathed in low amber light.

 

"My quarters and yours..."

 

"...are connected," Mr. Solo finishes for her, "Feel free to use this passage whenever you wish." He reaches back for her hand again. “Come.”

 

She hesitates for only a second before stepping through the doorway.  At the other end, he opens a second door, and they step into his room.

 

Mr. Solo moves to discard his shoes, but Rey stands still by the door.

 

A thought rises in her, quiet but insistent.

 

If my room belonged to Mrs. Padmé…

 

She turns to him slowly, her voice cautious but curious. “Whose room was this?”

 

Mr. Solo pauses, halfway through unfastening his cuff. His gaze meets hers across the dim space. He doesn’t look surprised—if anything, his expression softens, as though he’d been expecting the question.

 

“My grandfather’s,” he says. “Anakin’s.”

 

Rey nods. It’s odd that she’s never heard that name before. She doesn’t remember Mr. Han ever mentioning it to her.

 

“Mr. Han’s father?”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression suddenly darkens, and he shakes his head.

 

“My mother’s father,” he corrects her.

 

Rey takes a few soft steps towards him.

 

"Did you know him?"

 

Mr. Solo’s expression shifts again—his face softens.

 

“I did.”

 

She watches him closely as he moves to the edge of the bed and sits down, undoing the second cuff of his shirt with slow, absent fingers.

 

Rey steps closer. “Is that why you chose this room?”

 

He looks up, meeting her gaze.

 

“This wing had been sealed off for years,” she adds softly. “It looked like no one had touched it for decades.”

 

Mr. Solo lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m not surprised,” he says, coldly now. “My grandfather was a ghost Han Solo didn’t want to face.”

 

There’s a silence that feels older than either of them, stretching from the corners of the room and pressing inward. It makes Rey shiver, though the fire is still warm.

 

“So,” she says softly, “you claimed the ghost’s room.”

 

Mr. Solo’s mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, more a flicker of amusement. “I guess I did.”

 

He reaches for her hand, folding it between his own. And then he suddenly pulls her, making her fall into his lap before she could react.

 

“Come on,” he says softly, his fingers already pulling the skirts of her dress up her legs. “This place has enough ghosts. Let’s give it something better to remember.”

 

 

Chapter 26

"I have to go," she giggles, trying to create some sort of space between herself and Mr. Solo, "Sir, mass is starting soon! I mean it, I can't miss it!".

 

Mr. Solo doesn't seem concerned by her protests as he grabs her by the hips, effortlessly lifting her back onto his bed, making sure to make her feel the hard, long thing that suddenly pokes her backside.

 

"Why do you have to attend it anyway?" He asks, a hint of irritation in his tone.

 

He presses her back against his chest and she shudders at the feeling of his warm breath against her skin. His lips graze her jawline and his hand cups her breast and squeezes it, drawing a small whimper from her mouth.

 

"Because—," she tries to remember how to speak when he keeps playing with her nipple through the expensive silk nightgown he gave her, "Because I need to ask God for forgiveness— Oh, sir— Forgiveness for all the sins I've committed—"

 

His low chuckle vibrates against her ear. He moves his hand lower, brushing over her belly, then her groin.

 

"What sort of sins, my love?"

 

His fingers trace her folds and her mouth hangs open in a silent plea.

 

"For being—," a moan interrupts her, "—so sinful and lustful with a man who's not my husband. It's not—We're going against God's will, it's not how the Lord wants us to be—"

 

"Fuck the Lord," he says, his voice low and husky as his hand cups her groin, his middle finger pressing on her and making her jerk against his palm, "If He wants us to stop, let Him come and tell us."

 

His thick finger suddenly sinks inside her, moving in and out and making her clench around him.

 

"I am not a man who likes to share what's his,” he murmurs, and she feels him suck her earlobe into his mouth, “So fuck your God. You are mine. Not his. As things are, you should beg me for forgiveness, shouldn't you?”

 

“Forgiveness? For what?”

 

She gasps when his hands lift her nightgown, exposing her backside to him.

 

“For making me wait to take that pretty, tight cunt of yours again."

 

His hand slaps her bottom and she yelps, surprised.

 

"That's why you're attending mass, right? You're asking for forgiveness. Then, I have a better idea: beg me."

 

His voice is a low growl and she whimpers when he slides his hand between her legs again, cupping her dripping sex and pushing his middle finger deep into her again.

 

"Please, Mr. Solo. Please," she moans, grinding against his hand.

 

"Please, what?"

 

"Please," her breath hitches in her throat, "Please forgive me for making you wait—"

 

A strangled moan tears from her mouth when he thrusts into her, the fullness of him almost unbearable.

 

He starts to move and her mind becomes foggy, overwhelmed by the sensation of him, his smell, his arms, his chest, his legs and everything.

 

He grabs her neck and gently turns her face toward his. His kiss is insistent, his tongue delving into her mouth until she begged for air.

 

His rhythm becomes faster and rougher, his hands digging into her thighs and spreading them further, the tip of his shaft hitting her so deep and hard she fears she will faint.

 

He grabs her breasts and holds her against his chest, his other hand cupping her groin and his thumb brushing over her swollen, pulsing pearl.

 

It quickly sends her over the edge. She cries out, her muscles clenching around his hard length, and his movements grow erratic. He bites her shoulder, his groan muffled against her skin, and a wave of heat spreads in her belly.

 

His chest heaves and his heartbeat is so strong she feels it on her back.

 

They stay like that for a few minutes, trying to catch their breath.

 

And then, tentatively, Rey looks over her shoulder at him.

 

"I really have to go, sir."

 

He nuzzles her hair and sighs.

 

She feels him slide out of her, and she shivers at the sudden emptiness. But then his hand cup her sex, his large fingers pushing the escaping liquid inside her.

 

"Fine, Miss Niima. You can go now," he says, and she feels his smile even though she can't see it, "Just make sure you keep what I gave you… deep inside."

 

She nods, blushing.

 

He gives her a quick kiss on her forehead.

 

"We don't want it to spill, do we?"

 

______

 

“Rey... what are you wearing?”

 

Rose frowns at Rey’s pink dress.

 

It was the simplest Rey could find in her closet, and yet it was completely different from anything she had ever worn to church before.

 

The pink silk was a stark contrast to the gray cotton she usually wore. And there wasn’t a single patch on this dress. No trace of years of wear. Just pure and new…luxury.

 

“Oh, well…it was just a gift from Mr. Solo…” Rey stammers, looking down.

 

“A gift… from Mr. Solo?” Rose repeats, appalled.

 

Rey nods.

 

Maybe she should have listened to Mr. Solo and stayed in bed with him.

 

Maybe she should never leave that mansion again.

 

That way Rose wouldn’t be looking at her like that. With shock, and with something even worse: suspicion. As if Rey has become someone else entirely.

 

“I didn’t ask for it,” Rey says quickly, her voice too small, too defensive. She clasps her hands in front of her like a child caught lying. “He just wanted me to have it.”

 

Rose doesn’t reply. Her jaw tightens.

 

Rey’s cheeks burn. The silk clings too tightly to her skin now, suddenly too bright, too loud.

 

“I thought—” Rey starts, then stops. What did she think? That Mr. Solo could shower her with dresses, jewelry, servants, and no one would notice?

 

She looks away, blinking back a sudden sting behind her eyes.

 

“Maybe I should go,” she whispers.

 

Rose stays quiet, and it hurts Rey more than she wants to admit.

 

She slides into a seat near the back, folding her hands in her lap.

 

The priest’s voice begins at the altar—steady, familiar—but Rey hears none of it.

 

People begin to glance over their shoulders. Just slow, quiet turns—curiosity masked as caution. A rustle of movement here. A murmured whisper there. Someone leans in to whisper to the person beside them. Someone else shifts just enough to get a better look.

 

At her.

 

At the dress.

 

She tries to keep her eyes on the altar, but the feeling prickles all over her skin.

 

She crosses her ankles. Uncross them. Clenches her hands until her knuckles ache.

 

She feels what Mr. Solo left inside her wetting her thighs.

 

And then she leaves before the mass is over.

 

______

 

She curls up on his lap, a book open in her hands as Mr. Solo reviews some papers.

 

But she has no idea what's written on the pages of the romance she's holding. The book was just an excuse to climb into his lap, to rest her head on his chest, for his scent to calm her and make her forget about Rose, the church, the dress.

 

Mr. Solo absently strokes her hair with one hand while jotting something down with the other. His brow is furrowed, focused, probably calculating costs, and reviewing tables, and taking care of everything to make this mansion work.

 

Because he takes care of the things he has.

 

And he has her.

 

And he will take care of her.

 

She hopes.

 

He doesn’t say much—he never does when he’s working—but his hand stays in her hair, moving slowly, rhythmically.

 

Rey sinks deeper into him, letting her fingers turn the pages of the book she isn’t reading. The words blur, meaningless. She doesn’t need them. Not when the steady rise and fall of his chest is right beneath her cheek, and the scratch of his pen is the only sound in the room besides the ticking of the old clock above the fireplace.

 

Suddenly, Mr. Solo drops the pen, the soft clatter startling in the stillness. Before Rey can react, he takes the book gently but firmly from her hands.

 

She blinks up at him, lips parting slightly in surprise.

 

“You’re not reading that book”.

 

“I am,” she lies.

 

He hums. “No, you’re not.”

 

He sets the book aside on the table, then leans back in his chair, arms settling around her fully now.

 

“You haven’t turned a page in ten minutes”.

 

Rey presses her cheek against his chest, embarrassed, but too tired to defend the lie.

 

“I just like sitting here,” she admits, cheeks warming.

 

“I know. But you don’t have to pretend with me, Rey.”

 

She swallows, heart thudding. “Even if I just want to be near you?”

 

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tap twice against her spine. Then: “Especially then.”

 

Rey leans into his chest again, her body relaxing against the fine fabric of his vest.

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes soften as he watches her settle against him. After a moment, his voice breaks the quiet again.

 

“Did something happen at the church today?” he asks, eyes fixed on her face.

 

Rey hesitates, her breath catching for a moment. The memory of Rose’s look—the cold suspicion, the unspoken judgment—flares painfully inside her again.

 

“No,” she says softly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“I don't like it when you hide things from me, Miss Niima," he murmurs, “And I can tell when something’s wrong.”

 

She pulls away slightly.

“It’s just... complicated,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to make things harder.”

 

He squeezes her gently.

“Making things harder by telling me?”

 

Rey bites her lip, struggling with the weight inside her. Finally, she sighs, resting her forehead against his chest.

 

“It’s just… people at the church—they’re whispering about me. Because of the dress, I think—maybe they’re making assumptions—.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression tightens slightly, a flicker of something fierce passing through his eyes. He draws a slow breath and then says quietly, “I see.”

 

“I’m just afraid... afraid of what they’ll say next, or...,” she pauses, feeling tears well up behind her eyes, “I don’t want them to think I’m a sinner, sir.”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darken, and his arms tighten around her.

 

"You're not a sinner, Rey," he says, and then kisses her forehead, "No more than I am."

 

His mouth moves to her ear.

 

"No more than any of them."

 

Rey looks at him, the weight still heavy on her heart.

 

"Sir—,"

 

"Hush, Rey. I don't want you to worry about it anymore”.

 

He holds her close, and Rey burrows into him. She focuses on his heartbeat, and his hands moving slowly over her back, and the way he smells, like ink and leather, and his breath against her hair.

 

Slowly, she begins to feel better. Slowly, she remembers why she wanted to come home so badly.

Chapter 27

Madame Giraud doesn't ask Rey any questions during their piano lessons. Not why a maid takes piano lessons in the first place. Not why she's wearing expensive dresses and a diamond necklace, not why she lives in that house if she no longer works there and isn't married to Mr. Solo.

 

No. The older woman is discreet, and direct, and very tough.

 

Rey always leaves class with her fingers hurting from playing so much.

 

That day, Mr. Solo decides to sit in the corner of the music room and listen to Rey play. For some reason, she becomes even more nervous, which causes her to miss a few notes as she tries to follow the score. 

 

If he notices, he doesn't show it, as he applauds her soon after. 

 

"You were perfect," he compliments her from his chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

 

Madame Giraud clears her throat, but says nothing as she moves on to the next score. 

 

Mr. Solo leaves shortly after when Sabine tells him he has visitors in his office. 

 

"You shouldn’t listen to him," Madame Giraud murmurs to Rey in her thick French accent as soon as Mr. Solo leaves the room, "Men in love—they hear music in every note, even the wrong ones." 

 

Rey blushes, looking down at the piano keys to avoid Madame Giraud's gaze. 

 

"Now come, keep going. You still have a good few years to go before you're perfect, Mademoiselle. Despite what Mr. Solo might say."

 

______

 

Dear Maz,

I write again, though I fear you may still be unwilling to receive my words. Of course I don’t blame you for keeping your distance. I blame myself, too.

Yet still, I find myself compelled to reach out once more—not to justify my actions, nor to seek your pardon, but simply because I need to know if you’re well.  

If you are able, I would be most grateful for even a brief reply. Just a few lines to say that you are safe and in good health—that would suffice.

I miss you more than I can put into words.

With love,

Rey.

 

The front door creaks as Mr. Solo adjusts his coat, one hand already on the latch. He is halfway out when Rey emerges from the corridor, the letter in her hand.

 

“Sir,” she calls, just above a whisper, though it stops him all the same.

 

He turns.

 

"Would you see that this reaches Maz, please?"

 

He glances down at the envelope she offers. His expression sours almost instantly.

 

"Another one?" he asks, with the faintest edge of irritation, though he does not move to take it.

 

She looks away, her voice softer. "Please just see it delivered. I won’t ask again, I swear."

 

Mr. Solo studies her for a moment longer. Then, with a sigh that is more tired than annoyed, he tucks the letter into his coat pocket.

 

"As you wish, Miss Niima," he mutters, putting his top hat on his head.

 

Rey stands silent in the hall as the door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air. The wind tugs at the hem of her dress and stirs the ends of her hair.

 

The wind teases at his coat as he turns back to her, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

 

Then, without a word, he steps closer.

 

With a rough, weathered hand, he lifts her chin just slightly, enough to see her eyes. Then he leans down and presses a brief, worn kiss to her forehead.

 

And before she can speak, he turns and steps out into the cold morning, the door closing behind him.

 

______

 

Rey sits at her vanity, unmoving, hands folded in her lap. The ballerina in the music box turns slowly, one porcelain arm arched overhead, twirling to a lullaby so delicate it barely rises above the hush of the room.

 

She stares at it. Watches it spin.

 

But her mind is far from there.

 

Rose hasn’t spoken to her since Sunday. Not a word since that morning outside the church.

 

Maybe she should have said something. Maybe she should have explained herself. Maybe come up with a better excuse for the dress.

 

Or maybe she should have told Rose before. About Mr. Solo. About how she felt about him.

 

Rose is her friend. Her best friend. She told her everything once—small things, harmless things. What's happening now seems far from that, though. It seems too adult for anything they've ever had to worry about before.

 

The truth is, Rose wouldn’t understand. Not really. Even Rey doesn’t always understand it herself.

 

A knock at the door interrupts her thoughts.

 

“Come in,” Rey calls, though she already knows who it is.

 

Sabine enters quietly, her dark skirt brushing against the wood floor.

 

“So?” Rey asks, eyes still on the ballerina.

 

 “I’m sorry, ma’am. Nothing from Miss Tico.”

 

Rey’s stomach tightens.

 

That’s five notes now. Five unanswered.

 

Rey’s shoulders sink. She reaches forward and closes the lid of the music box, cutting off the melody mid-phrase.

 

“Well, she won’t be able to ignore me when I’m standing in her doorway,” Rey says, rising from the stool. She moves with sudden purpose, snatching her shawl from the back of the chair.

 

Sabine steps forward, cautious. “Mr. Solo isn’t back yet.”

 

“I know.”

 

“He’ll be soon.”

 

Rey folds the shawl around her shoulders and turns, meeting Sabine’s gaze in the mirror before facing her outright.

 

"I'll be quick."

 

Sabine watches her a moment, then nods. “Should I tell Mr. Solo where you’ve gone?”

 

Rey stops with her hand on the doorknob. Her eyes flick to the closed music box.

 

“No,” she says. “Don’t tell him anything. I'll be back before he gets here.”

 

______

 

The Ko Connix house sits low and white among a tidy garden, the gate creaking faintly as Rey pushes it open. She heads toward the back, to the employee entrance, and timidly knocks it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

 

It is Rose who answers.

 

She opens the door only partway, as if she already knows who stands there. She is not smiling.

 

“Rose,” Rey says softly.

 

There is a long pause.

 

“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” Rey goes on. “But I’ve been trying to reach you. I sent some notes...”

 

Rose’s lips press into a thin line. “I’ve been busy.”

 

Rey’s fingers tighten around the shawl, a flutter of nerves in her chest.

 

“I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you. If I have, please—tell me.”

 

“You haven’t done anything,” Rose says.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” Rey blurts, color rising in her cheeks. “Please, Rose. I don’t—” She looks down. “I don’t have many people. I already lost Maz. And I can’t—I can’t lose you, too.”

 

That, at last, seems to strike something. Rose’s eyes soften, but only slightly. She opens the door wider, enough for Rey to step in.

 

Inside, the kitchen smells like lemon soap, but there is no other servant besides them there. Rey lets out a shaky breath.

 

They sit at the kitchen table, the silence between them taut and brittle.

 

Rose’s eyes are on her—not her face, Rey realizes, but slightly lower. Her gaze lingers on the bodice of Rey’s dress.

 

“Nice dress,” she says flatly. “Another gift from Mr. Solo?”

 

The question lands like a stone between them. Rey shifts uncomfortably, drawing the shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if it could hide the very expensive purple dress designed for her.

 

 “He seems to leave you quite a lot of things.”

 

Rey stares at her. “Is that what this is about?”

 

Rose doesn’t answer. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed.

 

“I think,” Rose says, measured and sharp, “that you’re not the same girl I used to know.”

 

Rey feels her chest tighten. “I’m still me.”

 

“Are you?” Rose asks. “Because I don’t remember you ever keeping secrets from me. Or dressing up like you were one of those people we work for.”

 

"What are you talking about? I’m a maid. I've always been a maid, just like you."

 

Rose leans forward, and this time her voice cuts sharper than before. “That’s not what people are saying. They’re saying you don’t do chores anymore. That you’re staying in a suite upstairs, wearing his jewelry, sitting at his table”.

 

Rey’s breath hitches. How did they know that? Mr. Solo assured her that Sabine wouldn't tell anyone. The other servants, however... "Who's saying that? Where did you hear that, Rose?"

 

Rose stares at her, eyes hard and full of something that aches like betrayal.

 

“I hoped you’d say it wasn’t true,” she whispers. “That it was just rumors. That you were still—” 

 

“It's not true! I don't—" Rey starts, desperation rising in her throat.

 

But Rose cuts her off. “Please don’t lie to me again, Rey.”

 

The words hit like a slap. Rey opens her mouth, but no defense comes. Because it is true.

 

Rose shakes her head. “You sleep in his house, wear the things he gives you, walk around town in a dress that costs more than my entire year’s wages—and you expect people not to notice?”

 

Rey flinches. Shame washes over her—hot and nauseating.

 

“Rose…” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

Rose looks away, jaw clenched. “You didn’t just hurt me, Rey. You changed. You let him change you. And I don’t know if you even see what it’s doing to you.”

 

Rey feels the words catch like thorns in her throat. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, begin to tremble.

 

"Do you have any idea what the people in the village are calling you?" Rose doesn’t wait for her to answer. “They say you’ve become his… whore.”

 

Rey shakes her head, voice ragged. “That’s not what it is. You know that’s not what it is.”

 

“I don’t know,” Rose says sharply. “Because you haven’t told me anything. You’ve lied to me. How am I supposed to believe anything else?”

 

Rose’s voice tightens, and there’s something new in her eyes now—something harder, more accusing.

 

“You didn’t just lie to me,” she says. “You lied to Poe, too. You let him court you. You let him believe you were someone he could marry.”

 

“I never promised him anything,” Rey whispered.

 

Rose’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to. You knew what he wanted. And you let him believe you were still—” She stopped, jaw tight, eyes flickering with something raw. “Still suitable for marriage.”

 

Rey looks down, her shame blooming hot and thick in her chest. She has no words—only the bitter sting of guilt crawling up her throat like bile.

 

Across the table, Rose exhales slowly.

 

“I think you should go,” she says, standing.

 

Rey looks up, startled. “Pardon?”

 

“You shouldn’t be here. If someone sees us together...” Rose trails off, then presses her lips into a thin, uneasy line. “They’ll start saying things about me, too.”

 

Rey’s stomach drops.

 

Rose goes on, more quietly now. “I work for a decent family. I can’t afford whispers about impropriety. About the kind of company I keep.”

 

“But I’m your friend,” Rey says, her voice small.

 

“You’re not anyone’s friend now, Rey. You’re Mr. Solo’s.”

 

A beat of silence stretches, heavy and unbearable.

 

“I’m sorry,” Rose adds. “But I have to think of myself now.”

 

Rey stands slowly, as if her bones have turned to stone. Her fingers tremble as she gathers the ends of her shawl. She wants to say something—anything that might make Rose take the words back—but all she can do is nod.

 

Rey steps outside. The door clicks shut behind her.

 

She stands on the back step for a moment, letting the evening air bite at her cheeks. The Ko Connix’s garden blurs before her eyes, but she forces herself to keep walking—past the little trimmed hedges, past the laundry lines.

 

Rey keeps her eyes on the ground as she walks through the garden, her footsteps crunching softly over gravel.

 

She’s nearly reached the front gate when she hears a door open behind her.

 

“Oh—watch it!”

 

She startles and turns just in time to see Miss Kaydel Ko Connix stepping out from the side path, silk skirts brushing against a hedge. Rey hadn’t seen her coming.

 

“You nearly brushed your filthy shawl against my dress,” Kaydel snaps, inspecting a nonexistent smudge on the pale blue fabric. She wrinkles her nose. “Do you know how much this cost?”

 

Rey mumbles, “Sorry, ma’am,” and moves to step aside, but Kaydel’s eyes narrow as they land on her face.

 

“Oh,” she says slowly, voice curling with sudden recognition. “I know you.”

 

Rey stills.

 

“You’re Mr. Solo’s maid, aren’t you?” She tilts her head, a faint sneer forming on her lips. “Yes… you brought in the tea tray that day my father and I came to visit. Broke one of the cups, if I recall.”

 

Her teeth press together, but she doesn’t answer. Kaydel had broken the cup—But now, of course, it was Rey’s fault. Just like everything else.

 

Kaydel’s gaze drifts deliberately down Rey’s figure, pausing at the shawl, then at the rich purple dress beneath it. Her lips part—almost a smirk.

 

“But now… That doesn’t quite look like a servant’s uniform, does it?”

 

Rey says nothing, her throat tightening.

 

“Well, I’ve certainly heard the rumors.” Kaydel leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “It’s all very scandalous. A girl from the kitchens, warming the bed of a man like Mr. Solo? I must admit, I never thought he’d stoop that low”. 

 

Rey feels her cheeks burn, whether from shame or anger, she can’t tell.

 

“But I suppose you must be good at it,” Kaydel continues, her smile curving cruelly. “Or useful in some other way. He does keep you dressed nicely. Like a little doll he can take out and put away when he pleases.”

 

Kaydel’s voice softens, mock-sympathetic. “I don’t blame you, of course. A girl in your position—what else can you do? You take what you’re given. A warm bed, a fine dress, a taste of a life you’ll never truly have. But then, I understand the nature of men. If Mr. Solo wishes to take comfort with one of the maids,” she continues, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve, “that’s hardly shocking”.

 

“Miss—”

 

 “You know, I don’t mind. I’m not jealous, if that’s what you think.” She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if confiding something scandalous. “Let him scratch his itch. I’m not threatened.” She straightens, smiling. “Because I’ll be his wife. Not you.”

 

Rey feels the words land like a slap, her breath catching.

 

“That’s the difference between us,” Kaydel goes on, gaze flicking pointedly to Rey’s dress, then back to her face. “I can overlook a few indiscretions. Men get restless. But in the end, they marry women of their station.” Her smile sharpens. “Not the playthings they keep upstairs.”

 

Rey stiffens. Her fingers tremble where they clutch the shawl.

 

“You poor thing,” Kaydel says, her tone mockingly gentle now. “Did you really expect anything more?”

 

Rey doesn’t answer. She can’t.

 

Kaydel doesn’t wait for one. She steps past her, the scent of her perfume trailing like smoke in her wake.

 

Chapter 28

“You went to the Ko Connix house.”

 

Rey’s hand freezes mid-air, the spoon hanging just inches from her lips. A sudden tightness squeezes her chest. She clears her throat and sets the spoon down gently, the soft clink against the porcelain sounding louder than it should.

 

It isn’t a question.

 

How does he know?

 

The thought flares sharply in her mind.

 

Sabine.

 

Of course it was Sabine. 

 

The woman wouldn't keep anything from Mr. Solo, even if Rey begged on her knees. She was foolish to think her visit to Rose would go unnoticed just because she asked to.

 

“I did,” she admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Why?”

 

Rey swallowed, the words catching in her throat. She fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, fingers trembling slightly.

 

“I... I needed to talk to Rose.”

 

“I see. The Tico girl... again.”

 

His voice is low, the words weighted with something close to displeasure. He doesn’t look happy.

 

Rey meets his gaze briefly, then looks away, biting her lip. “You don’t have to worry about me going back there,” she says quietly. “Rose doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Her chest tightens, and a sting blossoms behind her eyes. She fights back tears fiercely.

 

“Because,” she says quietly, voice trembling, “she thinks I’m…” It's hard to even spit the word whore out of her mouth, so she settles for the thing closest to that “… ruined.”

 

"She said that to you?"

 

“Everyone in the village is saying so,” Rey sniffs, “We gave them reason to talk. You know we did. And– And I think someone from this household said something. Someone said what’s been… happening between us.”

 

Mr. Solo says nothing. He leans back slowly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His face is unreadable, a far cry from the tightly controlled expressions she’s come to recognize. If he’s surprised, or angry, or even mildly offended, it doesn’t show.

 

That’s what unsettles her most.

 

“Do you think it was Sabine? Or maybe… Lando? Allie?”, she asks, searching his face.

 

“It’s not as if I can conduct an interrogation, my love,” he says, calm and unbothered. “Servants talk. That’s what they do.”

 

Rey grips the edge of the table. “Someone in this house said something,” she insists, the words sharper now. “Someone betrayed you.”

 

“You’re asking me to treat gossip like treason,” he says. “Let them choke on their spite, if that’s what they prefer.”

 

She stares at him in disbelief. “That’s your response?”

 

“You can’t really control the mouths of small people, Rey.”

 

“You don’t understand,” she says quietly. “I told you, from the beginning—I told you what would happen if anyone found out. I told you I’d be ruined,” Rey goes on, the words tumbling out now, no longer holding back. “And now I am. My prospects—gone. My reputation—gone. No one will speak to me. No one will look at me without whispering behind their hand.” Her voice cracks. “And they’re not wrong. You know they’re not.”

 

He reaches out to touch her across the table, but she pulls back instinctively, rising from her chair as if she can't stay still.

 

Her breath shakes. “Maz was right. She warned me. She said you would disgrace me—and you have.”

 

She wraps her arms around herself, as though trying to hold something in—rage, maybe, or grief. Or shame.

 

“You can say what you like about not owing anyone anything,” she says, looking up at him with glassy eyes, “but I am the one who lives with the consequences. Not you.”

 

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches her with that unreadable expression—the one that makes her feel like he’s trying to see inside her.

 

Slowly, he gets up from his place at the table. Rey watches him warily, her arms still wrapped around herself, but she doesn’t move when he steps closer.

 

“My love.”

 

Rey stiffens. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“But it’s what you are,” he says softly. “My love”.

 

She shakes her head, tears slipping free despite her best efforts.

 

He takes another step, almost reflexively, like he wants to reach for her again. But she lifts a hand, stopping him.

 

“Don’t,” she says, and there’s a tremble in it. “Don’t touch me. Not right now.”

 

His jaw tenses.

 

"I could’ve been Poe’s wife right now. An honest, married woman." Her voice trembles, but she presses on, her words almost like a bitter confession. "But I have no choice now. You have dishonored me. No man will want me now."

 

Mr. Solo’s expression darkens, his jaw clenched so tight she’s almost afraid it might snap.

 

“Do you truly believe...”, he begins, his voice low and rough, “…I would ever let another man have you?”

 

She gasps softly, stepping back.

 

Distance. She needs it.

 

“You’ll be fine,” she murmurs. “They won’t say a word to your face. You’ll still be Mr. Solo. You’ll still get invited to their dinner parties and their recitals. They’ll still marry their daughters off to you.”

 

Her voice drops to a near whisper.

 

“I’ll be the one they spit behind.”

 

He looks at her for a long time. The usual sharpness, the confident poise he wears like armor, fades for a moment—and Rey sees the sorrow, and the guilty in there shine for a second before it fades.

 

“I’ll make it right,” he says.

 

She shakes her head slowly. “You can’t.”

 

He steps forward again, but she retreats once more, retreating toward the doorway.

 

“You can’t fix this, sir. And you shouldn’t try. Not unless…” She trails off, unable to even say what she almost said.

 

Not unless you mean to marry me.

 

But she doesn’t speak it. She won’t give him that.

 

She knows, deep down, no matter how much he acts like he loves her, he will never marry her.

 

Not really.

 

Because she has already given him everything he wanted. Every fragile piece of herself.

 

There is nothing left to offer.

 

He has it all.

 

And that terrifies her more than any whispered insult or pointed look.

 

Swallowing hard, she pushes the heavy wooden door behind her. The low creak echoes through the dining room.

 

She can feel his eyes on her back as she steps toward the hall.

 

He moves to follow, but she turns sharply, voice trembling, almost breaking.

“Please,” she whispers, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I just… I want to sleep alone tonight. Please.”

 

His face tightens, but he stops, his feet rooted to the spot.

 

She doesn’t wait for him to respond. She steps past him, out of the room, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

 

______

 

Mr. Solo respects her wishes, and for the first night in weeks, they do not sleep in bed together.

 

He does, however, instruct Sabine to serve Rey dinner in her room. But the tray remains untouched on the dresser when she changes for bed. She has no appetite. 

 

Rey lies curled beneath the thin, threadbare covers, every shadow in the dim candlelight seeming to stretch and loom like silent witnesses to her solitude.

 

The emptiness beside her is sharp and cold — a weight pressing on her chest far heavier than the absence of his body.

 

Rey shifts beneath the thin covers, turning onto her side. Her eyes fixate on the faint outline of the door connecting their rooms — She imagines how simple it would be to slip out of bed, cross that short distance, and crawl beneath his warmth, letting his arms wrap around her tight enough to chase away the relentless ache in her mind.

 

The thought lingers like a whispered promise, soft and tempting.

 

But she doesn't move.

 

Instead, a tight knot forms in her throat, and the weight of everything presses down too hard to hold back.

 

A single tear slips free, tracing a cold path down her cheek.

 

Then another.

 

Before she knows it, she's weeping, trying her best not to muffle her own sounds by pressing a pillow against her face. She’d hate for Mr. Solo to hear her. She’d hate for anyone to hear her crying like a baby. Whether she was doing this because of the whispers about her in town or because she didn't have Mr. Solo with her in bed, she couldn't say.

 

______

 

The next day, Rey does her best to avoid crossing paths with Mr. Solo. But it turns out she needn't try so hard—he doesn't leave his study once. From the murmurs in the kitchen, she gathers he skipped lunch entirely.

 

But no matter how many times Rey tells herself it’s better this way, the ache doesn’t lessen.

 

She tries to busy herself—sits by the window with a book she doesn’t read, threads a needle and begins mending an old hem just for something to do with her hands. 

 

But every task feels hollow.

 

It's not her book. This isn't her needle, nor her dress. The hair comb keeping her messy braid from falling apart was carved ivory, smuggled into her hands one morning like it was nothing. It had made her heart stutter at the time.

 

Now?

 

It makes her want to throw it across the room.

 

Everything here is his.

 

And if he cast her aside tomorrow, if he grew tired of her… What would she have left?

 

Nothing.

 

Sometimes she wishes she could go back to her old room in the servants' quarters. Life seemed easier when she still slept there.

 

She still had Rose back then. She still had Maz.

 

Now she has neither.

 

And she's not sure how long she'll have Mr. Solo.

 

______

 

By mid-afternoon, the music room is soaked in quiet light, and Rey sits at the piano, her hands still, fingers hovering just above the keys.

 

Madame Giraud watches her from a nearby chair, back straight.

 

After a long moment, her eyes flicker toward the door as if expecting someone, then settle back on Rey. “Will Mr. Solo be joining us today?”

 

Rey shakes her head slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the polished keys beneath her fingers. “No.”

 

The older woman nods once, almost to herself. "Probably for the best. His presence can be... unsettling, can’t it?”

 

Rey says nothing, her thoughts drifting away from the room—back to Rose’s sharp, cutting words from the night before, back to the argument she had with Mr. Solo over dinner, their voices taut with frustration and regret. The memory coils tight inside her chest, and a sudden wave of vulnerability threatens to spill over. She feels the sting of tears but fights them fiercely.

 

Don’t do it. Not here.

 

Madame Giraud clears her throat gently, breaking through the fog of Rey’s swirling emotions.

 

“You know,” she begins quietly, almost a murmur, “in Paris, certain arrangements are... well, more easily understood”.

 

Rey lifts her eyes, but Madame Giraud’s gaze has already returned to the young woman’s hands resting on the keys.

 

“There is a certain… practicality to the way people live. One learns to recognize where true power rests, and how affection takes many forms.”

 

When the older woman finally looked up and met her eyes, there was a softness there that Rey wasn’t used to seeing. Madame Giraud had never been a woman of gentle words or tender gestures—always strict, unyielding in discipline and expectation.

 

There’s a long pause, and then, softer still: “A clever woman knows how to make herself indispensable. Men are not nearly as complicated as they pretend to be. Give them your warmth, give them admiration, give them a glimpse of your soul—but never all of it. That, you must keep for yourself.”

 

Rey looks back down at the keys. Her reflection stares faintly from the polished wood, pale and unsure.

 

She's heard things about Paris. She knows it's very different there, and she wonders if Madame Giraud has ever been in a situation like the one she's in now.

 

Madame Giraud’s voice breaks gently into her thoughts again. “Shall we begin with Debussy today?”

 

______

 

There’s a knock at the door just as Rey finishes brushing out her hair.

 

She hesitates, then rises from the chair. “Yes?”

 

Sabine steps inside, carrying a silver tray.

 

“Your supper, ma’am.”

 

Rey shifts uncomfortably. “You didn’t need to bring it all the way up. I could’ve come down.”

 

Sabine gives a small shake of her head, already crossing to the small table by the window. “It’s my duty, ma’am.”

 

At least as long as Mr. Solo commands it.

 

She watches as Sabine begins to arrange the tray: the covered dish, the linen napkin, the spoon polished to a soft gleam. 

 

Rey’s eyes drift to the tray.

 

One cup remains. Sabine hasn’t moved it.

 

Rey tilts her head. “Is that one for Mr. Solo?”

 

Sabine glances at the remaining cup and nods silently.

 

Rey steps forward before she can stop herself. The scent drifts to her even before she breathes it in. 

 

Valerian.

 

She knows it well. She used to make this tea for Mr. Han.

 

She straightened and met Sabine’s eyes, a strange ache blooming low in her chest.

 

“I used to make the same tea,” she says quietly. “For Mr. Han.”

 

Sabine glances at her, but doesn’t speak. Rey then realizes that she might not even know who Mr. Han is. And even if she did, his name would hardly evoke any emotion in her. Not like it does for Rey.

 

 “I’ll take this up before it goes cold, ma’am.”

 

Rey nods once, and watches as Sabine walks out, the scent of the sleep-draught lingering behind her — and wonders, with a tight knot in her chest, if Mr. Solo even knows that this is one more thing he has in common with his father.

Chapter 29

The bell tolls in the distance.

 

Rey sits at the edge of her bed, fingers curled around the fabric of her skirt, breath shallow as she listens to the distant chimes roll over the hills like a summons. The sound used to bring comfort. Now it feels like judgment.

 

She considers staying in.

 

It would be easier — safer — to keep to her room, to avoid the eyes, the whispers, the heat that always creeps up her neck when people look at her now. There’s no mercy in their stares anymore.

 

But guilt gnaws at her.

 

She hasn’t prayed properly in days.

 

She needs to kneel somewhere that isn’t her bedroom floor. She needs to ask — beg — for guidance. For forgiveness. For something to hold onto.

 

Rey rises slowly and goes to the wardrobe. She passes over the finer dresses Mr. Solo gave her — the silk, the embroidery, the gowns that whisper wealth and scandal in the same breath.

 

She chooses the most modest one of them all: a dove-grey cotton with a high neckline and plain sleeves. It’s still too fine, she knows. But it’s the best she can do.

 

Before leaving, she pulls a dark veil over her hair, draping it low over her brow and shoulders. As if it could hide her. Shield her. Make her invisible.

 

But nothing shields her from what happens when she steps through the church doors.

 

Every voice stops.

 

Every whisper halts.

 

Dozens of heads turn. Faces once familiar are now tight, cold, full of judgment. Men narrow their eyes. Women press their lips into thin lines. Children stare openly before being gently, firmly turned away.

 

Heat rushes to Rey’s cheeks. Her spine stiffens, but her feet carry her forward, trembling beneath her.

 

She chooses the last pew, at the very back. As far from the pulpit — and their gazes — as she can manage.

 

She barely sits before a woman nearby reaches for her daughter — a girl no older than Rey — and guides her gently, insistently, to another pew, farther down. As if Rey might stain her simply by sitting too close.

 

Rey lowers her eyes to her lap. Her hands tremble.

 

You did this. You let this happen.

 

The shame is physical. It coils in her stomach like nausea. It rises up her throat like a bitter taste. Rey stares at the floor. The veil feels useless now, thin and pathetic.

 

She looks up just once, drawn by a flicker of movement — and sees her.

 

Rose.

 

Sitting near the front, straight-backed and solemn in her Sunday best.

 

She turns, and their eyes meet.

 

Rose’s gaze is soft. Sad. But she shakes her head before turning back to face the altar.

 

Rey feels something hollow crack deeper in her chest.

 

She remembers their last conversation. If someone sees us together… They’ll start saying things about me, too. I work for a decent family. I can’t afford whispers about impropriety. About the kind of company I keep.

 

And now, watching her friend sit apart from her like a stranger, Rey understands.

 

She doesn’t hate her for it.

 

She might’ve done the same.

 

But the understanding doesn’t soften the pain. It only makes it worse.

 

A pair of women slip into the pew just ahead, their skirts rustling softly, and within seconds, the whispers begin.

 

“She has the nerve to show her face?”

 

They don’t even bother disguising their glances. One turns her head just enough to catch a glimpse of Rey from the corner of her eye, then leans in closer to her companion. They murmur again — something about ruined girls and no proper man ever marrying her now.

 

Rey’s fingers dig into the bench. Her throat tightens.

 

Another voice, behind her this time . “It’s no surprise he keeps her — servants are cheaper than wives.”

 

“I thought she was a good Christian girl. But turns out she’s a filthy maid who’s stolen her master’s bed — nothing but a common whore.”

 

Something acidic burns behind her eyes. The tears threaten now — hot and unrelenting.

 

I should have stayed home.

 

What was I thinking?

 

She used to find comfort in this place. The ritual. The prayers.

 

But now she feels like an intruder in her own sanctuary. Unwelcome. Contaminated.

 

A sudden shuffle from the side catches her attention. One of the priest’s aides, a stern-faced young man with a stiff collar and sharper eyes, steps quietly down the aisle.

 

He stops beside Rey’s pew, lowering his voice but with no attempt to soften the words.

 

“Miss Niima,” he says quietly, yet there is an edge to it that brooks no argument, “it would be best if you were to leave. You are causing… considerable distraction.”

 

Rey’s breath catches. Her throat closes.

 

“Please,” he continues, voice cold and final, “it would be more becoming to pray in the privacy of your chamber. The congregation requires peace to worship.”

 

All eyes now flick toward her again, sharper than before. The weight of their silent agreement presses down like a suffocating shroud.

 

She wants to protest. To argue that she has as much right to be here as anyone.

 

But the words stick in her throat, choked by shame and disbelief.

 

The veil slips from her fingers, and she pulls it tighter around her face as if to hide what is already so plainly seen.

 

She rises, the wood groaning beneath her feet, every step heavier than the last as she moves toward the door.

 

The eyes follow her, cold and merciless.

 

She fights to keep her balance, to keep her dignity, but tears sting and spill freely now.

 

Outside the church, the fresh air hits her like a cruel slap. She stands alone on the steps, trembling and broken.

 

She wants to crawl into Mr. Solo's lap. Let him hold her and tell her everything's going to be okay. She wants to lay her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. She wants to go back to his bed, sleep with him wrapped around her as if they were one.

 

But that's exactly what brought her here.

 

“Rey?”

 

She looks up, startled. Poe stands a few feet away, concern etched deeply into his features.

 

She blinks rapidly, hastily brushing away the remaining tears with the back of her hand. “Poe,” she manages softly.

 

Poe steps closer, his voice soft but steady. “I just wanted to check if you’re all right.”

 

Rey swallows hard, blinking back tears that threaten to spill again. He crouches down a little, not wanting to overwhelm her. “Don’t pay any mind to what those people say. They don’t know you. They don’t know what you’ve done.”

 

Her breath catches. Her voice breaks as she whispers, “But I did. I did exactly what they’re saying.”

 

Poe’s eyes flicker with pain, sadness filling them. He hesitates, searching her face. “Rey…”

 

She shakes her head, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for letting you court me when I wasn’t worthy. When I wasn’t—” Her words falter, “when I wasn’t the girl you deserve.”

 

“No,” Poe says firmly, reaching out to gently take her hand. “You were. You still are.”

 

He pauses, as if weighing his next words. Then, with a quiet but earnest tone, he adds, “My intentions… they still remain.”

 

Rey’s brow furrows in confusion. He certainly doesn't mean...

 

“I—” Poe swallows, then meets her gaze with unwavering resolve. “I still wish to marry you.”

 

The words hang in the air between them.

 

Rey blinks, confusion clouding her eyes. “You don’t mean that,” she whispers, voice barely steady.

 

“I do.”

 

“But…”, Her cheeks flush with shame, and she looks down, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m not a maiden anymore, Poe.”

 

He shakes his head slowly, a softness in his eyes that makes her heart ache. “That doesn’t change anything. None of it. I don’t care about what Mr. Solo forced you to do. You have no blame in this.”

 

But she does. Oh, she does. Because he didn't force her into anything. She wanted every second of it.

 

“I don’t deserve you,” she says, voice trembling. “You can find someone—someone better. Someone whole and worthy of you.”

 

 “I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

 

Her lips part, as if to speak, but the words get caught in her throat. She looks away, overwhelmed by the weight of his conviction. “But how? After everything? After...?”

 

“None of that matters,” he insists softly. “I know who you are, Rey. Not what they say. Not what they think. I see you—the real you. And I want to spend my life proving that to everyone.”

 

She swallows hard, the sting of tears threatening again. “You shouldn’t waste your life on someone like me.”

 

He leans closer, voice low but fierce. “I’m not wasting anything. I know—I know we can be a good couple. I know you can be a good wife.”

 

For a long moment, silence stretches between them. Then Rey nods. “I don’t know if I can be what you hope for.”

 

“Then I’ll wait,” Poe says. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

 

Rey watches him for a moment, stunned into silence. He means it. She can see it, even if she doesn't understand why.

 

But she can’t bring herself to answer.

 

Not yet.

 

So she nods, almost imperceptibly, and allows him to press a parting kiss to the back of her hand before turning away.

 

The walk back to the mansion is long.

 

Her thoughts race, tangled and restless.

 

She could learn to love him. Maybe. Poe is kind. Poe is safe. Poe is much more than what any woman in her position could get or want.

 

And yet…

 

As the manor rises into view ahead, pale against the dark trees, Rey’s chest tightens.

 

It isn’t Poe she pictures when her mind wanders at night. It isn’t Poe’s hands that still burn phantom heat into her skin. It's not with Poe that she wants to listen to gramophone music, or read her favorite books – after all, he can't even read in the first place. It isn’t Poe’s voice that echoes in her memories.

 

It’s Mr. Solo.

 

Always him.

 

And that’s the part she can never admit. 

 

She wanted it. She chose it.

 

And what kind of wife could she ever be, with that truth buried like a secret under her skin?

 

She reaches the steps of the house. The front door is closed, the curtains drawn against the sun. She stands there for a moment, motionless.

 

She could still say yes to Poe. Accept his offer. She could bury the past, bury Mr. Solo, build a life that would be proper, safe. Respectable.

 

But part of her already knows the truth.

 

She’s ruined for that kind of life.

Chapter 30

There is a book on her bed when she gets to her room.

 

Camille.

 

Rey stares at the cover for a few seconds before lifting the book in her hands.

 

It's one of the books Mr. Solo hadn't let her read before. She remembers him shaking his head when she showed it to him – There's nothing good in there for you to read, my love. Why not choose something a little gentler in tone?

 

She runs her thumb along the edge of the cover.

 

It feels like some kind of indulgence. Like when Mr. Han let her walk barefoot in the garden, or when Maz allowed her to put a finger in the jam pot to taste the sweetness.

 

She much prefers the books Mr. Solo gives her to the dresses. To the jewelry. To anything. She would rather receive a single book than a thousand brand new diamond necklaces every day.

 

Rey settles onto the edge of the bed, pulling the book closer, and lets the first lines pull her away from the weight of the day—away from the nasty words, the disgusted looks. It's almost as if Mr. Solo knew exactly what she needed after today.

 

______

 

In the middle of the night, the soft creak of the bed rouses Rey from sleep. She feels the mattress shift behind her, a weight settling close. 

 

Her heart jumps, breath catching in sudden panic. For a heartbeat, she considers screaming, or flinging herself from the bed, bolting for the door.

 

But then a large, warm arm slides around her waist.

 

In one swift, practiced motion, she’s flipped onto her back. Her breath leaves her in a quiet gasp, the sheets twisting beneath her.

 

A shadowed face leans over her, dim outlines forming against the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains. Broad shoulders. Hair falling loose around intense eyes.

 

Mr. Solo.

 

She lies motionless, heart hammering, eyes locked on the silhouette above her. He braces himself with one hand beside her head, fingers sinking slightly into the mattress. The other rests tightly on her waist, anchoring her in place. She can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of her nightgown.

 

Rey’s breath comes shallow, her chest rising against his. She doesn't speak—can’t. His face is close now, close enough that she can see the outline of his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

 

"I think I've given you enough time alone," he finally says, the words coming out hoarse and tight.

 

The hand on her waist rises to her throat, and she feels his fingers close around it, pressing hard enough to make her breath hitch.

 

Almost as if he's punishing her.

 

“As you can see, I can grant one or two selfish wishes of yours, but I’m not a patient man, Miss Niima,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction more. His breath brushes her cheek, warm and deliberate. “And especially not when it comes to you.”

 

He looks barely contained. Like a caged animal… and she is his prey.

 

His hand tightens just slightly at her throat. It sends her heart racing faster, pulsing against his palm, and she knows he can feel it. His gaze flickers to her lips, then back to her eyes.

 

“I’m done waiting.”

 

He leans in closer, lips brushing her temple, and the hand at her throat slips down to her collarbone, fingers splaying across her chest, and then pulling her nightgown down to expose her bare breasts.

 

She wants to protest. She wants to scream in his face what happened at church the day before. But she doesn't have the strength to push him away, and even the thought of doing so vanishes when he pinches her nipple between his fingers.

 

She moans—whether from pain or pleasure, she's not sure.

 

He takes it as encouragement—the hand not on her breast slips under the fabric at her hip, gathers her up against him, and for an instant she fears he’ll just take her right here, smash every last bit of herself into the mattress and never let her up again.

 

Is that what she wants? Is that what will finally quiet this ceaseless noise inside?

 

It doesn’t matter. He’s not giving her a choice.

 

Mr. Solo’s mouth finds hers with a desperate, nearly ferocious hunger. There is no softness in it tonight; only the press of teeth and tongue, the taste of him—bitter, familiar, and bracing as ever. He kisses her so hard it feels like he's trying to wipe out everything else inside her head, to make her forget about the voices at church, about Rose, about Poe’s proposal.

 

As if the force of his want could cauterize away her doubts, her stubborn streak, the part of her that believed she might still have a say in any of this.

 

“Look at me, Rey.”

 

She tried to shake her head, tried to pull away, but his grip held her steady—unyielding.

 

“I said look at me.”

 

Tears welled in her eyes, not from fear, but confusion, shame. She hated how her breath trembled. She hated how the place between her legs was already soaked for him.

 

His thumb brushed over her lower lip, deceptively gentle.

 

“You belong to me. You breathe because I allow it. You feel because I give you something to feel. I decide what you need, Rey. What you get. What you are. Not a fucking soul gets a say. You don’t get a say.”

 

He leaned closer, voice now a demand.

 

“Say it.”

 

She choked on her reply, voice fractured, raw. "I belong to you."

 

“Yes,” he growls. “Then don’t you dare ask me to sleep away from what’s mine again.”

 

He slipped between her thighs, the coarse hair on his chest rasping her skin as the last of her nightgown was shoved away. He pinned her wrists above her head in one hand and used the other to drag her knees apart. 

 

"Now, my love, tell me how much you missed me."

 

She hesitated, lips trembling. But she said it, voice small and desperate: “I missed you.”

 

“Again.”

 

She gasped as he pushed inside her—the stretch sharp, half-pain, half-hunger, her body betraying her eagerness even as she tried to resist the truth of it. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

 

He set a brutal rhythm, hips slamming into her, each thrust forcing a sound from her she couldn’t control. Each time she cried out, he kissed her, swallowing the noise, as if trying to devour every last protest.

 

He was rougher than usual, as if he wanted to impress something into her bones—his shape, his will, some permanent mark that would stay even if she ran.

 

If she clawed at him, he only gripped her harder. If she tried to turn her face away, he forced it back to his. The pain of his hold was nothing compared to the panic thrashing inside her, but even so, her body obeyed him before her thoughts did: she was softening for him, yielding, opening wider to make room for him even as the last shreds of her self-respect tried to fight him off.

 

When she finally came apart, it was with a clench of her hands so tight she left little half-moons in his forearm. Nothing gentle about it—he didn’t let up, not even when she started to sob into his shoulder, hot tears mixing with sweat and the rough scrape of stubble against her cheek. He kept moving in her, slow now, almost cruelly measured, kissing the side of her neck over and over as if he could press her back together with his mouth.

 

He finished with an animal groan, teeth gritted against her shoulder, hips flush to hers. When at last he pulled away, she was limp beneath him, spent and shaking, mouth still parted as she gasped for breath.

 

He collapsed at her side and drew her forcibly into his arms, curling their bodies together against the battered, sweat-soaked sheets.

 

She kept her face pressed to his chest, counting the uneven beats under her cheek, willing herself to draw comfort from the warmth of him. 

 

Rey felt the wetness between her legs, the ache in her hips, the sticky mess of both of them smeared over her skin. She should have been revolted. She should have felt further ruined. But the truth of it was, she felt safer now than she had all day — safer here, under the dangerous shelter of his arms, than anywhere else in the world.

 

"What do you have to say to me now, Miss Niima?"

 

She waited until her breath calmed before she spoke. "I—I love you, sir."

 

He didn’t answer. His arm just tightened around her, his mouth pressed against her hair and he breathed in.

 

"Did I do well, sir? Is that what you wanted to hear?" she asks tentatively after a moment.

 

His lips graze the crown of her head. “Yes, my love. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

 

______

 

 He takes her once more during the night, jarring her awake to the sensation of him opening her from behind. It's quick, intense, and she finishes sweaty and content, letting him fall asleep with one hand cupping her bare left breast, one leg slung over hers possessively, anchoring her to him as if he feared she might slip away in the night. His breath stirred the damp hair at the nape of her neck, slow and even in sleep, while her own still came in shallow pulls, the echo of him thrumming low in her belly.

 

She ached between her legs, but there was a comfort in it, in the soreness that would remind her all day of who she belonged to. 

 

When morning arrives, her eyes flutter open lazily, her body looking like it wants nothing more than to be buried between the sheets for the rest of the day.

 

But when she reaches out and doesn't feel the warmth of Mr. Solo behind her, she forces herself to lift her head, squinting at the soft gray light filtering through the curtains.

 

She notices him standing in front of her vanity, staring at something in his hands. He hasn't even bothered to cover himself, and yet there's not a hint of vulnerability despite his naked state with his back to her.

 

She pushes herself up on one elbow, the dull ache between her thighs blooming into awareness as she shifts. It makes her lips twitch, not quite a smile. Her body was his, thoroughly, and she wore the proof of it in every tender breath.

 

“Sir?” she calls softly.

 

He turns to her when he hears her voice, and she quickly looks away, blushing as she tries to ignore that bare part of him between his legs, but not before noticing the dark hair right at the top of his groin.

 

Ignoring her embarrassment, he advances toward the bed, sitting beside her as she tries to cover herself with the sheets. She gives up, however, when he takes her hand and slips something onto her ring finger.

 

Letting the sheet fall around her hips, she looks down at the diamond glinting in her hand.

 

"Sir?" she repeats, her brow furrowed, her eyes darting between the stone and Mr. Solo's impassive face.

 

“I should have done this sooner,” he murmurs, stroking the finger where the ring is, "But I'm a selfish man, Rey. Perhaps I could have waited, done things the right way. But I didn't want to. I didn't want to wait”.

 

Her fingers tremble slightly as she flexes the ring, the diamond catching the light like a beacon.

 

“I don’t— What do you mean? What is this?”

 

It didn't look like a simple ring. Not like the necklaces, earrings, and bracelets he gave her.

 

"This," he touches the ring, "is my grandmother's engagement ring."

 

"Mrs. Padmé?" Rey's eyes widen, and the ring suddenly feels even heavier on her finger.

 

Mr. Solo nods slightly.

 

"I always knew this ring would be yours. Perhaps I should have given it to you... before I took other liberties. But, as I said, I am not a patient man."

 

He leans closer, brushing his forehead against hers.

 

"I want you to marry me, Rey."

 

Rey’s breath catches, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She had dreamed of this moment, but never dared to believe he would actually consider marrying her.

 

People like her didn't marry men like him. Not penniless, orphaned girls with no bloodline to call their own. If it weren't for Mr. Han, she wouldn't even be able to read and write.

 

"Don't be cruel, sir," she says, her voice cracking, "You shouldn't joke about it like that."

 

His eyes flash sharply.

 

"Do you think I'm joking?" He narrows his eyes, "Do I look like the kind of man who jokes around?

 

Rey’s breath catches, shrinking under the weight of his gaze. “I—No, sir,” she stammers.

 

“This isn’t a jest, Rey. And I won't repeat myself.”

 

Her heart races, pounding so fiercely she fears he can hear it.  “Sir, I… I don’t think this is possible,” she says quietly, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “I’m not a lady. I’m just a servant.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression tightens, but he gently cups her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.

 

"You are not a servant”, he says, “And I can choose to marry whoever I want."

 

"But... I don't understand... why would you want to marry me?" She feels her eyes well up, "You can have any highborn lady in this village. So why—why me?"

 

She swallows hard, tears threatening to spill, her heart aching with a mixture of disbelief and hope.

 

“I’m not worthy of you,” she whispers.

 

He shakes his head gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

 

"There's no one else for me, Rey," he says easily, "Only you. Always you.”

 

“Do you truly mean that?”

 

Mr. Solo doesn’t speak—he simply nods once.

 

That small motion is enough to send a wave of warmth crashing through her chest.

 

Rey looks down at the ring again, the diamond shimmering like it holds a secret. A promise. Her fingers tremble as she lifts her hand, letting the morning light play over the delicate setting. The metal is warm from his touch. It fits perfectly, like it had been waiting for her all along.

 

She swallows the lump rising in her throat.

 

Then, slowly, she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

 

She ignores the fact that they're both still naked, she ignores the screams in the back of her mind that this is wrong, that this will make things worse, and simply lets him take everything he wants from her, take everything that's already his.

 

Because she's going to have a family. She's finally going to have a family. She'll have a husband, and a house, and maybe some babies in the future. She'll continue living in the mansion she's always considered home.

 

As Mr. Solo pushes her blanket away and positions himself between her legs, she can't help but look up at the ceiling, as if she can see the clouds through it, and wonder if Mr. Han would like her as a daughter-in-law as much as he liked her as his maid.

 

"Thank you," she whispers in his ear, her thighs trembling as he slides inside her, "Thank you."

 

He doesn't demand a yes from her. A thank you seems more than enough for both of them.

Chapter 31

"You look happier today, ma'am," Sabine says as she fixes Rey's hair at the vanity.

 

Rey glances at the older woman in the mirror and can't help but blush at the knowing smile on her lips.

 

Sabine must have seen the used sheets. If not, Rey is sure the marks on her body and the sticky thighs as she was helped into the bath didn't go unnoticed.

 

"Yeah... I guess I really am," Rey says, unable to stop smiling. Almost unconsciously, she touches the ring on her finger.

 

Sabine notices the movement immediately, her eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on Rey’s hand.

 

Rey ducks her head, cheeks flaming. “It was Mr. Solo’s grandmother’s,” she finds herself saying, almost as if she needs to explain herself.

 

"It looks beautiful, ma'am."

 

“Yes… It is.” Rey murmurs, her fingers brushing the cool metal of the ring again. “I think… I think she must’ve been very loved.” 

 

Sabine hums thoughtfully as she resumes pinning Rey’s hair. “But not nearly as spoiled as you’re about to be, I wager.”

 

That pulls a giggle from Rey.

 

She looks up at her reflection. Her cheeks are flushed, lips pink and just slightly swollen, hair gleaming under Sabine’s practiced hands. She still looks like herself—but not quite the girl who first scrubbed these floors.

 

Not anymore.

 

Somehow, she's going to be the mistress of this house. Her. A nobody. Mr. Solo had said his grandmother would like to meet her, but Rey doubted she would appreciate knowing her position would be in the sweaty, calloused hands of a former maid.

 

She almost can’t believe it. But the weight of the ring, the soreness in her limbs, and the memory of Mr. Solo’s voice as he whispered I want you to marry me… those things feel very, very real.

 

"You may go now, Sabine."

 

Rey is startled when she suddenly hears Mr. Solo's voice, and when she turns, she notices him standing right next to the door, his hands casually in his pockets.

 

Sabine bows without delay, murmuring a ‘of course, sir’.

 

She gathers her things without another word, the rustle of fabric and clink of hairpins the only sound in the room. When she passes Mr. Solo on her way out, he doesn't glance at her. His eyes are fixed solely on Rey, and she feels the heat of that gaze wrap around her like a velvet ribbon.

 

The door closes with a quiet click.

 

Rey doesn’t turn to look at him right away. Her fingers drift again to the ring, and she watches herself in the mirror—how her expression softens the moment he’s in the room, how her shoulders curve as though already yielding to him.

 

“You didn’t have to send her off like that,” she says quietly, not scolding, just flustered.

 

“I didn’t want to share you,” he says simply, stepping behind her chair.

 

His hands rest lightly on her shoulders at first, thumbs brushing bare skin just above the collar of her dress. Then he leans down, his lips ghosting over her temple.

 

"There's one last social event I have to attend this season," he says, distracting her for a moment with his fingers on her skin. "A charity ball at the Ko Connix house. But after that, we're free to get married."

 

"So soon?" she asks, blinking.

 

"Why wait?" he shrugs. "Are you having second thoughts about marrying me?"

 

Rey blushes, but when she looks at him in the mirror, she notices he's smirking.

 

"Maybe I need to try harder to... convince you."

 

The next second, she's sitting on the vanity table, her brush and jewelry unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Mr. Solo wastes no time kneeling on the floor in front of her, his grunt enough for Rey to obediently pull up the skirts of her dress and spread her legs.

 

He makes short work of her undergarments, and soon she feels his fingers on her most sensitive spot.

 

"Such a pretty little cunt," he murmurs, almost too low for her to hear, "But not wet enough for my liking."

 

Soon after, he buries his head between her thighs, and Rey feels his tongue roam her folds, his mouth closing around the knot of nerves at the top.

 

He laps at her for several long minutes, alternating between long swipes of his tongue and quick circles, making her squirm on the vanity. She can feel him smiling against her thigh, her juices covering his chin.

 

"So pretty when you're desperate," he rumbles, kissing her inner thigh.

 

His tongue soon returns to her core, licking the slick off her folds and then pushing inside her. He's slow, languid even, taking his time tasting her as his fingers massage her thighs.

 

“I—Please, I need…”

 

"Beg properly, Miss Niima," he says, the vibration of his voice echoing through her body.

 

“Please, sir. Please—”

 

“We both know you can do better than this. Try again”, he grunts, and then she feels him spit on her folds, his finger gathering the wetness before plunging into her hot channel, “Use my name, this time”.

 

Rey whines.

 

“Ben”, she moans, "Please, Ben, please—"

 

This seems to satisfy him enough, for soon he stands up and, pulling himself out of his pants, he lifts Rey into his arms, holding her by the thighs as he works inside her.

 

She holds on tight to his shoulders, her eyes widening as she realizes they're doing it... standing up. He moves her up and down on his member, the wet noises between them growing increasingly obscene.

 

She wasn’t sure what she liked more, the way he bit at her shoulder to stifle his own grunts, or the fact that he never looked away from her face, not for a second, as if he were daring her to break eye contact first. Rey found herself desperate for air as much as for release, her mouth falling open in silent whines every time his hips bucked her higher.

 

He didn’t stop when she started to tremble. He pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered what he’d do to her on their wedding night, how he’d lock the doors and pin her to his bed for days. Every promise sent a jolt up her spine.

 

Ben. Ben. Ben. She repeated it because she knew he liked to hear it. She repeated it because she liked to have his name on her lips.

 

"Let me feel it, Rey," he says breathlessly, his hips grinding into an unforgiving rhythm, "Let me feel you around me."

 

As if she only needed his order, she felt an explosion of pleasure with a shattering gasp, biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming. Mr. Solo groaned loud enough for anyone in the next room to hear, and the aftershocks went on forever.

 

He set her down gently, and only then worked himself out of her.

 

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the hollow of her jaw, like he was trying to apologize for the way he’d just ruined her and was never going to be sorry about it. She dragged his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, the ends curling where the salt stuck them to his jaw.

 

"Have I convinced you enough, my love?"

 

She looks up at him with a mischievous expression.

 

"More than convinced now, sir."

 

______

 

It's Saturday, and Rey is reading a book in the library while Mr. Solo absently smokes a cigar. He's relaxing in his leather chair, Rey sitting on the rug below, her cheek resting against his thick thigh.

 

He strokes her hair with one hand while holding the cigar in the other. The scent of tobacco is almost comforting as she reads Camille's pages.

 

"Shouldn't you be heading to the ball by now, sir?" she asks, lifting her head briefly to look at him.

 

He doesn't answer her immediately. Instead, he takes one last puff before placing the cigar in the ashtray.

 

"I still have time for you," he says, his fingers running through her hair again. "Believe me when I say the less time I spend there, the better."

 

"Is it that bad?" Rey raises an eyebrow. "I thought balls were supposed to be fun."

 

"For most, maybe. For me, it's... overwhelming," he says simply. "Too many annoying people. Too much noise. I much prefer the calm and quiet of my home."

 

He's silent for a moment, then adds, "We can go to one if you want, though."

 

"Can we?" Her eyes sparkle as she looks at him. "I'd like that, sir. I've never been to one."

 

"Don't be too disappointed when the time comes, though," he chuckles

 

“I can’t imagine being disappointed, sir,” she says softly.

 

“You’re still young enough to romanticize things,” he murmurs. “But I suppose that’s not such a terrible thing.”

 

She smiles, a little shy. “Would you dance with me there?”

 

"One dance, yes," he condescends, "Only because I wouldn't let my wife dance with anyone else."

 

He studies her silently for a moment, and then taps his fingers on his thigh. "Come here."

 

Rey doesn’t hesitate. She sets the book aside and rises on her knees, crawling up to settle in his lap. His hands slide up her back, slow and sure, pulling her closer until her chest is pressed to his.

 

“Let me taste those lips once before I go”.

 

She obeys without a word, her breath catching faintly as she lifts her face to his. It starts soft, but Mr. Solo doesn’t let it stay that way. His hand finds the back of her head, pulling her in deeper, mouth claiming hers, tongue sliding past her lips. 

 

She melts against him, fingers gripping his coat, breath stolen by the intensity of it.

 

When he finally pulls back, it's with a soft, wet sound and a final brush of his lips against hers.

 

“That should hold me for a few hours,” he says, voice husky and low.

 

Rey’s eyes flutter open, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed. “Only a few?” she whispers.

 

His thumb traces the edge of her mouth, his expression unreadable but intense. “Don’t push your luck, Miss Niima”.

 

Then, with a sigh, he shifts her gently off his lap and rises to his feet, smoothing down his jacket.

 

“Stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” he adds, brushing a final kiss to her forehead.

 

She watches his carriage drive away through the window, and then tries to distract herself with the gramophone.

 

She puts on a pretty melody, and then twirls around the library pretending she's dancing with Mr. Solo.

 

She doesn't know if she'll be expected to organize social events or attend them. She's never met a Mrs. Solo before. When she arrived here, Ben's mother had already passed away.

 

To tell the truth, she knows nothing about high society events. Nothing beyond serving at them, really.

 

She wanted to tell Rose the news. Smile and laugh with her and show her friend her new ring. Tell her how much she loved Mr. Solo and how good he was to her, and how he would make an honest woman out of her because he cared for her. Because he loved her. Because she wasn't a whore. She was going to be his wife.

 

She couldn't bring herself to send another unanswered letter, however.

 

Hours later, Mr. Solo seems to be taking longer than she expected. Rey takes a bath, puts on her nightgown, and sits on his bed to wait for him.

 

Maybe today's ball wasn’t so unbearable after all.

 

She tries to stay awake to greet him, but somewhere in the night, she ends up dozing off into the pillows. She only wakes hours later when she hears the sound of the bedroom door opening.

 

"Sir?" she calls weakly, her voice thick with sleep, her eyes too heavy to properly look at his figure.

 

She hears his footsteps approaching, and then his lips kissing her forehead.

 

"Shhh. Go back to sleep, Rey," he says with a sigh, "I'm here."

 

She easily obeys him, resting her head back on the pillow. She feels his presence linger beside her in bed, and she could swear he said something to her before she drifts off again.

Chapter 32

 

Mr. Solo is not in bed when Rey wakes up. 

 

She remembers dozing off with a book in hand, then the soft weight of his kiss on her forehead, the low rumble of his voice—I’m here.

 

But he isn’t now.

 

She notices that her morning grumpiness gets worse when he's not there with her. It somehow makes her irrationally annoyed.

 

Sabine is in the drawing room, polishing a teacup when Rey enters.

 

“Morning,” Rey says cautiously. “Have you seen Mr. Solo?”

 

Sabine doesn’t look up immediately. “He left early, ma’am.”

 

 “Oh.” 

 

So early? After arriving so late the night before? 

 

“Did he say where he was going?”

 

“He mentioned needing to see to some matters in town,” Sabine replies, carefully placing the cup onto a tray. “That’s all I know.”

 

Rey nods slowly, though her heart is already racing. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

 

“I’m afraid he did not.”

 

Rey thanks her and drifts out again, unsettled.

 

The day drags. She didn't dare go to church that Sunday, choosing instead to kneel beside her bed—the same one where she and Mr. Solo had sinned the day before—to pray and ask for forgiveness.

 

By afternoon, she is seated at the piano, her fingers stumbling over the keys beneath Madame Giraud’s sharp eyes. Her mind is elsewhere, hopelessly adrift. She misses a chord. Then another. The third time, Madame stops her.

 

“You must be present when you play, mademoiselle,” the woman says, with a gently arched brow.

 

Rey apologizes, cheeks pink. She tries again.

 

Halfway through the piece, her hand catches the sunlight—and Madame notices the ring.

 

The older woman says nothing. She merely presses her lips together and nods toward the keys again. But Rey notices the small, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of her mouth.

 

It's almost night when Mr. Solo finally returns home.

 

She hears it first—the jangle of reins, the roll of wheels. Her heart leaps. She nearly runs through the halls, skirts brushing the floor as she reaches the foyer, just as the front door opens.

 

And there he is.

 

But something in his face stops her short.

 

His jaw is locked, expression unreadable, and there’s a terrible stillness to his movements as he hands his coat to the footman. She sees the dried mud on his shoes, the stiff lines of his shoulders.

 

“Sir?” Rey asks softly, stepping closer.

 

He glances at her, just once. Then looks away.

 

His voice is hoarse. “Not now, Rey.”

 

Her heart splinters at the distance in his tone, but she reaches for his hand without thinking. “Did something happen?”

 

“Go upstairs,” he says, quieter now. “I have to sort some things out.”

 

She stares at him. His gaze doesn’t meet hers again.

 

Rey turns and walks up the stairs slowly, one hand clutching the bannister, throat tight with confusion. Did I do something wrong?

 

She replays yesterday in her mind, touching the ring on her finger, as if afraid it might vanish.

 

By the time the moon rises high, she’s curled up on the armchair in her nightgown, a shawl thrown over her shoulders, Camille forgotten on the floor beside her.

 

And then—finally—she hears footsteps.

 

The door creaks open, and Mr. Solo steps inside. He pauses just over the threshold, eyes adjusting to the low firelight. His coat is gone now, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair a mess like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times.

 

When his eyes land on her, they soften—but only a little.

 

“You’re still up,” he says gruffly.

 

"I've been waiting for you, sir."

 

Mr. Solo steps fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The firelight flickers against the sharp planes of his face as he moves toward her, heavy steps muffled by the rug. He looks tired—worn in a way that unsettles her. That makes her want to rise from the chair and touch him, hug him, kiss him until he is rested and content and satisfied.

 

“You’re not free to ignore your curfew, Rey,” he says, voice low but firm. “Not even when I’m late.”

 

She blinks, stung. “I’m sorry, sir,” she murmurs. “But I… I think I just needed to know if I had done something wrong. If I displeased you somehow.”

 

That stops him.

 

For a long moment, he says nothing. His jaw ticks once, and then again, before a faint—almost reluctant—chuckle breaks the silence. A soft, dry sound, bitter at the edges.

 

“No, Rey,” he says, shaking his head. “You didn’t displease me.”

 

A wave of relief washes over her, but only for an instant.

 

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“There were things I had to deal with, that’s all,” he says, low. “Some... obligations I couldn’t avoid. I didn’t want to take my anger out on you.”

 

She rises quietly from the chair, the shawl slipping down her arms. Her bare feet pad softly across the rug until she stands before him, hesitating only a moment before reaching out to take his hand.

 

He lets her.

 

 “You don’t have to protect me from your bad days, sir.”

 

His mouth twists. “I do.”

 

Rey studies him quietly, not daring to speak.

 

He must not be used to this, she realizes. Not to having someone worry for him. 

 

But he does now. He has her. And she wants him to feel it—wants to show him with more than words.

 

Rey nuzzles into the crook of his neck, then tilts her face to press a slow, lingering kiss to his chest—just over his heart. His shirt is still on, half-unbuttoned from earlier, but she feels the warmth of him through the fabric, the steady beat beneath her lips.

 

His hands fall to her waist, heavy and warm, grounding himself in her touch as she trails her lips upward, brushing his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, then his jaw.

 

When she finally reaches his mouth, she kisses him gently.

 

“Come to bed,” she says softly against his lips.

 

He nods.

 

And when he follows her to the mattress, he doesn’t undress her or press her down or take anything at all.

 

He just wraps himself around her and breathes her in, her softness cradling his hardness, his tension melting slowly against the calm warmth of her body.

 

Rey stays silent, her head tucked beneath his chin, until his breathing deepens and the last of his defenses fall away.

 

______

 

"Leaving so early?" Rey murmurs sleepily when she realizes Mr. Solo is standing near the hearth, adjusting the collar of his dark coat — the fine, tailored one he only wears when business calls him to the village.

 

He glances over at her — tousled, bare-shouldered, clutching the blanket to her chest, his eyes silently taking in her undoubtedly awkward and disheveled figure this early in the morning.

 

“I have things to handle,” he says shortly, irritation flickering beneath his low voice. “And I’d rather not waste daylight. I’ll be back before sunset.”

 

A pause, then, almost as an afterthought: “We’ll dine together.”

 

Rey straightens a little, her eyes lighting up despite herself. “Yes, sir. I’ll prepare everything just the way you like it.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile, more a softening of the hard edge in him.

 

He crosses the room in a few long strides, and Rey instinctively lowers her gaze as he approaches the side of the bed.

 

His large hand slides from the edge of the blanket, trailing slowly down her bare arm, fingertips ghosting over her skin. 

 

“Just the way I like it,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

 

She swallows, her breath catching slightly.

 

“I want you soft,” he murmurs. “Warm… waiting. I want to walk through that door and know you’ve been thinking of nothing but me all day long.”

 

His hand travels upward, tracing the curve of her shoulder, fingers pressing gently but insistently, before moving to cup the side of her neck. His thumb brushes along her jawline.

 

A familiar heat blooms in her cheeks, and she feels the flutter in her stomach—the usual stirrings of longing that come with his demands. Nothing too difficult, she thinks, because most of her days are already consumed by thoughts of him.

 

She nods quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

 

His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. “There you go, my sweet, obedient little creature”.

 

He straightens slowly, and then he’s gone, the door shutting behind him with a muted click.

 

Rey sinks back into the pillows, the smile lingering on her lips long after he’s left, the lingering warmth of his presence in bed wrapped around her like a cloak.

 

______

 

The day passes slowly and boringly as Rey waits for Mr. Solo to return home. She tries to pass the time by reading, then taking a walk in the garden to get some sun, and then reading some more.

 

She's almost finished with Camille, curled up in the large library chair that smells of Mr. Solo, when Sabine knocks softly on the door.

 

"Ma'am," she says after Rey tells her to come in, "Miss Tico is here to see you."

 

Rey blinks, thinking for a moment she must have misheard. Rose said she didn't want to see her anymore. That they couldn't be friends anymore. The last time Rey was at the Ko Connix house, Rose had practically sent her away.

 

Rey’s heart quickens, a fragile hope flickering to life within her chest. Maybe Rose had reconsidered—perhaps she missed their friendship as much as Rey did. The thought made her cheeks warm with cautious optimism. She pictured them laughing together again, sharing whispered secrets like they used to, and dared to believe they could find their way back to that place.

 

She hesitates for a moment, then nods softly. “Alright, you—you can bring her in.”

 

Sabine pauses, her expression cautious. “I fear Miss Tico doesn’t wish to come inside, ma’am. She said it’ll only take a moment.”

 

Rey swallows, a nervous flutter in her chest. “That’s... fine. I’ll come to her, then.”

 

Sabine leads Rey through the quiet halls to the servants’ entrance at the back of the mansion. Rey steps outside onto the familiar stone steps where she and Rose used to meet. Though it seems like ages ago, she knows only a few weeks have passed since then.

 

Rose stands on the steps, wrapped in a worn cloak that drapes heavily over her slender frame. Like... like she didn't want anyone to know she was there.

 

Rey's heart sank in her chest.

 

"Rose," Rey says hesitantly, wanting nothing more than to be able to hold her again.

 

Rose meets her gaze, voice strained. “Rey.” Her eyes flick briefly to Sabine, who retreats to give them privacy. “Or should I call you ma’am now, as well?”

 

Rey blinks, the sharpness of the words catching her off guard.

 

"Rose, it's not like that—"

 

"Never mind," Rose interrupts, her jaw tightening. "Save me the details of your life with Mr. Solo. It looks like he’s got you exactly where he wants."

 

Rey’s cheeks burn, a fierce sting of shame flooding her.

 

She hears Rose sigh, almost wearily.

 

"Listen, Rey, I shouldn't have even come here. But I thought—I thought you should know, anyway."

 

Rey’s brow furrows, confusion knitting her forehead. “What do you mean?” she asks softly, a chill creeping up her spine.

 

Rose hesitates for a moment, then steps forward, her eyes a mixture of hardness and pity as she looks at Rey. "Mr. Solo... he was caught doing things no gentleman should with Miss Kaydel in the smoking room during the Ko Connix ball the day before yesterday." 

 

Rose swallows, her hands rising for a moment as if to take Rey's before she pulls them back, folding them tightly at her sides instead, "And now he's going to do the right thing and... marry her."

 

Rey goes still.

 

The world tilts—no, it lurches, like the floor beneath her feet has given way. For a moment, she can't speak, can’t breathe. The words hit her with the force of a blow, cracking something open deep in her chest.

 

"No," she says finally, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes search Rose’s face with desperation. “No, that’s not possible. That’s—he wouldn’t—”

 

But Rose doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. She only looks tired.

 

“I saw it with my own eyes, Rey. I was there. Serving champagne.” Her voice is quiet but firm, each word deliberate. “They were alone in the smoking room. When her father threw open the doors, she had her skirts ripped and Mr. Solo had his hands on her. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. Everyone saw it.”

 

Rey shakes her head, heart pounding painfully now. “No,” she says again, louder this time. "You're making this up. Making this up to separate me from Mr. Solo and—"

 

“I don’t think you’re better off being lied to,” Rose cuts in, sharp now. “You think I came here just to make something like this up? To hurt you?”

 

Rey flinches. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.

 

Rey’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She wants to scream that Mr. Solo wouldn't do that. He proposed to Rey a few days ago. She has his grandmother's ring on her finger. They're getting married. He loves her. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—touch Kaydel, let alone marry her.

 

Silence stretches between them.

 

“I told you this would happen, Rey.”

 

Rey’s eyes snap to hers.

 

“I told you,” Rose repeats, and there's no cruelty in her tone—just a hollow sort of ache. “And I’m sorry for you. I really am.”

 

Rey clutches her hand against her chest, covering the ring like she could protect it—or herself—from the weight of Rose’s words.

 

“I thought you should know,” Rose says again, softer now.

 

She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just turns and walks away, her footsteps fading down the path, leaving Rey standing frozen on the steps, hands shaking, the ring on her finger suddenly burning hot and foreign against her skin. She wants to rip it off. She wants to scream.

 

But all she does is crumble back against the stone wall, eyes wide, chest heaving, as the truth—or what might be the truth—settles over her like a stormcloud.

 

She doesn’t know if she believes Rose.

 

But worse—she’s afraid she does.

Chapter 33

As promised, Mr. Solo returns home before sunset. 

 

Rey is waiting for him in the dining room as she said she would be – but the table is clear, no plates or food in sight.

 

And instead of being soft and pliant and excited for his return... her eyes are puffy from crying.

 

He stops in the doorway, gloved hand still resting on the polished brass handle. His gaze sweeps over her, expression unreadable. Then, deliberately, he closes the door with a soft, final click and peels off his gloves, tucking them into the breast pocket of his coat with slow precision.

 

The silence stretches taut.

 

"You’ve been crying," he says plainly.

 

Rey doesn't answer. Her fingers twitch where they rest at her sides, but she doesn’t move. 

 

Mr. Solo tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Tell me what happened."

 

Rey doesn’t speak.

 

His jaw flexes.

 

“I expect an answer when I speak to you, Miss Niima.”

 

Rey swallows hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. 

 

“You’re going to marry her,” she says, each word trembling. “Miss Kaydel.”

 

Mr. Solo’s expression doesn’t shift. 

 

“Who told you that?” he asks coolly.

 

Rey’s breath catches. “Is it true?”

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

“So... it’s true.”

 

His nostrils flare. “It is none of your concern.”

 

Her heart cracks a little more. “None of my concern?” she whispers. “You asked me to marry you!”

 

“Lower your voice,” he growls. 

 

Tears spill over her lashes now. She doesn’t wipe them away. “Please tell me it's a lie. Tell me you're not going to marry her. Please, sir…”

 

His silence answers for him.

 

Rey blinks through the tears clouding her vision, her voice breaking on the next words.

 

“Why did you do it? Why did you touch her?” she asks. “Wasn’t… Wasn’t I enough for you?”

 

Mr. Solo’s jaw tightens again.

 

“Is that what you believe?” he asks, quieter now.

 

“I don’t know what to believe, sir”.

 

Mr. Solo exhales sharply through his nose.

 

“Miss Kaydel and her father arranged it,” he says flatly. “They made sure it looked like I’d compromised her.”

 

Rey stares at him, blinking through tears. “You didn’t?”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darken, and in two long strides he’s standing in front of her. He leans down, his face inches from hers, eyes burning. “You are the only woman I have ever been with, Miss Niima. I intend to keep it that way.”

 

Her throat tightens painfully. “But Rose said—”

 

“I don’t give a fuck what Miss Tico told you.” His hands twitch at his sides. “People saw what they wanted to see. What Miss Kaydel made sure they’d see.”

 

“Why would she—”

 

“Because they’re ruined,” Mr. Solo cuts in, “Her father’s debts run deeper than the mines he’s gambled away, and now the only way to keep the creditors from devouring them is to tie their rotting name to mine.” he snaps. “I know very well they arranged the whole fucking thing, so half the damn party would catch me with her. So now they can all believe I’ve taken her virtue.”

 

“Rose said you had your hands on her—” Rey begins, her voice a trembling thread.

 

“Yes,” Mr. Solo spits, each word like a stone. “My hands were certainly on her. I nearly choked the little bitch to death”

 

“Choked her?” Rey clutches at her chest, stunned. “Why? How—?”

 

"She said things... Things about you. I couldn't help myself." He lets out a dry laugh. "I should have known she meant just that. To get a reaction out of me. I should have known when her wretched father took me to that smoking room.”

 

Rey stares at him, mouth parted. Then, a whisper: “Then you’ll marry her?”

 

His silence is brief.

 

“I will.”

 

The words strike like a blade.

 

She staggers back a step. “But you said—she lied. You didn’t—how can you—?”

 

“I know what I said,” he grits out. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Rey shakes her head, as if to physically reject the words. “It does matter. It was a lie. You don’t have to—”

 

“I will,” he cuts her off.

 

Her lips tremble. “Why?”

 

”Because no one makes a fool of me, Miss Niima. No one. They think they can play me. They think I care for property. For society. For manners. They believe I crave their approval, their little invitations, their shallow smiles. Let them think that. They will learn what a fucking mistake that was.”

 

Her brow furrows through her tears. “I don’t understand.”

 

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, a sound that chills the air between them. “I’ll marry Bryan’s precious daughter, yes. I’ll take her name, her hand, her dowry—and then I’ll bleed them dry. I’ll make her father choke on every debt, every coin, until he begs for death. I’ll ruin them both so thoroughly that their name will be spoken only as a curse.”

 

“That’s not right,” she says, voice small and trembling. “You can’t use a wedding like a weapon. That’s– That’s cruel, sir.”

 

He watches her, expression unreadable for a beat, then something like a bitter smile cracks his face. “Cruel,” he repeats, tasting the word. “Perhaps. But neither was I ever meant for kindness, Miss Niima.” He takes a step closer, slow, deliberate. “I am not a good man. I never pretended to be one.”

 

“But marry her?” Rey finally chokes. “Live with her? Sleep with her, raise children with her—”

 

“I won’t touch her,” he spits. “She’ll have my name, and nothing more. I won’t spare a single moment in making her life a living hell, believe me. I want her father to watch it from afar.”.

 

Rey instinctively shrinks back, her heart pounding loud and wild in her chest, as if warning her to be afraid.

 

He looks like a man who will stop at nothing to make good on his promise.

 

“And after you marry her?” she whispers. “What happens to me then?”

 

"Nothing happens to you," he says, and before she can pull away, he grabs her by the throat, his thumb gently stroking her cheek, "We will continue as we are now. You will be my wife in all but name."

 

"You want me to be your mistress," she spits, trying unsuccessfully to pull away from him, the strange word tasting like copper in her mouth.

 

His hold tightens.

 

“Call it whatever you like,” he murmurs, voice cold and unyielding.

 

Tears spill from Rey’s eyes as she meets his dark gaze.

 

I should have known better. I should have known better than to think this would end any other way.

 

Rey lets out a trembling breath, then lifts her hand slowly, staring down at the ring on her finger. The ring he gave her. His grandmother’s ring.

 

She slips it off.

 

And places it gently on the table beside them.

 

“Then I suppose we have nothing else to talk about, sir.”

 

He doesn’t move for a long time. The tension between them draws out, taut and suffocating, until Rey wonders if she’ll have to be the one to turn and walk away. But she can’t. She’s frozen, gaze fixed on the little gold ring where it glints against the wood.

 

But then he picks up the ring. He doesn’t bother asking for her hand. He seizes it, grip steel around her wrist, and jams the band down her finger so hard she almost yelps from the pain.

 

“Don’t you ever take this off again,” he growls, his face inches from hers, eyes blazing with fury. His grip tightens on her wrist, not enough to bruise, but enough to keep her from pulling free. 

 

Her voice, when it comes, is a whisper—trembling and thin.

 

“Why are you doing this to me?”

 

And then a broken sob slips from her lips before she can stop it.

 

Mr. Solo slowly lets go of her wrist, and then he holds her face with both hands, forcing her to look at him, letting her tears wet his palm.

 

“You belong to me. With or without a wedding,” he says quietly, his eyes fixed on hers, their foreheads almost touching. “You can rage at me. Hate me. Try to tear this ring off every goddamn day,” he says, his breath hot against her face, “but you are mine. That hasn’t changed. That will never change.”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“I don’t want to be your mistress,” she whispers again, weaker this time. “Please… I don’t want that.”

 

His breath is steady, too steady—unnervingly calm for a man who just confessed he intends to marry one woman while keeping another. His thumb traces a damp line down her cheekbone, tender in a way that only makes the cruelty of his words cut deeper.

 

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, my love," he murmurs, his lips lingering first on her cheek, then tenderly on her forehead, and then he holds her by the back of the neck, "but you'll have everything you need. Everything you want. I’ll give you everything. Ask me, and it will be yours.”

 

Her tears fall freely now, tracing silent rivers down her cheeks.

 

“Please,” she breathes. “Please, don’t make me do it.”

 

Mr. Solo’s gaze softens ever so slightly, and he presses a finger gently to her lips, silencing her trembling plea.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing, almost tender. “Let me take care of the things you can’t control, my love.”

 

“I can’t... I can’t...” she chokes out, tears streaming down her face. 

 

The air thickens with the tension between them, her breath ragged as she trembles under his touch.

 

"You can," he says slowly, his voice a low growl. "And you will, Rey."

 

He steps closer, his body pressing against hers with an intensity that leaves no room to escape, no way out. His hands move to the back of her neck again, fingers threading into her hair, forcing her head back, tilting her face upwards. The harshness of it makes her pulse spike, her chest tightening as if every part of her is recoiling.

 

"Look at me," he orders.

 

Her eyes, swollen from crying, meet his.

 

"Nothing will change, I swear it to you. I will remain yours, and only yours. No amount of time, no matter how many vows I exchange, will ever change that.”

 

Rey shakes her head, her lips trembling, a sob escaping her as she pleads, "I can’t... Please, I can’t..."

 

His eyes flash with something darker now—impatience, frustration, but also a deeper hunger. He doesn’t speak at first, but his hand tightens at the back of her neck, his fingers curling possessively into her hair, and for a moment, the room feels like it’s closing in on her. He leans closer, until their faces are mere inches apart, the heat of his breath mingling with hers.

 

"Don’t fight it," he growls, the command clear and final. 

 

His lips brush hers, the touch so gentle at first it almost feels like a warning, but then his other hand comes up to cup her face, his thumb grazing the delicate skin of her jawline, coaxing her lips to part. She gasps against him, the taste of her own tears still on her lips, and he takes that moment to deepen the kiss. His lips move against hers with a hunger that she cannot comprehend, his body pressing hers harder into the table, pinning her in place.

 

She cries into it, the tears mixing with the taste of him, bitter and raw. 

 

She doesn’t kiss him back. She can’t. Her heart is breaking too fast for her to find the strength to fight him, but also too broken to respond. 

 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back, leaving her gasping for air, her face flushed and wet with the remnants of her tears. His breath comes out in shallow bursts, his chest rising and falling against her own.

 

His thumb traces the line of her jaw, gently this time, as if savoring the brokenness in her. He stares down at her, the fire in his eyes still burning bright, though the tension in his jaw has softened just a fraction.

 

"I'm tired, Miss Niima," he says finally, "So be a good girl… and come to bed with me."

 

She doesn’t move. She can’t tell if it’s fear, despair, or defiance that roots her to the floor.

 

His jaw tightens. "Don’t make me say it again."

 

His hand moves to her wrist, gently but insistently pulling her toward him. The sudden movement snaps her out of her daze, and before she knows it, she’s being led toward the stairs, toward his bedroom.

 

He shuts the door behind them with a slow, deliberate click, and then he steers her toward the bed.

 

“Lie down,” he says.

 

Her entire body trembles. She hesitates only a heartbeat longer, then obeys. Her movements are mechanical, numb. She sits on the edge of the bed, then slowly lowers herself down, the coldness of the sheets rising up to meet her.

 

She doesn’t look at him. She stares at the ceiling.

 

Mr. Solo undresses in silence. She can hear each button undone, each article of clothing dropped to the floor with quiet finality. She doesn’t turn her head to watch. 

 

He climbs onto the bed.

 

She stiffens.

 

But he doesn’t touch her the way she fears. Instead, he shifts close, gathering her in his arms. He tucks her body against his, pressing his face into the curve of her neck, exhales softly, and pulls her closer.

 

“This is where you belong, Rey,” he murmurs, the words brushing her skin.

 

He lifts his head just enough to look at her.

 

“Do you understand?”

 

She nods.

 

It’s the only thing she can do.

 

Mr. Solo lets out a sigh. A heavy, exhausted sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. His hold on her slackens slightly—not enough for her to slip free, but enough to let her feel the weariness in him. She hadn’t noticed how tired he looked before—how heavy the shadows under his eyes had become.

 

A moment later, he buries his face in her hair, and just like that, he’s asleep.

 

His breathing evens out, deep and slow. One arm remains looped around her waist, anchoring her in place.

 

But Rey does not sleep.

 

She stares at the ceiling, her body rigid in his embrace, each breath quiet and shallow.

 

Her tears fall silently now.

 

She doesn’t wipe them away.

 

They trail down into her hairline, soaking the pillow beneath her, tracing saltwater paths over skin that still burns from his touch. 

 

But then she suddenly remembers what Poe said to her on the church steps.

 

My intentions… they still remain. I still wish to marry you.

 

She'd nearly forgotten the conversation. Probably because she knew she didn't love Poe. She wasn't sure she ever could. And, no matter what, the mere possibility of that was dashed when Mr. Solo proposed.

 

But now...

 

She turns her head slightly, just enough to glimpse his sleeping face.

 

Now... He would marry Miss Kaydel. And Rey would be nothing more than his kept girl. Nothing more than one of those pleasure women he'd mentioned so long ago.

 

Rey closes her eyes.

 

She couldn’t bear it, not even for love. Not when it cost her the last of her dignity.

 

I still wish to marry you.

 

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was cowardly.

 

But maybe… just maybe, it was also her only chance to avoid a future of shame.

 

Even if her heart stayed chained to the man lying now beside her.

Chapter 34

Rey sits by the window, the pale morning light spilling across her lap. Outside, the sky stretches wide and soft, streaked with the faint blush of dawn. Her gaze is fixed on it, but her mind is far away. She doesn’t blink for a long while, her thoughts blurring until the view becomes nothing but a wash of color.

 

She startles only when large, warm hands settle over her shoulders from behind.

 

“My love,” Mr. Solo’s voice rumbles low above her, “did you hear me?”

 

She turns her head slightly to look up at him, pulled from her stupor. His dark eyes study her for a beat, then he exhales.

 

“I have to go out,” he says, his hands squeezing her shoulders once before letting go. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

She nods faintly, but the words don’t settle the unease that prickles in her chest.

 

Mr. Solo lingers a moment longer behind her, then leans down and brushes a kiss to the crown of her head. His lips linger there, as if he’s reluctant to leave.

 

“Be good,” he murmurs.

 

She says nothing.

 

He waits—perhaps expecting a response, a smile, some scrap of obedience. But she offers none.

 

Eventually, his footsteps retreat across the floor. The door closes quietly behind him.

 

Rey doesn’t move for several minutes. Her body remains motionless, even as her heartbeat begins to speed. Then she watches as the carriage pulls forward from the front drive, the glossy black horses stamping and snorting against the reins. Mr. Solo steps up into the cabin with effortless grace, his dark coat swirling around his legs, and within moments, the whole vehicle vanishes down the winding path beyond the hedgerow.

 

She exhales a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

 

She waits another five minutes—long enough to be sure. Then she moves quickly, slipping out of her nightgown and pulling on a green dress.

 

Her hands tremble slightly as she makes her way toward the servants’ stairwell, the quiet back exit by the kitchen.

 

She’s halfway through the narrow hallway when a voice cuts through the stillness.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

Rey jolts.

 

Sabine stands in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, a dish towel still in her hands. Her eyes are sharp despite the softness of her tone.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Rey tries to smile. Fails.

 

“I just… needed some air,” she says quickly. “Just a walk—nothing more.”

 

Sabine’s brow lifts.

 

“Ma’am,” she says slowly, “Mr. Solo gave clear instructions. You’re not to leave the grounds. Not without accompaniment.”

 

The words hit like a slap.

 

Rey’s fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. “I’m not his prisoner.”

 

“Of course not,” Sabine replies, but there’s something in the way she says it, in the slight pause, the way her gaze slips from Rey’s, that makes the words feel false. 

 

Rey stares at her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, she asks softly, “Then… could you at least walk with me? Just to the church.”

 

Sabine hesitates.

 

Rey adds quickly, “I won’t go anywhere else. I only want to pray.”

 

For a long moment, Sabine doesn’t respond. But then she simply wipes her hands on the dish towel and gives a small nod.

 

“Of course, ma’am. Let me fetch my shawl.”

 

______

 

The church looms quiet and gray as they approach. It’s not a Sunday, and there’s no service in session. No crowd spilling out of pews, no old women pointing and whispering behind fans, no sharp glances or muttered insults trailing after Rey.

 

She makes for the small oratory off to the side, and Sabine follows without question, her shoes making a faint scuff against the tile.

 

Rey stops just at the threshold of the little room.

 

“I’d like to be alone to pray,” Rey says quietly, not meeting her eyes.

 

Sabine stops just a step behind her, hesitating.

 

“I won’t be long,” Rey murmurs. “Please.”

 

There’s a long pause. The older woman studies her, mouth pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Rey fears she won’t agree—that she’ll insist on staying at her side, as Mr. Solo must have instructed.

 

But then Sabine nods.

 

“All right,” she says gently. “I’ll be just out here. Take your time.”

 

Rey manages a small smile. “Thank you.”

 

The moment Sabine turns and walks toward the main chapel, Rey moves. Fast.

 

She slips through the side door of the oratory, the old hinges creaking softly but not enough to raise alarm.

 

She and Rose used to sneak out through this door as children—when Maz would bring her to church on holy days and try to keep her from squirming in the pews. They’d sneak away during confession, barefoot and giggling, and race through the overgrown garden paths behind the sanctuary, pretending the old stone walls were castle ruins, at least until Maz found them with a storm in her eyes and a scolding loud enough to wake the saints.

 

That memory feels a lifetime ago.

 

And yet, as Rey lifts the latch now and eases the door open—so quietly it barely creaks—it’s like no time has passed at all.

 

She steps outside, careful to close the door softly behind her.

 

Then she runs.

 

The Ko Connix house isn’t far—just past the next row of hedges and a short walk down the lane.

 

The last time she went there, it ended in humiliation. She remembers the chill of Miss Kaydel’s voice—sweet and cutting all at once. Remembers the twisted satisfaction in her smile, the smug tilt of her chin. 

 

Remembers Rose. Remembers the way they’d stood apart at the end. The pitiful look in Rose’s eyes. That quiet ache in her voice.

 

But now—Rey was walking back, with something close to desperation. Poe’s voice echoes in her mind, again and again. Now she was praying he hadn’t been lying. Praying he still meant it. 

 

She couldn’t be Mr. Solo’s mistress. She couldn’t. Even if she loved him—God, because she loved him—she couldn’t stay and watch herself disappear.

 

She makes her way to the carriage house at the back of the Ko Connix property, knowing that's where Poe will be.

 

As she steps inside, Poe steps out from behind the horses, his dark eyes widening in surprise as he sees her standing there.

 

“Rey? Did something happen? What are you doing here?”

 

She swallows hard, the words lodged in her throat, but then she forces them out, fast and raw. “I accept.”

 

Poe blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Wait... accept what?”

 

She meets his eyes, struggling to steady her voice. “If you’re still willing to marry me, despite everything…”, she pauses, “Then… I’ll marry you”.

 

For a moment, the only sound is the soft rustle of the horses shifting in their stalls.

 

Then Poe lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as if trying to process the suddenness of it all. “Well,” he says, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, “I wasn’t expecting it to go down quite like this.”

 

Rey’s cheeks flush, her breath catching as she fumbles for words. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just—blurt it out like that. It’s just—easier to say it all at once than to keep dancing around it.”

 

He steps closer, eyes softening with something like understanding. “No need to apologize. I’m glad you said it. At least now we’re on the same page.” Then he adds, “I’m—I’m willing, Rey. More than willing.”

 

Rey exhales, “Good. That’s—That’s good.” She pauses, searching his face, then adds honestly, “But I don’t want to lie to you, Poe. I don’t—I don’t love you. Not now, at least. If you want to go through with this anyway…”

 

Poe’s smile falters for a moment, but he doesn’t look angry or disappointed.

 

"Not all marriages begin with love," he says quietly, "But... do you think you'll be able to… In the future, perhaps... Do you think you'll ever love me?"

 

Rey meets his gaze, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I don’t know,” she admits honestly. “I want to. Maybe I will. But I can’t promise anything right now.”

 

He nods slowly, a bittersweet smile curling his lips. “That’s all I can ask for.”

 

There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken fears and fragile hopes.

 

Rey takes a shaky breath. “We have to do this quickly,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “If Mr. Solo suspects even the smallest thing… he’ll do everything he can to stop us.”

 

Poe’s brow furrows. “Do you want to run away?”

 

Rey blinks, caught off guard by the question. She hesitates, her words tangled. “I—I don’t know.”

 

She has no idea, really. She just knows she needs to get out of Solo Mansion. She has to leave that place behind before it swallows her.

 

Poe takes a breath and steps closer, his voice low and calm, but firm. “Hey… it’s going to be all right.”

He gently takes Rey’s hand in his. “We’ll figure it out. I’m with you. We’ll find a way.”

 

Rey looks down at their joined hands, her own fingers trembling. There’s warmth in his grip, and something steadying in his gaze. She nods, barely, her throat too tight to speak.

 

Then—

 

A shout slices through the stillness.

 

“Dameron!”, Mr. Ko Connix’s voice rings from the stable doors, sharp with irritation. “What in God’s name is taking so long with those horses? Mr. Solo and I haven’t got all day!”

 

Poe flinches and drops Rey’s hand immediately, spinning around. “Sir—I was just about to—”

 

But Rey doesn’t hear the rest.

 

Her blood goes cold at the mention of that name.

 

Mr. Solo.

 

Her eyes snap to the stable entrance—and her heart seizes in her chest.

 

Because just behind Mr. Ko Connix, standing silent and still as a shadow, is Mr. Solo himself.

 

His eyes are locked on Rey. He has seen everything.

 

For a moment, no one speaks.

 

Mr. Ko Connix hasn’t even noticed her, too busy muttering about bridles and wasted time.

 

But Mr. Solo has. His gaze doesn’t waver.

 

Rey can’t breathe. Her pulse hammers in her ears. A thousand things race through her mind—denials, explanations, pleas—but not one word comes out.

 

Then, slowly, Mr. Solo steps forward, around Mr. Ko Connix, who startles at his movement and finally notices Rey standing there, frozen beside Poe.

 

He squints at Rey, his brow furrowing in annoyance. “You. Girl. What are you doing out here?”, he lets out a sharp huff, clearly irritated. “Another new hire no one bothered to train, I see. This is a stable, not the bloody kitchen. If you’re lost, find your way back before I have you dismissed entirely.”

 

He turns to Poe, snapping, “And as for you, get those damn horses ready or I’ll have your position reconsidered!”

 

Rey doesn't move. She stands frozen, her limbs locked in place, unable to breathe, unable to think—just staring at Mr. Solo.

 

But he isn’t looking at her anymore. He’s looking at Poe.

 

His expression is unreadable. Blank, almost. But there’s something beneath it. Something too calm. Too still. Like the surface of a lake just before a storm breaks.

 

“Is she deaf?” Mr. Ko Connix mutters. “Girl, get back to the house before I call someone to drag you there myself.”

 

But before Rey can respond—before Poe can even move—Mr. Solo speaks.

 

“She stays.”

 

His voice is calm. Quiet. But it fills the space like thunder.

 

Mr. Ko Connix stops cold and looks back at him, confused. “What?”

 

Solo steps forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes now on Rey.

 

“Looks like we’ll have to postpone our little engagement, Bryan,” he says, still watching Rey. “Miss Niima and I will be returning home sooner than expected.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix glances between them, visibly thrown off by the sudden shift. Then, finally, his gaze settles on Rey—really settles. His eyes narrow slightly, eyebrows rising as recognition starts to creep into his features.

 

Mr. Solo doesn't even glance in his direction. Calmly, he says, “I think your ostler has proven himself… lacking, to put it kindly. My own stablesman will see to the carriage on my behalf.”

 

Mr. Solo extends his gloved hand toward Rey. Her breath catches again as she realizes she’s expected to take it.

 

Her eyes flick to him, and she realizes he’s making a great effort to hold himself back—the rigid line of his shoulders and the flint in his jaw betray the storm he’s trying so hard to keep locked inside.

 

And she’s afraid. She wants to run. To scream. To grab Poe’s hand again and bolt through the doors.

 

Mr. Solo’s voice cuts through the tension, firm and unwavering. “Let’s go, Miss Niima.”

 

The command leaves no room for hesitation.

 

Rey swallows her fear and slowly lifts her hand, placing it into his gloved one. His grip is steady, almost possessive, guiding her away from the stable and the curious eyes of Mr. Ko Connix.

 

As they move toward the carriage, Rey’s eyes flicker to Poe, and a cold knot forms in her stomach. She wants to reach out, to warn him, to promise she’ll come back for him—but the cold grip of fear keeps her frozen.

 

Mr. Solo helps her up into the carriage with a firm but careful grip. 

 

Once inside, he settles onto the seat in front of her, his posture stiff, his expression unreadable.

 

The carriage jolts forward, the slow creak of wheels on dirt the only sound in the thick silence between them. The rhythmic clatter feels both endless and suffocating, pressing down on Rey’s chest like a weight.

 

She doesn’t know which she dreads more—the fierce anger she imagines simmering beneath his calm exterior, or this heavy, oppressive silence that screams of words unspoken and threats unvoiced.

 

Rey tentatively whispers, her voice trembling, "Sir—"

 

But he cuts her off with a low growl, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. 

 

"Quiet, Miss Niima," he commands, his voice sharp and heavy with rage. "Before I do something I'll regret later."

 

The threat isn’t in the words, but in the deadly calm with which he speaks them. Rey swallows hard, fear tightening in her chest, as the sound of her ragged breathing mixes with the rhythmic trot of the horses, filling the suffocating silence of the carriage.

 

As the carriage rolls to a stop in front of Solo Mansion, the sound of the wheels grinding against the gravel is almost deafening in the silence between them. The door opens, and Mr. Solo steps out first. Before she can even gather herself, Mr. Solo’s gloved hand closes around her arm in a grip that’s almost bruising, his fingers digging into her skin.

 

Without a word, he begins to lead her up the stairs. She doesn’t dare resist, her feet moving automatically, matching his pace.

 

Rey’s mind races, but the words she wants to say get stuck in her throat. What can she say? What could possibly make this better?

 

He doesn’t stop until they reach the door to his quarters. The door opens with a low creak, and Mr. Solo pulls her inside with a force that makes her stumble.

 

“Sit,” he commands, his voice rough, the only sound besides her rapid breathing.

 

Rey does as told, sitting down on the edge of his bed. She can barely look at him, too afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

 

He closes the door with a soft thud behind him, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the room. For a long moment, he stands there, back to her, staring out the window. His broad shoulders are tense, his body rigid with barely contained anger.

 

And then he turns around. His eyes are dark, swirling with something that makes Rey shudder.

 

“Do you think I’m a fool, Miss Niima?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a sharp edge to it that cuts through the air.

 

Rey’s throat tightens. She swallows, struggling to find words.

 

“I—” She doesn’t even know what to say. He’s already seen so much. Already knows she’s been planning something. “No, sir.”

 

“Then you should know,” he says slowly, “that you’ve made a very dangerous mistake.”

 

Rey holds her breath, feeling the weight of his words press down on her like a vice. She can’t even begin to imagine what he’ll do next.

 

Mr. Solo steps closer, his shadow looming over her, and he crouches down to her eye level. His gaze is intense, his hand reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

 

“You want to leave,” he says, his voice a whisper now. “But I can assure you, Miss Niima, that there’s nowhere you can run that I won’t find you.”

 

The quiet threat hangs in the air between them, suffocating. Rey’s pulse spikes, and for a moment, she’s paralyzed.

 

His thumb strokes her jaw, deceptively gentle, before sliding along the curve of her throat.

 

“You disobeyed me,” he says at last, the calm precision of his voice more unnerving than if he had shouted. “Do you remember the night I told you you would not see the boy again?” His eyes narrow slightly. “The night you promised me you wouldn’t?”

 

Rey’s stomach twists. She knows exactly which night he means. The memory flashes unbidden—his hand between her thighs, his voice low and coaxing in her ear as she gasped under his touch.

 

His fingers press lightly at her throat. “And yet… you went to him.” His gaze hardens. “You let him look at you. Speak to you. Touch you.”

 

His thumb drags in a slow line just beneath her jaw, his eyes locking on hers. “Tell me, Rey—did he put his hands where only mine belong?”

 

Her breath stutters, her voice a faint whisper. “No.”

 

He leans closer, so close she can feel the heat of his breath against her lips. “He thought about it, though,” he says, almost to himself, though the quiet venom in his tone coils tight. “I could see it in the way he stood with you. Like he thought he could take what’s mine.”

 

His hand drops suddenly to her knee, fingers curling firmly into her skirts. “And you let him believe it.”

 

Rey’s pulse hammers, her mind racing for an answer that won’t ignite him further, but nothing comes.

 

Her voice is barely audible. “I’m sorry—”

 

“No, you’re not. Not yet.” Then, with a slow, deliberate lean forward, he adds, “But you will be.”

 

Before she can blink, his hands are on her again—one at her arm, the other at her waist—guiding her up from the bed. She gasps softly as he tugs her forward, his large hands maneuvering her until she’s bent over his lap, her skirts bunched high around her hips. The position is humiliating—her cheek near his thigh, her hands braced on the carpet, her legs trapped between his.

 

“I’m going to make certain you don’t forget who you belong to again, my love,” he murmurs.

 

A beat of silence passes—just long enough for her pulse to thunder in her ears—before his palm comes down hard against her. The first smack lands square across the soft flesh of her backside, the sharp sound cracking through the room. Heat blooms instantly where his palm strikes, the sting making her jolt forward against his thigh.

 

She tenses, fingers curling in the carpet, but before she can draw in a full breath, the second blow lands—harder, sharper—sending another rush of fire through her.

 

Another smack lands across her ass, louder this time, making her gasp. He doesn’t let her move, one broad hand pressing firmly between her shoulder blades to keep her in place.

 

“This—” smack “—is what happens—” smack “—when you act like an insolent, disobedient girl.”

 

Her breath comes quick now, shallow, the sting in her backside mounting with each blow. She squirms against his thigh, the carpet digging into her palms.

 

“Please—” the word rips from her, trembling. “Please, stop—”

 

 “Say you love me. Say you’ll never leave me.”

 

She shakes her head, biting her lip, refusing to give him the words.

 

Another sharp crack lands across her ass, the sound sharp, the heat immediate. She flinches hard, a strangled sound escaping her throat.

 

“Say it,” he orders again, slower this time, each syllable drawn out like a threat.

 

Her nails dig into the carpet. “No—”

 

The next smack is the hardest yet, forcing her hips to jerk against his leg. He leans down, his mouth close to her ear, his breath hot. “You will say it, Rey. You’ll remember exactly who you belong to.”

 

His palm comes down again, and again, each blow blurring into the next until she can hardly tell where the sting ends and the heat begins. She gasps, chest heaving, eyes wet now.

 

Finally, she gathers every ounce of strength, every raw thread of anger, frustration, and pain tangled deep inside her, and forces the words out, her voice cracking. “How do you expect me to love you,” she spits, “when you’re going to marry another? How can I love a man who plans to reduce me to nothing more than a shameful mistress?”

 

He stills, his hand splayed hot and possessive across the curve of her ass, his chest rising and falling with a slow, measured breath.

 

Her words hang heavy in the air, sharp and biting. She feels the weight of her own tears sliding freely down her cheeks, the sting of his blows mixing with the ache in her chest.

 

Without warning, he pulls her up from his lap, gripping her firmly by the shoulders, forcing her to meet his dark, stormy eyes. The vulnerability in her face only seems to deepen the hard glint in his gaze.

 

“It doesn’t matter if you’re my wife or not,” he says, “It doesn’t matter if you’re my mistress, my whore, or whatever name you want to give yourself,” he says, his voice low but unyielding. “I will always take care of you. Nothing will ever be lacking—not a home, not food, not me.”

 

His hands tighten just enough to hold her steady in place.

 

“We will share every meal, every night, every book. You will kiss me, want me, give yourself to me whenever I demand it.” His voice grows softer, rough with longing and command. “You will bear my children – my only heirs –, love them fiercely, and raise them like the good mother I know you will be.”

 

He leans in, his breath warm against her cheek.

 

“You will grow old with me at your side. And when I’m gone…” He pauses, voice dropping to a fierce whisper, “…you will never marry again.”

 

He cups her face gently, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

 

“Rey”, he says, “I don’t need a priest, or a ring, for you to be mine. Your soul already belongs to me.”

 

His voice drops to a whisper.

 

“And not even death, my love, will do us part.”

 

Her thoughts swirl in turmoil, a quiet voice in her mind whispering that no matter his words, a marriage—an official bond—is what truly offers safety. She’s been raised to believe that all her life: that a name, a ring, a vow before others is what shields a woman from ruin.

 

She pulls back slightly, her voice trembling but defiant. “How can I trust what you say? How can I trust that one day you won't get tired of me and send me away? How can I trust you won’t abandon me—when you abandoned your own father?”

 

His expression darkens instantly. The warmth in his eyes fades, replaced by a cold shadow.

 

His hand slips away from her face, falling to his side with a heavy weight. His jaw tightens, muscles visibly locking as if holding back something fierce and painful.

 

For a long moment, neither of them speaks—only the quiet, heavy thrum of tension filling the space between them.

 

Darkly, his voice drops low, edged with bitter irony. “Of course—my father.” He sneers, the name tasting sour on his tongue. “Poor Han Solo, abandoned by his ungrateful, selfish son. Left alone to wither away in this mansion.” His eyes bore into hers, sharp and accusing. “He could never do wrong in your eyes, could he, Rey?”

 

Rey swallows hard, steadying herself as she meets his fierce gaze.

 

“Your father was a good man,” she says quietly, “But you—you disappeared for ten years. You never asked how he was, never came to see him until he was dead.”

 

She takes a breath, the weight of the words hanging between them. “What’s to stop you from doing the same to me? Leaving me behind just like you left him?”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darken further, a shadow flickering behind the storm in his gaze. 

 

“Have you ever stopped to consider,” he asks quietly, “that perhaps he wasn’t the good man you think he was?”

 

A cold edge creeps into his voice. “If you want, I’d be more than willing to shatter the saintly image you’ve built of him in your mind.”

 

Chapter 35

“You know, Rey,” he begins, his gaze sharp and unflinching, “Ironic as this may sound... Han Solo was far more a father to you—the little servant girl he took under his wing—than he ever was to me.”

 

Rey shakes her head. “No. Mr. Han loved you.”

 

Mr. Solo lets out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Loved me? That man was incapable of love.”

 

Rey swallows hard.

 

He continue. “He despised me. Resented me for reasons I never fully understood. And don’t think for a moment it was any different with my mother—he despised her, too.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen in disbelief, her breath catching. “But… Mr. Han loved Mrs. Leia,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “He told me that himself. He spoke fondly of her.”

 

Mr. Solo’s laugh is bitter, hollow. “Of course he spoke fondly. What else was he supposed to say? He wasn’t going to admit he was the one who killed her.”

 

Rey blinks, the weight of his words crashing into her like a cold wave. No, this isn’t the Han Solo I know, she thinks desperately. The Han Solo I’ve seen — a widower draped in black, his face etched with sorrow; a devoted husband mourning the loss of the woman he loved; a father who carries the ache of a son lost to time.

 

“Han Solo was a cruel man, Rey. Selfish to the core. He humiliated my mother in every way he could — flaunting his affairs before her very eyes, turning her world to ashes. And worse than that… he infected her with a wasting sickness. You may have heard of the French disease before. It ate away at her body and spirit.”

 

Mr. Solo’s eyes darken further, the bitter edge in his voice sharpening as he continues.

 

“The man you loved like a father was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Always dressed up for church, never missed a single mass or grand ball, the perfect image of respectability.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But behind all that—he wouldn’t hesitate to ruin a man’s life over an unpaid debt. He wouldn’t blink before drowning himself in the filthy pleasures of a brothel. He was the kind of man who’d smile in your face while plotting your ruin behind your back.”

 

His gaze hardens, shadowed with something raw and unyielding.

 

“Maybe I’m no better than he was. Maybe I carry some of that same darkness inside me. But I’m not a hypocrite. I don’t go to church to pretend I’m sorry for my sins. I don’t spend my evenings pretending to enjoy the company of those I despise. I don’t hide behind masks or prayers to cover the man beneath.”

 

She shakes her head, disbelief flooding her features. “I don’t—That’s not—”

 

Mr. Solo cuts her off sharply, voice cold and unwavering. “That’s exactly the bastard he was.” His eyes blaze, raw anger flickering beneath the surface. “You met the version he wanted you to see—the polished, grieving husband, the loving father. That was all a performance. Probably so everyone would focus on what a monster I was. But I wasn’t the one who walked away. I didn’t leave.”

 

He takes a breath, muscles tightening as he struggles to hold back the flood of bitter memories. “He was the one who sent me away. To the navy. Cast me out like I was nothing. He made sure they sent me to the worst places, gave me the worst punishments, made me want to hang myself with a bedsheet every night.”

 

For a moment his voice falters, fists clenched tight at his sides, knuckles white with restrained fury.

 

“I counted every damn day in that hell, waiting to come home. To face him. To stand up to him. To... to—” His words catch, his jaw clenched so tight it seems as if the pain threatens to spill over. “To finally make him pay for everything.”

 

Rey stands frozen, words caught in her throat. All these years, she’d been certain Mr. Solo had left by his own choice — that he’d abandoned the house, the family, everything. She hadn’t even arrived at the mansion when he was gone, but Mr. Han had always made it clear that his son had turned his back on him.

 

She had pictured him living a reckless life, burning through the family fortune somewhere on the Mediterranean coast, chasing pleasures and debts. But serving in the navy? That was something else entirely.

 

Her mind reels, struggling to piece together a man she thought she knew and the bitter truth now laid bare before her. The son cast out by his own father, not the runaway rebel she imagined. The boy who counted the days in exile, waiting for a chance to confront a man who never truly accepted him.

 

She finally finds her voice, soft and uncertain. “I… I didn’t know.”

 

His gaze locks onto hers. “I want you to understand something, Rey—there is only one Mr. Solo you will ever need. Only one man who will ever truly care for you. And that man... is me. Not my father.”

 

He reaches out, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

 

“There’s no one left for you but me, Rey. No family waiting in the wings, no friends who truly care. Not even the ghost of Han Solo.”

 

She doesn’t realize tears are streaming down her face until they fall, warm and wet, onto Mr. Solo’s outstretched hand.

 

She blinks, startled by the sudden moisture, unsure what exactly she’s crying for—whether it’s for the childhood now tainted by lies, for the man she had loved as a father, or for the suffocating truth that she no longer has any escape.

 

That she will be whatever Mr. Solo decides she must be, because she no longer has the power to be anything else.

 

“You will not run from me again, Rey. Because you know now—there is nothing for you beyond my reach.”

 

He releases her chin at last, but the ghost of his touch remains, an unspoken shackle as real as any iron.

 

His hand slides beneath her skirt, fingers tracing over the reddened flesh of her backside—the sting from his spanks still fresh and burning.

 

“You will learn, my love, that every act of defiance carries a price. And it’s my hand alone that decides how much.”

 

His other hand curls around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, his body an unyielding wall against hers.

 

“You’re going to be an obedient girl for me, aren’t you?” His voice was low, demanding. “You’ll stay safe here—right where you belong.”

 

Rey nodded quickly, her throat tight, but her voice barely rose above a desperate mumble. “Y-yes…”

 

“No.” His tone snapped sharper, harsher, cutting through the fragile quiet between them. “Not like that. You don’t mumble to me. Look at me. Say it.”

 

She forced herself to lift her tear-blurred gaze to meet his eyes—dark, intense, unrelenting. The storm behind them left no room for hesitation.

 

“I will be a good girl,” she whispered, voice trembling but steady, “and I won’t leave this house.”

 

For a long moment, he studied her. His gaze roamed her face, searching, weighing her sincerity like a judge holding her fate in his hands.

 

Then, slowly, the iron pressure of his palm softened just enough for her to draw a breath that didn’t feel stolen. A tiny relief, sharp as it was brief.

 

“Good,” he murmured.

 

He leans down slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and presses a long, lingering kiss to her trembling forehead.

 

Gently, he lets go of her waist and steps back, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. She watches him, confusion flickering in her eyes as he moves away toward the door.

 

“Sir—Sir, where are you going?” she asks quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

 

He pauses, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “I have some things to take care of,” he replies simply, then turns and closes the door behind him without another word.

 

A second later, Rey hears the door lock turn.

 

Tears still stream down Rey’s cheeks as she sits alone on the edge of the bed. Her fingers tremble as she crawls forward, wrapping her arms tightly around a pillow, clutching it as if it could shield her from the storm raging inside.

 

Her mind races—thoughts of Poe flicker. What if Mr. Solo punishes Poe for their brief, stolen moment? The fear gnaws at her, cold and sharp.

 

And then there’s Sabine. Would Mr. Solo blame her for Rey’s escape attempt? Would he dismiss her?

 

The uncertainty twists deep in Rey’s chest. Clutching the pillow tighter, she closes her eyes, swallowing the sobs that threaten to spill again.

 

Minutes later, a soft, hesitant knock breaks through the heavy silence of the room. Rey looks up, startled, her eyes searching the doorway. It’s Sabine. The maid stands just inside the threshold, her posture modest, eyes cast downward.

 

Rey’s heart clenches at the sight of her. She doesn’t know what to say; words tangle in her throat.

 

Without looking up, Sabine places a small pot carefully on the dressing table. Her eyes stay lowered as she speaks softly, “Mr. Solo asked me to bring this… for your backside.”

 

The sting of shame settles deep inside Rey, a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry for deceiving you… for running away from the church.”

 

Sabine’s nod is slow but firm. Her eyes lift briefly, kind and understanding despite the coldness of the household. “It’s alright, ma’am,” she says quietly.

 

“No, I mean it. I thought… I thought maybe I could run away from here, avoid the future Mr. Solo has planned for me. But I never wanted to put you in danger, Sabine. You didn’t deserve any of this—I promise I’ll speak with him. I’ll make sure he knows you had nothing to do with it.”

 

Sabine listens quietly. After a long pause, she finally speaks, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t need to worry about me, ma’am. I’ll be fine.” Her gaze flickers up, meeting Rey’s with a steady seriousness. “But you… you shouldn’t try that again. For both our sakes.”

 

Rey nods, her hands twisting in the pillow’s fabric, knuckles pale. 

 

Sabine’s gaze lingers a moment longer. “You should rest now,” she murmurs. She steps back toward the door, her skirts brushing the floor in a slow, measured sweep.

 

And the door lock turns again.

 

______

 

Rey lies on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall, lashes still crusted from earlier tears. The dried tracks on her cheeks feel tight against her skin, a faint, salty reminder. She hasn’t moved in what feels like hours. She can’t—any attempt to shift sends a sharp throb through her backside, the punishment still etched deep in her flesh.

 

The faint creak of the door reaches her, followed by the slow, deliberate sound of boots on the floorboards. She doesn’t need to look to know it’s him.

 

A low sigh breaks the silence—tired, heavy, the kind that comes from deep in the chest. The mattress dips as Mr. Solo sits beside her, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin bedding.

 

“Come, my love,” he says quietly, almost coaxing. “It’s time to eat something.”

 

She doesn’t respond. Her gaze remains fixed on the wall, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. There’s no will in her to argue, yet no energy to obey.

 

He studies her for a moment before moving with care. One arm slips beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and he eases her up just enough to slide a pillow beneath her. 

 

From a small tray, he picks up a piece of bread. Instead of offering it on a plate, he holds it to her lips between his fingers. She hesitates, but hunger wins over pride, and she parts her lips. His fingers linger for the briefest moment before withdrawing, only to return with a slice of roasted carrot, then another piece of bread.

 

The rhythm is slow, deliberate—no rush, no scolding. Just his quiet patience filling the space between them, the sound of his breathing, and the faint rustle of the sheets whenever he shifts his weight.

 

When a crumb clings to her lip, he brushes it away with his thumb, his touch gentle but unyielding. She doesn’t look at him, but she feels the weight of his gaze, steady and unreadable, as if he’s searching her face for something she can’t—or won’t—give.

 

When she’s eaten enough for him to be satisfied, Rey forces herself to speak, her voice faint, hesitant.

 

“Sabine… she didn’t know anything,” she begins, her fingers curling into the blanket. “It was me. I misled her. She had no part in—”

 

“I know,” he interrupts, the words soft but carrying a weight that silences her instantly.

 

Her lips press together, the rest of her defense dying in her throat.

 

“Do you think,” he says slowly, watching her without blinking, “if Sabine had anything to do with what happened… she would still be here?”

 

The question settles over the room like a shadow. His voice is calm, almost too calm, and that makes it worse.

 

She swallows, her throat tight. The pause stretches until it feels like the air itself is too thick to breathe.

 

Rey licks her lips, the words trembling out before she can stop them. “And… Poe—”

 

His gaze sharpens instantly.

 

“Don’t,” he says, his voice low, dark enough to make her stomach drop.

 

She blinks, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “I just—”

 

“I said don’t,” he cuts in, each syllable clipped, deliberate. He leans forward just slightly, enough for her to feel the shadow of his presence pressing over her. “You will not speak that boy’s name in this house again.”

 

Her breath catches, but he isn’t finished.

 

“If you value his safety,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but infinitely more threatening for it, “you’ll keep him out of your mouth… and your head. Understand?”

 

The words coil around her like a warning she can’t shake.

 

She nods—small, almost imperceptible.

 

“Good.”

 

He sits back, the tension in the air still taut, though his expression has smoothed again into unreadable calm.

 

“Let’s get you bathed before you sleep,” he says at last.

 

Rey swallows, her lashes lowering. She tells herself he’ll call for Sabine—that he’ll leave her to the maid’s brisk, impersonal hands—but he doesn’t move toward the door.

 

Instead, his fingers go to the ties of her dress.

 

Her body tenses, but she doesn’t stop him. She can’t. The fight has been drained out of her along with the day’s tears.

 

The fabric loosens under his touch, sliding from her shoulders. Layer by layer, he strips her down without hurry, his movements efficient, unflinching. When the last scrap of clothing falls away, the air chills her naked skin.

 

“Up,” he murmurs, and she lets him guide her—no, lift her—into his arms.

 

The world tilts as he carries her through the dim hall into the small adjoining washroom. The porcelain tub waits, empty, and she’s about to wonder if he means to draw a bath when her gaze catches on the wooden bucket set beside it, steam still curling faintly from its brim.

 

He sets her carefully on the edge of the tub, her bare skin meeting the cool porcelain. Without a word, he kneels, dips a folded cloth into the hot water, and wrings it out with slow precision.

 

The first touch to her arm makes her shiver—not from cold, but from the contrast between the heated cloth and his steady hand beneath it. He runs the damp warmth over her forearm, then her wrist, in gentle, unhurried strokes, as if washing her were an act of devotion rather than necessity.

 

The scent of the water—faintly herbal—rises between them, mingling with the steady sound of cloth meeting skin.

 

He moves slowly down her arm, then shifts his attention to her legs, tracing long strokes from her thighs down to her calves.

 

When he reaches her belly, his movements quicken—a brief, efficient cleansing that leaves her skin tingling. She hardly has time to process the sensation before his hand moves lower, sliding the cloth between her legs.

 

A sudden flush of tension tightens her muscles as the warm fabric touches that sensitive spot. She inhales sharply but says nothing, her body frozen.

 

He lingers there only a moment longer, then lifts the cloth away, folding it with the same slow precision he’s shown throughout.

 

He stands then, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead, his fingers cool against the heat of her skin.

 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” he says softly, lifting her once more into his arms.

 

He carries her carefully back to the bedroom, and lowers her gently onto the bed, still naked and vulnerable, the cool air brushing over her exposed skin.

 

He remains fully clothed, the fabric of his shirt and coat warm and solid as he settles down behind her.

 

Rey’s breath catches—shy, suddenly aware of how bare she is compared to him, the contrast sharp against her skin where his clothes brush lightly.

 

Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around her waist, one hand spreading open over her stomach, pressing her gently but firmly against him, not letting her cross her arms or legs to hide from him.

 

His breath fans over the nape of her neck, warm and steady, as he inhales the faint scent of her hair.

 

“This,” he murmurs low and sure, “is how it should always be.”

 

Rey’s gaze drifts downward, resting on the delicate diamond ring that still adorns her ring finger.

 

A solitary tear slips free, trailing slowly down her cheek, warm and unwelcome. It catches the faint light before falling, as if her body silently protests the invisible chains tightening around her.

 

She feels trapped—figuratively and literally—locked inside this grand mansion, confined to this room, bound within the hold of Mr. Solo’s arms.

 

And yet, beneath the suffocating weight of her surroundings and the grasp of the man behind her, a harsh truth settles in her mind with undeniable clarity:

 

She was the one who closed the bars of this prison.

Chapter 36

Over the next five days, Mr. Solo keeps the bedroom door firmly locked whenever he leaves. Rey quickly understands the message: the spankings were just the prelude — the real punishment is her confinement.

 

Yet, he doesn’t deny her small comforts. When he’s not there, books and music fill the quiet hours. He brings volumes of poetry and novels, sheet music laid carefully on the bedside table. Sometimes, he even moves the gramophone into the room, setting the needle to crackle softly, letting the haunting strains of a distant waltz or melancholy ballad fill the space.

 

The music soothes some of the ache inside her, weaving a fragile thread of normalcy through the heavy silence. But it doesn’t change the truth: she is locked in, a prisoner behind closed doors.

 

Each night, the ritual repeats. He bathes her himself, methodical and gentle, washing away the day’s weariness. He could ask Sabine to do this, but it's almost as if he wants – as if he needs – to witness those vulnerable moments of her. Then, still clad while she lies bare, he draws her close in the dark—arms around her waist, his steady breath warming her neck.

 

He never demands anything from her body, but he gives.

 

One night, as they settle beneath the heavy blankets, his hand resting gently on her bare stomach begins to wander. Slowly, deliberately, it slides downward, tracing a path lower and lower until his fingers find their way between her legs.

 

Rey freezes, breath hitching in her throat as the warmth of his touch seeps inside her. The faint wetness on his fingers sends a sudden, electric pulse that flickers beneath her closed eyelids, tracing a delicate path through nerves she barely remembers feeling before.

 

Her body responds instinctively—a subtle arch, a soft gasp held just at the edge of sound. He doesn’t rush. Instead, his fingers move with measured patience, gentle and attentive. His other hand tightens around her waist, anchoring her softly to him.

 

When he finally withdraws his fingers, there is no demand, no expectation. He simply shifts his hand back to her waist, pulling her closer with a quiet insistence.

 

The warmth of his body presses against her bare back, and she becomes acutely aware of the outline of his member resting just beneath the fabric of his clothes.

 

But he doesn’t ask for anything more, and just falls asleep.

 

Every morning, they share breakfast together, usually in silence. The ritual is quiet, the clink of silverware and the soft rustle of fabric the only sounds between them.

 

Before he leaves, he always offers a kiss—sometimes on her lips, other times on her forehead or cheeks.

 

She never knows if he simply retreats to his office or if he ventures out into the town. She doesn’t look out the window anymore—perhaps out of fear. Fear of seeing the carriage depart, fear of witnessing him step away to meet with Mr. Ko Connix or Kaydel, to discuss the impending arrangements of their marriage.

 

Rey tries to ask Sabine about Poe whenever the maid comes to serve her or help her change in the room, but each time Rey cautiously brings up Poe’s name, Sabine’s eyes flicker briefly with something—maybe hesitation, maybe warning—and she keeps her answers clipped and vague.

 

After a week of the same quiet routine, something shifts that night.

 

Once Mr. Solo helps her bathe, he doesn’t carry her back to bed as usual. 

 

Instead, he guides her to walk across the room, her bare feet silent on the floorboards, until she stands in front of the dressing table’s mirror.

 

Completely naked, the full exposure feels like a sudden, sharp shock. Her eyes immediately dart away, cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment and vulnerability.

 

But before she can look down or away again, strong fingers close gently but firmly around her chin.

 

He stands close behind her, his presence grounding and commanding.

 

With a quiet but unmistakable force, he tilts her head up, compelling her to meet her own reflection.

 

 “I want you to see what I see when I look at you. I want you to see beautiful you are,” he says as his hand moves upward, cupping her breasts. She shivers as her nipples harden beneath his palm.

 

He tilts her head slightly, forcing her to meet his eyes in the mirror again. “Look at them,” he commands softly,“I used to try to imagine what they’d look like without the dress covering them. How soft they would be in my hands…”

 

His fingers trace a slow, deliberate path along the curve of her breast, as if memorizing every contour.

 

"It was wrong, I know," he sighs, "You were my maid, half my age, an innocent little creature I corrupted. But I couldn't help it.”

 

He pauses, his breath catching slightly as if weighing his words carefully before continuing in a low, almost reluctant murmur, “I imagine other things, too... Like how those little tits might change… how full and soft they could become one day.”

 

Rey blinks, confusion flickering across her face, but then he guides her hips, urging her to lean forward until her hands rest firmly on the edge of the dressing table.

 

Her cheeks flush deeply, a mix of embarrassment and anticipation, as he slowly parts her legs with deliberate care. The cool air of the room brushes against the sensitive skin revealed between her thighs, making her shiver. She lowers her gaze instinctively, unable to meet his eyes, as he methodically undoes the buttons of his trousers.

 

Then his voice breaks through— “No, my love. You shall look at yourself in the mirror,” he says firmly. “I want you to see us.”

 

Her breath catches, but she obeys, lifting her eyes to meet her own reflection. There she is, exposed, vulnerable, framed by his shadow looming just behind her.

 

She feels him press close, warmth radiating down her back. Then the first, tender pressure as he enters her, stretching her gently from within. The sensation is a complex mixture of ache and delight that sends a shiver spiraling through her.

 

With each steady thrust, she feels herself opening more, surrendering to the exquisite ache that blossoms between pain and pleasure. The mirror reflects the rise and fall of their chests, the flush spreading over her skin, the fire igniting in his eyes.

 

Rey’s breath quickens, heat pooling deep inside her as she watches the way his face softens with pleasure—half shadowed, half lit by the fading light. His jaw clenches slightly, and a quiet moan escapes him, raw and full of need. There’s something almost reverent in the way he watches her, like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

 

“Look at us,” he murmurs, voice low but commanding, “See how perfectly we fit — how we were made for each other.”

 

She bites her lip, nails scraping the wood as waves of pleasure ripple through her, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

 

His hand slips lower, fingers pressing gently between her legs. A slow, deliberate stroke rubs her bud of nerves, sending a jolt of sharp pleasure through her core. Rey tightens instinctively around him, a soft gasp escaping her lips as the sensation deepens.

 

A low growl rumbles from his chest. His grip tightens on her hair, tilting her head back just enough to meet his dark, burning eyes.

 

“If there’s such a thing as soulmates,” he breathes harshly, “then you—my love—are mine.”

 

His hold on her hair becomes firmer, almost demanding, and with a quickening rhythm, he drives himself deeper, the wet, slick sound of their bodies meeting filling the quiet room.

 

“Feel it,” he murmurs against her skin. “Feel how your little, perfect cunt take me, all of me.” His voice drops to a rough command. “Say you love me, Rey.”

 

Rey’s breath hitches at his command, her body trembling with the rawness of the moment, but her mind recoils—anchored in the cold, undeniable truth that she is still his prisoner. His imprisoned mistress.

 

“Say it,” he demands again, “Let me hear you.”

 

But she still doesn’t give it to him.

 

His thrusts slow, deliberate, pressing deeper with every movement, but just as the heat inside her rises toward the edge, he pulls back slightly, denying her the release that teases at her.

 

Rey’s breath catches, a frustrated whimper slipping from her lips as the exquisite tension tightens unbearably. She looks over her shoulder, eyes searching his face—hungry, desperate.

 

“Tell me what I want to hear, Rey”.

 

He presses harder, every thrust a delicious torment that drives her closer to the edge, only to pull back again before she can fall over.

 

Her breath catches, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as the fierce need for release battles with the fierce refusal in her heart.

 

He grips her hips tightly, skin against skin hot and slick, every movement marking desire and possession. His breath grows heavy, rough, his eyes hunting every tremble she can’t hide.

 

“You can’t run from what you feel,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of promise. “You want this as much as I do.”

 

Rey moans low, her body trembling inside, a flame spreading from skin to soul. His pressure, the way he moves with brutal care, pushes her to the edge. She surrenders, if only a little, letting that fire consume what was left of her resistance.

 

With a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper, she finally breathes, “I… love you.”

 

Without hesitation, his hand returns to that sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, fingers pressing and stroking with renewed intensity, her body shuddering in waves as pleasure rips through her, the tension he held unraveling in a muffled cry — a brutal, urgent, almost desperate release of total surrender that pulls him in close. Both gasp and sweat, bodies pressed tight, pulsing with the same fierce need.

 

He holds her steady, burying his face in her neck, letting out a last rough moan as his own climax spills hot and thick inside her, the wet heat pooling between her thighs.

 

The silence afterward is heavy, intimate — as if the world stopped just for this moment.

 

Without letting her go, he lifts her effortlessly, his arms firm around her waist. Her legs instinctively wrap around him as he carries her across the room, her breath hitching in sharp gasps.

 

He lays her gently on the bed but keeps his hold, sliding her hips up, urging her to arch, to raise herself high on trembling legs.

 

She feels the wet heat of his release deep inside her, thick and relentless, pooling between her walls with every lingering pulse. It’s a raw, undeniable proof of their union — but also the moment she dreads most. 

 

He settles beside her, the weight of his body warm and grounding. His hand cups her cheek, fingers trailing softly as he leans in, pressing gentle kisses along her face—first the temple, then the curve of her jaw.

 

His breath slows, eyes fluttering closed, until finally, he drifts into sleep.

 

Rey lies there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, waiting until she’s certain his breathing is steady and deep.

 

Then, carefully, she slips from the bed, the cool air prickling her skin as she moves. Quietly, she cleans herself, the lingering heat inside her a sharp contrast to the cool night.

 

Tidy and tentative, she returns to the bed, curling up close to him, arms wrapping around his still-warm body. Her cheek rests against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her.

 

______

 

The morning after their lewd encounter in front of the mirror, he allows her to leave the room for the first time.

 

When Rey wakes, she notices Mr. Solo is already up. But more noticeably, the usual breakfast tray is missing from the small tea table near the window.

 

Still groggy, she sits up, clutching the blanket to her bare chest. Her muscles ache with a quiet soreness, a silent reminder of the night before. Her eyes scan the room, adjusting to the light, until she finds him standing by the tall windows, already dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. He turns at the sound of her movement, and his mouth curls slightly into a smile.

 

“Good morning, my love,” he says, voice low and even. “How would you feel about breakfast in the garden today?”

 

The suggestion lands softly in her mind, but it takes her a moment to fully process it. Breakfast. Outside. She nods quietly.

 

Maybe this is it. Maybe her punishment is over.

 

He crosses the room slowly, and when he reaches her side, he leans down and places a tender kiss on the crown of her head. His lips linger a fraction too long, just enough to make her pulse quicken.

 

Then, without a word, he leaves her alone, only for Sabine enter moments later. She greets Rey with a soft ‘ma’am’ and immediately sets to work, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she takes a delicate pink dress and helps Rey into it. The fabric is soft, cool against her skin, and the gentle sensation pulls Rey from the haze of her thoughts.

 

She steps into the garden moments later, her heart fluttering in her chest. She finds Mr. Solo waiting for her, with a small wrought-iron table set between two chairs. Biscuits and toast are arranged neatly on one side, a steaming cup of tea for her and a strong black coffee for him.

 

They eat in silence at first, the only sounds being the occasional scrape of a fork against the plate or the soft breeze rustling through the leaves.

 

As Rey sips her tea, her gaze drifts over the garden, taking in the lush greenery, the manicured hedges. The place is vast and beautifully maintained, stretching out in every direction like a private oasis, and it's a shame there are no children in the mansion to play there. At least, not anymore.

 

Not since Rey grew up, and stopped running from Maz's watchful eye to pluck the first orange leaves that appeared on the garden bushes when the sun came.

 

Her thoughts are interrupted by a voice—her own, but it almost feels like someone else’s, whispering in the back of her mind.

 

Maybe it won’t stay empty for long.

 

The thought unsettles her, and the tea in her mouth suddenly tastes bitter. She puts the cup down, trying to ignore the knot of discomfort forming in her chest.

 

Before she can't stop herself, the image of blond children running through the garden assaults her mind. Children who look like Miss Kaydel. Mr. Solo's children.

 

She knows he said he wouldn't touch Miss Kaydel. That he would be Rey's and Rey's alone. But she knows the truth, even if he hasn’t said it outright: like any man of power and wealth, he needs heirs. Children to inherit his legacy. To carry on his name.

 

And although she doesn't fully understand the mechanics of how babies are made, she knows there needs to be a marriage before they're born. Something Mr. Solo can't offer her. Not anymore.

 

And she wouldn't deny him the joy of having children. She knows she wouldn't. So the thought that one day she might sit in that same chair and have to watch his babies with another woman suddenly becomes very real.

 

Her fingers tighten around the teacup as she takes another sip, but the bitter taste lingers, sour in her mouth.

 

"You’re quiet," he finally says, breaking the silence in his usual low voice.

 

When she turns her head, she realizes he's been staring at her this whole time.

 

She forces a smile, shrugging. "I'm just enjoying the little time I have outside my quarters."

 

"You can enjoy it as much as you like," Mr. Solo says, pulling out the small, golden key to her room. For a moment, Rey watches in silence as he holds it between his fingers, then extends it to her.

 

"As much as I like the idea of keeping you locked away just for myself, this is your house too," he says, "You should be able to enjoy it however you choose."

 

“This is your house, not mine.”

 

“No, Rey. This house is yours as much as it is mine. We both grew up here.”

 

Rey shakes her head softly. “I grew up in the servant’s wing,” she says quietly, her voice almost distant. “You grew up in the upper rooms. This house was never mine.”

 

Mr. Solo’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile as he watches her. “But you’re in the upper rooms now, aren’t you?” he says, his voice smooth, almost teasing.

 

She doesn't know how to answer that, so she just leans forward, ready to take the key, but before her fingers can touch it, he pulls it back just out of reach. His eyes lock onto hers, and there’s a playful but almost predatory gleam in his gaze.

 

“You can leave your room,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “But that’s as far as it goes.” He puts the key in her hand, his fingers brushing hers in the process, just enough to send a shiver up her spine. “You’re free to roam the house, but you’re not leaving it without my permission.”

 

The key in her hand feels strangely cold now, as she realizes the only thing she’s free to do is stay.

 

______

 

Being able to leave her room means she can go back to taking piano lessons with Madame Giraud, which is a more than welcome distraction.

 

It means she can spend time in the library, wander the halls of the mansion, rest her cheek on Mr. Solo's thigh while he runs errands in his office. It means she can pretend everything is fine, that everything is normal. That she's not a prisoner. That she chose to be there. That she, for some reason, chose to be Mr. Solo's willing mistress.

 

She even tries to appear casual when, one night, while she and Mr. Solo are dining in the dining room, she asks how the wedding arrangements are going.

 

He pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies her.

 

"You don't need to worry about that, my love," he finally says.

 

“I just want to know if there’s a date yet.”

 

He sets his spoon down slowly, his eyes locking onto hers.

 

“Why does it matter to you?” he asks, his voice a little colder now.

 

"I want to be prepared," she pauses for a moment, taking a breath before adding, almost in a whisper, "For when the new Mrs. Solo walks through that door." 

 

She watches him carefully, but he says nothing. Instead, his gaze lingers on her.

 

She presses on, her voice quieter now, but more insistent. “Is there a date?” she repeats, her eyes searching his face.

 

He sighs softly, then says “Three weeks”.

 

Rey’s breath catches in her throat, and for a moment, she just stares at him, wide-eyed. Three weeks. She had thought there might be more time...

 

“So soon?” Rey whispers, her voice barely audible. “That’s not… that’s not much time at all.”

 

He finishes his wine before speaking again, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Let’s not dwell on things we both know can’t change, Rey. Now eat.”

 

She doesn’t move. Her fingers tighten slightly around her fork. “Will… Will Sabine serve Miss Kaydel too?”

 

His eyes flick briefly to her before he shakes his head. “No. Miss Kaydel will have her own maid.”

 

A maid for each woman. How thoughtful.

 

As if hearing her turbulent thoughts, Mr. Solo pulls her chair closer to his with a smooth, almost deliberate motion, his fingers grazing the fabric of her dress before settling firmly on her thigh.

 

Rey swallows, the motion tight and dry. “Who will it be then?” she asks.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

Her pulse quickens. “It does to me.” She hesitates, then blurts it out before she can think better of it. “Is it going to be Rose?”

 

For a long moment, he simply looks at her. The flicker of something—amusement? irritation?—crosses his eyes.

 

 “You’ll know when I decide you should know,” he says, leaning in so close his breath warms her cheek. “And until then, you will eat your dinner like a good girl.”

 

The words sting and heat in equal measure. She forces herself to pick up her fork, though her appetite has vanished entirely.

 

______

 

When Rey comes downstairs the next day, there's an unfamiliar man standing in the middle of the living room, talking quietly to Mr. Solo.

 

For a moment, she considers going back upstairs, but before she can, both men seem to notice her and turn around at the same time.

 

"My love," Mr. Solo calls out, reaching out to take her hand. Rey blushes at hearing him call her that in front of the other man. Shouldn't this be private? Is it appropriate for him to call her that so openly? "Come, let me introduce you to Mr. Thrawn."

 

Rey timidly follows him, unsure how to act. This man must know she's not Mr. Solo's wife, despite him calling her my love. But even so, he has the courtesy to appear polite, smiling at her when Mr. Solo introduces them.

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Niima. Mr. Solo has already told me a lot about you," he says with a nod. "I must say, I was looking forward to meeting the girl I was going to paint up close."

 

Rey frowns, looking between him and Mr. Solo. "Paint?"

 

Mr. Solo nods, gently stroking the top of her head. "Mr. Thrawn came here to paint you, dear."

 

"Me?" Rey's eyes widen. "But... why?"

 

"Because Mr. Solo paid me a good sum for it," Mr. Thrawn laughs.

 

"Extraordinary talent deserves to be rewarded," Mr. Solo replies good-naturedly. "Why don't you go get your things ready while Miss Niima goes to change?"

 

"Of course," the painter says, nodding.

 

Mr. Solo then guides Rey back upstairs, calling for Sabine to prepare and set aside some jewelry for Rey.

 

"Wait," Rey interrupts him with a hand on his arm, "I don't understand. Why do you want a painting of me?"

 

Mr. Solo pauses, his expression softening as he looks down at her. "Why wouldn't I?" he repeats, as though the question itself surprises him. "You're a work of art in your own right, my love. I figured it's about time someone captured that. Besides, Thrawn here makes magic happen with his brushes."

 

Rey feels her face grow hot again. "But I'm not… I mean, I'm not anyone important."

 

He tilts her chin up gently with two fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You are the most important woman to me. So go up to your room and get ready for me."

 

"But it's too much. This painting... it must cost a fortune, right? You shouldn't be spending so much on me."

 

"You're worth far more than whatever sum I paid, I assure you," he says simply.

 

After a long pause, she sighs, resigning to the situation. "Okay," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "I’ll go get ready."

 

"Good. Take your time. Thrawn’s not going anywhere,” he says, brushing his thumb over her cheek before turning toward Sabine, who’s appeared quietly at the foot of the stairs. “Make sure she’s dressed properly. Nothing too plain.”

 

As Sabine gently leads her upstairs, Rey tries to suppress the flutter of nerves building in her stomach. She's seen paintings before—there are many scattered across the walls of the Solo mansion. But certainly none of someone like her.

 

A painting is expensive. Very expensive. That's why it's reserved for women like Mrs. Leia, or Mrs. Padmé, or even Miss Kaydel. She’s just Rey—nothing special. Certainly not someone worthy of being painted like them.

 

As they reach Rey’s room, Sabine closes the door behind them and immediately gets to work. She helps Rey undress and then approaches with a deep, blood-red gown that seems to shimmer in the light, embroidered with fine gold threads that swirl in intricate patterns across the bodice. Tiny gems catch the light, sparkling like stars scattered across the fabric, making it seem almost otherworldly. The dress falls into elegant folds, its length just perfect to trail behind her like something from a royal court.

 

Rey stares at it, her breath catching in her throat.

 

"Sabine," Rey says quietly, hesitant, but the words tumble out anyway. “I think… Well, I think I’d feel more comfortable in something simpler, please.”

 

"But Mr. Solo himself chose this dress for today, ma'am," she says, "He won't be happy if you wear anything else."

 

She glances down at the gown, its rich red fabric shimmering under the soft light of her room. It’s beautiful, undeniably so, but it feels like it’s meant for someone else.

 

Sensing her hesitation, Sabine says, "Trust me, ma'am. You'll look beautiful in it. You'll look flawless in the paint."

 

With a sigh, she lets go of the fight inside her, letting Sabine work. The fabric is soft against her skin as the dress slides into place.

 

Once the dress is on, Sabine steps back to admire her work. She adjusts a few stray curls in Rey’s hair, then places a delicate tiara-like headpiece with small golden leaves at her hairline, adding another layer of elegance to the look. She also places a diamond necklace around Rey's neck, a matching bracelet and earrings.

 

Rey hardly recognizes herself when she gazes into the mirror. She looks... rich. Elegant. Like a woman who belongs in the paintings hanging on the walls of this mansion

 

“There,” Sabine says. “Now, you’re ready.”

 

When Rey reach the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Solo is standing by the grand staircase, waiting for her. His eyes meet hers, and the soft smile on his face makes her feel like the center of his world for a moment. It’s overwhelming, and yet, she can’t bring herself to look away.

 

“Well,” he says, his voice rich with approval, “there’s my masterpiece.”

 

Rey blushes, looking down at her feet. In just three steps, Mr. Solo appears in front of her and grabs her by the waist to plant a kiss on her lips, the suddenness of it catching her completely off guard.

 

"Sir—!" she protests, breathless, but her words are swallowed up by the kiss. 

 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls away. “You’re stunning,” Mr. Solo says softly, his thumb lightly brushing the side of her cheek. “I couldn’t help myself.”

 

Before she can formulate any more thoughts, a butler appears from the hallway, his eyes quickly assessing the scene. 

 

“Sir, Mr. Thrawn is ready to begin.” 

 

Mr. Solo’s hand remains on her waist as he gently guides Rey toward the door, and they step into the room where Mr. Thrawn waits. The large canvas stands before her, and she’s ushered into a velvet chair by the painter, who gestures for her to sit. Mr. Solo watches from a nearby chair.

 

Rey does her best to breathe through the nerves, the brush of Thrawn’s paintbrush starting its work while he looks away between her and his easel. Thrawn occasionally glances at her, nodding slightly as if to reaffirm the progress. He’s efficient, meticulous, but there’s a certain calm in the way he works—an artist lost in his craft.

 

Hours slip by in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft strokes of Thrawn’s brush and the occasional rustling of the canvas as he adjusts his position. Rey feels every minute drag on, but she forces herself to remain still. Her muscles ache from the tension, but she dare not move.

 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Mr. Solo speaks, "I think that's enough for today. The lady must be tired."

 

Rey lets out a quiet sigh of relief, her body finally allowed to relax. She hadn’t realized just how much tension had built up in her until it was gone.

 

“Of course,” Mr. Thrawn agrees, stepping back from the canvas with a satisfied look. He wipes his brush clean and glances toward Rey. "I wouldn’t dream of leaving a lady in distress."

 

Rey nods, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she says softly.

 

"Same time tomorrow, Mr. Solo?"

 

“Yes, of course.” He turns to Rey with a soft smile. “Why don’t you go and rest, my love? I’ll be sure to get Sabine to bring you something light, perhaps a warm tea.”

 

With a soft nod from Mr. Solo, Rey makes her way out of the studio, her legs slightly stiff from remaining so still for so long.

 

______

 

Rey wakes to the gentle brush of fingers through her hair.

 

Before she opens her eyes fully, Mr. Solo bends down and presses a long, deliberate kiss to her lips. She melts against it for a moment, heart pounding.

 

“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs as he pulls back, thumb tracing her jaw. “Come have breakfast with me on the veranda. The sun’s perfect today.”

 

She nods sleepily and swings her legs over the side of the bed. 

 

That’s when she sees it—a dark, crimson stain marring the white sheet.

 

Stupid, stupid girl, she scolds herself silently. You should have kept track… you should have known this was coming.

 

Oh God. Of all places—his bed. His fine linen sheets.

 

Shame burns her face as she scrambles, hands shaking, to tug at the sheet. If she’s quick, maybe she can strip the bed and hide it before he notices. She folds the fabric over itself, frantic, trying to conceal the mark.

 

But before she can even pull it free from the mattress corners, his voice comes, low and steady from behind her. “Rey.”

 

She freezes, fingers clutching the linen.

 

“What are you doing?” His tone is calm. “If the bed needs changing, Sabine can do it.”

 

Her face burns hotter. “No—it’s nothing,” she blurts, her voice too quick, too thin. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

He takes a slow step closer, and she feels his presence looming, filling the room. “Nothing?” he repeats, his eyes narrowing as they drop to the sheet in her arms.

 

Rey bites her lip, shame and dread knotting in her stomach. “It’s just… my monthly time,” she whispers, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—”

 

When she glanced up, he wasn’t looking at her—he was staring at the dark stain with an expression that froze her in place. His shoulders had gone rigid, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line.

 

“I said I’ll take care of it,” she whispers, desperate now, her eyes dropping again. “Please—don’t trouble Sabine. I’ll fix it myself.”

 

Rey’s chest aches with shame. He’s angry. Of course he is. He won’t be able to touch me for days, and I’ve stained his sheets like a thoughtless child.

 

She bites her lip, fighting the urge to cry. “I… I’m sorry…” she whispers, voice barely audible. “It’s… it’s only a few days,” she murmurs, glancing down.

 

If it had happened in her own little room in the servants’ wing, it wouldn’t matter. She would strip the bed quietly, carry the sheets to the washbasin, scrub them with her own hands until the stain faded.

 

But he expects things of her now—intimacies she cannot offer while her body goes through this monthly inconvenience.

 

He stands there, rigid, jaw tight, eyes dark with a flicker of something she can’t name. Frustration radiates off him, almost visible in the air between them. Rey swallows hard, trying to find words.

 

“I’m sorry, sir… for the mess. I didn’t want—”

 

“I’m not afraid of a little blood, Miss Niima,” he interrupts. “I know full well what ladies have to endure at least once a month,” he continues, “I just didn’t expect—”

 

He stops abruptly, jaw tightening so visibly that Rey flinches. His eyes harden, fixed on the sheet for a long, heavy moment.

 

He exhales slowly, rubbing his temples with a rough gesture that makes Rey flinch. Then his gaze drifts downward, and Rey’s stomach lurches. Her white nightgown is stained—right there, at the front, between her legs.

 

Without a word, he steps closer, and before she can protest, his strong hands grasp the nightgown, lifting it from her shoulders.

 

“Sir! Wait—I’m… I’m dirty!” she protests, voice trembling.

 

He tilts her chin up, eyes locking on hers, unwavering. “You are never dirty for me, Rey.”

 

Before she can respond, he wraps strong arms around her, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Her heart hammers against her ribs, both from the sudden closeness and from the shame still blazing hot in her cheeks.

 

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, carrying her toward the adjoining bath. “Every part of you.”

 

He sets her carefully at the edge of the tub, eyes never leaving hers.

 

Rey shivers as she perches on the edge of the tub, painfully aware of her exposed body, the heat and embarrassment blazing between her thighs. The vivid red stain marks her like a spotlight, and she wishes she could disappear.

 

He kneels beside her, eyes scanning her with that same intensity that makes her stomach twist. “I should call Sabine,” he murmurs, almost reluctantly. “She’s… more practiced with these womanly matters than I am. She’ll know how to handle it.”

 

“You… you’re not angry?” she asks, voice small, still embarrassed.

 

“Angry?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I be angry at this?”

 

“I… I stained the sheets… We won't be able to... You won't be able to... for a few days...”

 

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He shakes his head, a small, almost incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “A little blood does not prevent a man from enjoying his woman, my pretty little creature. Indeed, the best warriors are those who stain their swords with blood, aren't they?”

 

Rey’s eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat. Did he… really just suggest that? Could he… actually not care? Her cheeks burn hotter, a mix of embarrassment and an impossible, fluttering curiosity twisting inside her. 

 

“I… I thought you were angry,” Rey admits, voice small, hesitant. “You looked… you seemed—”

 

He cuts her off gently, tilting her chin so her eyes meet his. “Rey,” he says softly, the firmness in his tone calming, “I only want to make sure you are cared for. That’s all.”

 

Her chest tightens, a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment washing through her. 

 

Then, with careful tenderness, he leans forward and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead.

 

“I’ll call Sabine,” he murmurs. “You stay here.”

 

Sabine arrives quietly, moving with practiced efficiency. She strips the bed of the stained sheets and nightgown, helping Rey clean herself with warm water and gentle hands. Once Rey is fresh, Sabine provides soft strips of cloth to place between her legs, preventing any further mess. She dresses her in a pale yellow, flowing dress, then guides her to the veranda, where Mr. Solo waits at the small breakfast table. 

Chapter 37

A week later, Rey wakes to a sharp jolt of pleasure, her breath catching as her body tenses.

 

Her eyes flutter open, confusion giving way to heat when she realizes Mr. Solo is between her thighs, his broad shoulders wedged against them, his mouth locked onto her like a starving man finally given a meal.

 

How long has he been there?, she wonders, the thought twisting her stomach. How long since he pulled her nightgown up, parted her thighs, and pressed his mouth to the most intimate place on her body—all while she slept?

His tongue drags slowly up her slit before circling her bound of nerves with deliberate, hungry strokes, and Rey forgets what she was thinking a second ago. The low, guttural sound he makes vibrates right through her core.

 

Why does he seem to take such pleasure in this place? Are all men like this? she wonders, cheeks flushing. Does every man crave this so intensely?

 

He grips her thighs, forcing them wider, holding her in place. 

“Look at you,” he says, glancing up briefly, his mouth glistening. “Spread open for me like you know who owns this sweet little cunt.”

 

Rey can only nod, gasping, her fingers tangling in the sheets, hips pushing back into his mouth without thinking.

 

“That’s it… that’s my good girl,” he growls, voice rough and low. “Shaking for me already… God, I could drown in you forever. My little cunny tastes like heaven, smells like it too.”

 

Rey’s body trembles as his tongue drags over her slick folds, the taste of her thick, hot wetness flooding his mouth. Every gasp she lets out, every shiver, drives him crazier.

 

“You’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you? Made to be eaten, made to be fucked, made to scream my name” he murmurs against her, lips pressing to her sex. “You like being made to come on my mouth, my fingers... Say it. Say it for me, Rey.”

 

“Yes… I love it… I love you, sir… please…” she cries, voice breaking, body trembling.

 

“That’s it… say it louder” he snaps, sliding two fingers inside her, curling them just right while his tongue flicks over her clit. “Say my name, Rey. Let me hear it while I make your little cunt shiver for me. Say it so everyone knows whose little cunny this is.”

 

“Ben! Oh, Ben, please… I—I love you” she screams, hips jerking as the coil inside her snaps.

 

“That’s right,” he growls, sucking hard and flicking his tongue relentlessly, his fingers pumping deep inside her. “So fucking tight… so fucking perfect. Come for me… come all over my mouth, my fingers… let me drink every drop of my pretty little creature.”

 

The climax rips through her in waves, body quaking, legs trembling, cries muffled into the pillows as he drinks her down, lips and tongue claiming every trembling inch.

 

He doesn’t stop, fucking her with his mouth and hands, dragging her through one filthy, dripping high after another, until her body is a trembling, soaked mess beneath him.

 

When she finally collapses back against the pillows, he lifts his head, lips slick with her release, climbing over her and kissing her hard, his tongue pushing deep, making sure she tastes every drop of herself on him. When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his eyes heavy and dark with lust.

 

“Turn over,” he orders, voice low but sharp.

 

She hesitates only a second before obeying, rolling onto her stomach. He drags her hips up, forcing her onto her knees, her face pressed into the pillows.

 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, running a hand down her spine before gripping her backside in both hands, spreading her open. “Still dripping for me. I could make love to you all night and you’d still beg for more.”

 

His member teases her entrance, sliding over her slick folds with slow, deliberate pressure.

 

“My pretty Rey,” he growls, lips brushing her neck as he pushes the tip of himself against her womanhood again. “Let me hear how much you like being my whore.”

 

Rey freezes, the word whore twisting in her stomach, a sharp, bitter jolt that makes her throat tighten, because no matter how much she hates it, she knows it’s true. She is exactly what he’s calling her, and hearing him name it makes her feel smaller than ever.

 

“Don’t… don’t call me that,” she whispers, voice trembling, “Please.”

 

He pushes inside her, filling her completely, making her gasp into the pillow. His hands grip her hips firmly, holding her in place, forcing her to stay open.

 

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, brushing his lips along her neck. “There’s no shame in it, Rey. None at all. You’re the only one I want. The only one I love. The only one I’ll ever take like this.”

 

She trembles violently, slick and clenching around him, but her throat tightens and her chest rises and falls in ragged gasps.

 

“In just a week and a half,” he continues, “that wretched bitch is going to walk through the aisle and marry me. But you? You’ll still be here, dripping for me, waiting for me to take you whenever I want. Every inch of this body… mine. Every moan, every tremble… mine. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

Rey shakes her head, sobbing quietly into the pillow. Her body still aches with need, still slick and trembling, but her mind is twisting with pain and humiliation.

 

“No…,” she whispers brokenly, “No, please… I hate… I hate—”

 

She hates the words, hates herself for craving him, hates the slick, trembling ache still pooling between her legs.

 

He presses into her deeper.

 

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know you hate it. But I’m going to make it worth it for you. You just need to admit it. Admit that you love being the only one who can satisfy me, that your cunt is the only one I’ll ever take, that you love knowing she won’t touch me like this.”

 

She sobs harder, pressing her face into the pillow, body trembling uncontrollably. “I… I… I—”

 

“Yes, my love, give it to me,” he growls, thrusting slowly, deliberately, making her sex clamp and drip around him. “Admit you want me to keep taking you. Want me to make you mine over and over while she waits for me. You want her to know what she’ll never have, don’t you? Say it! Admit you have that darkness inside you too.”

 

A flicker of thought crosses her mind—sharp, guilty, undeniable. She does have that darkness inside her. That part of her that wants Kaydel to suffer, to know that she will never touch Mr. Solo like Rey does. That part of her wants the other woman to hear every moan, every gasp, every trembling shiver of her body beneath him.

 

He groans, tightening his grip on her hips, pounding her relentlessly, making every tremble, every sob, every slick gasp of hers his. Her tears, her helplessness, her surrender—they only feed his obsession

 

“I… I’m… I’m your whore,” she chokes out, voice trembling violently, tears soaking the pillow. “I… I love… I love that I’m the only one… the only one who can… satisfy you…”

 

“Good girl,” he rasps, thrusting deeper, grinding his hips down to make her slick walls swallow him completely, dragging her through wave after wave of helpless trembles. “I love an obedient, pliant whore.”

 

Her body tightens violently, slick walls clamping around him, muscles trembling as the coil inside her snaps. She cries out, muffled into the pillow, hips bucking uncontrollably. Then he groans deep in his throat, and with a final, hard thrust, he fills her entirely—hot, thick, and urgent—his seed pulsing deep inside her.

 

Her body shudders around him, quaking, tears streaming down her face as wave after wave of bliss rips through her, the sticky, overwhelming heat of him filling her.

 

“I love you, Rey,” he rasps, gritting his teeth, hips still grinding slowly, letting her feel every last pulse of his release, thumbs pressing into her hips. 

 

But for the first time, his love offers her no comfort.

 

He slowly pulls out, leaving her slick, trembling, and utterly spent, his seed pulsing deep inside her. The empty ache of his absence hits her immediately, spreading through her chest, stomach, every nerve in her body. She feels hollowed, like a shell of herself, and the warmth he left behind burns as much as it bruises.

 

Her hands claw at the sheets, nails digging in, but it doesn’t ground her. She wants to cry, but the sobs are tangled with shame, despair, and a deep, aching need she cannot name. She feels destroyed—body and soul alike.

 

Where is the Rey of before? The young, innocent, dignified maid? That Rey feels gone, eclipsed by this trembling, wet, desperate version of herself, this Rey who exists only for him, who cannot breathe or think without him.

 

She hates it. She hates this helplessness. 

 

Tears slide down her cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath her, soaking the sheets. Her chest rises and falls raggedly, heart pounding painfully against the cage of her ribs. She wants the old Rey back. But that Rey feels impossibly far away, replaced by the girl who lies trembling, soaked and hollowed, utterly at his mercy, a body and soul molded to him. She curls slightly, as if she could make herself smaller, invisible even to herself, wishing she could rewind, wishing she could reclaim what’s lost.

 

She hates that she doesn’t know how to get it back. She hates that she might never get it back. 

 

Without a word, Mr. Solo slides off her, but his hands are still firm and unyielding as he pulls her close, wrapping her trembling form against his chest. Her face presses into the warmth of his coat, and he holds her tight, as if by keeping her against him he can shield her from the pain she feels.

 

“Shhh,” he murmurs, brushing a hand through her damp hair. “Everything’s going to be fine, my love.”

 

Her body quakes in his arms, and she clings to him instinctively, shivering against the steady, solid weight of him. The wetness and ache between her legs are still there, the humiliation still clinging like a second skin, but she closes her eyes against him, letting herself be held, letting herself melt, even as a small, guilty part of her wonders how much of her is left.

 

How much of her he still allowed to exist.

 

______

 

"Voilà," Thrawn says, stepping back and admiring the canvas with a satisfied look.

 

Rey remains silent, her gaze fixed on the painting before her. Weeks of posing, hours of stillness, and now... the result. The woman in the painting doesn’t look like her, not really. The dress is a deep crimson, luxurious and flowing. Tiny diamonds glisten against the fabric, and the delicate curves of her neck are adorned with an ornate necklace. The woman’s posture is poised, her expression serene and distant, almost regal. It’s as if the person on the canvas belongs in a royal court.

 

Rey stares at the painting, almost unsure whether she recognizes herself. The figure on the canvas is elegant, rich, refined—everything she’s not. She feels a flush creeping to her cheeks, as if the image before her is too far removed from her true self. She’s just a girl from nowhere, nothing as grand as this image suggests.

 

After a long pause, Mr. Solo steps forward, a proud smile playing on his lips. “Impressive,” he says, his voice carrying a trace of satisfaction. "It's like seeing her right in front of me."

 

"Well, what can I say? I'm good at what I do. Even if I didn't capture all of her charm."

 

“That’s true.” Mr. Solo says, “But it’s exactly what I wanted.”

 

Thrawn wipes his brush clean, his gaze flicking briefly toward Rey before he gives a small nod. “I suppose this is where our work ends,” he says, stepping back from the canvas, his tone no longer playful but serious. “It’s up to you now, Mr. Solo, to decide where to place it.”

 

______

 

It’s a week before Mr. Solo’s wedding, and Rey wakes to the unfamiliar emptiness of the bed. It feels strange—almost unsettling—to open her eyes and not see him waiting, not hear the faint sound of his movements as he prepares for the morning. 

 

But soon Sabine enters, helping her dress, brushing her hair, and Rey allows it, letting the maid’s hands move over her with practiced ease. She serves Rey bread and tea, making sure she eats it all – likely on Mr. Solo's orders – before leaving her alone.

 

Once Sabine leaves, Rey decides to retreat to the library, moving through the hallways silently, her slippers barely making a sound on the polished floors.

 

Yet, as she passes the stairs, a faint murmur reaches her ears. Voices, coming from the living room.

 

She pauses, hesitant, peering down the stairs. The living room door is slightly ajar.

 

Her first thought is to step back, retreat, leave Mr. Solo and his guest to their private business. Mr. Solo’s affairs, particularly now, so close to his wedding, are not hers to witness—yet curiosity, that relentless, guilty curiosity, drives her forward.

 

She moves silently down the staircase, careful to keep her presence hidden, straining to catch snippets of conversation.

 

She soon recognizes the voice of Mr. Ko Connix—“…and, of course, the reception shall be held here, in your home,” he says. “The space is more than adequate for the occasion. Everyone will expect nothing less.”

 

Her breach catches as she imagines the house soon filled with flowers and laughter, with music and elegant guests, all celebrating the moment Mr. Solo binds himself to another woman.

 

Mr. Solo’s response comes, low and steady, though she cannot make out the words.

 

She presses her ear lightly against the wood, heart thundering, trying not to breathe too loudly, as if even the faintest exhale could betray her presence.

 

“…and the honeymoon?” Mr. Ko Connix is saying now, his tone carrying a note of expectation. “The arrangements must be made. The guests will surely inquire as to where you intend to take your bride. Perhaps the coast? A villa in the countryside?”

 

For a moment, silence.

 

Then Mr. Solo’s voice cuts in, sharp, cold, unmistakably irritated.

 

“There will be no honeymoon.”

 

There’s a faint rustle of fabric inside, the sound of someone shifting in their chair.

 

“Benjamin,” Mr. Ko Connix says, cautiously now, “you cannot simply refuse a honeymoon. It would cause talk. Your bride will expect—”

 

“I said,” Mr. Solo growls, “there will be no honeymoon. If Miss Kaydel wishes that much to travel, I can make the arrangements for her to go alone.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix does not answer immediately. There is a pause, long and heavy, broken only by the faint creak of wood as he shifts again. Then, at last, a low sigh.

 

“Does this have to do with the young maid I saw the other day?”

 

Rey freezes, blood draining from her face, heart lurching violently against her ribs.

 

Silence. Mr. Solo does not reply.

 

The quiet stretches until Mr. Ko Connix clears his throat, the sound deliberate, uncomfortable. “I see. Well. For all our sakes, I trust you will send her away once the marriage is done. It would be… most unwise to keep her here after.”

 

Rey feels the floor tilt beneath her, every muscle drawn taut as she waits for his answer.

 

At last, Mr. Solo’s voice comes. “She is not a maid. And she is not going anywhere.”

 

"You have many properties, Benjamin. Just shove her off to one of your country estates and go fuck her when the mood hits."

 

"That's non-negotiable, Bryan."

 

On the other side of the door, Mr. Ko Connix exhales slowly. “Very well, keep the little thing if you must,” he mutters. “God knows men of our station are expected to have… appetites. Why, I myself had my comforts, even while Kaydel’s mother was alive. Discretion, that was the key. Nothing that brought shame to her name. So at least, Benjamin, I trust you will show some restraint.”

 

Mr. Ko Connix clears his throat.

 

“Kaydel is my only daughter. She shall not be made a laughingstock. I trust you will exercise discretion. Do not make the mistake of letting your appetites become a spectacle.”

 

“My affairs are no concern of yours, Bryan. I will not be lectured on propriety by a man whose job is to mind his own household, not mine.”

 

There is a brief, nervous laugh from Mr. Ko Connix, the sound strained, as if testing the edges of Mr. Solo’s temper. The conversation shifts then, reluctantly, to the details of the marriage contract. 

 

Rey presses herself closer to the doorway, straining to catch every word, heart pounding, when suddenly a clear, lilting voice breaks the tension behind her:

“It’s rather unbecoming for the staff to eavesdrop on their employers, you know.”

 

Rey spins around, breath catching, only to see Miss Kaydel standing there, flawless as ever, a picture of elegance and composure. Her dress is immaculate, tailored perfectly to her slender frame. Her hair is arranged in an elaborate style, each strand perfectly in place, framing her face like a portrait.

 

Rey’s stomach twists. She freezes, caught, exposed—not by Mr. Solo, but by the very woman who will soon take his name. 

 

Kaydel’s eyes sweep over Rey from head to toe, taking in every detail—the carefully arranged hair that Sabine had so meticulously styled, the delicate, hand-embroidered dress that clings just so, and finally, her gaze lands on the large diamond glinting on her left hand.

 

“You must really know how to… please him,” Kaydel says, voice smooth, almost teasing, “for him to give you something like this.”

 

She lets out a soft, almost cruel laugh, one that makes Rey’s stomach knot tighter and her cheeks burn with shame. 

 

“Is it jealousy, ma’am?”, Rey blurts, “That he gave me his grandmother’s ring?”

 

Kaydel tilts her head slightly, the faintest smirk on her lips. She lifts her own hand, letting the sunlight catch the ring glinting on her finger. “Perhaps,” she says softly, “though mine is hardly less beautiful. And unlike yours…” Her voice drops just enough to be heard but sharp enough to sting. “…it will be mine until… until death do us part.”

 

Kaydel lets her gaze linger on Rey, eyes glinting with quiet triumph. “And yours, I suppose, will soon return to him,” she adds, her smile cool and knowing, “when he grows tired of you.”

 

“You… you don’t know anything,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t know what he—what we—”

 

Kaydel tilts her head, letting a faint, almost amused smile curl her lips. “Oh, I know more than you think,” she murmurs. “Honestly, you really should have gone with the stableboy… what was his name again? Boe? Joe?” She tilts her head. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now. He’s no longer in our employ, after all.”

 

Rey freezes, frowning in confusion, heart stuttering in her chest.

 

Kaydel lets out a soft, mocking laugh. “Didn’t you know? He was dismissed. Mr. Solo said he stole a comb from his pocket. And indeed, they found one just like the one he described in his belongings. Certainly no respectable household would keep a thieving servant now. He’s probably begging on the roadside as we speak, the poor little wretch.”

 

Rey’s eyes widen in disbelief. “A… comb?” she whispers, incredulous. Her mind races back months, remembering the small comb he had given her—the one Mr. Solo had instructed her to return.

 

Her mind races. No. No. No. Mr. Solo could not be involved in this… could he? The thought twists inside her, a cold knot forming in her chest. Because she knows he is.

 

“Such a pity,” Kaydel murmurs, a sly smile curling her lips. “You’d have suited each other perfectly… both of your ranks considered, naturally.”

  

Rey leans back against the wall, clutching it as if it alone can hold her upright. Her mind is spinning, a storm of shock, betrayal, and a slow, boiling anger. Every revelation about Mr. Solo, Poe, and now Kaydel’s calculated presence twists inside her, making her feel light-headed and unsteady.

 

Kaydel moves with that same poised confidence, reaching into the pocket of her dress. She withdraws a folded piece of paper and holds it out toward Rey. “Here,” she says softly, voice almost casual. “You’re invited… if you’d like to watch. Not from inside the church, of course. I doubt anyone would accept you there. But you can watch from outside, if you wish.”

 

Rey blinks, her stomach twisting as she looks down. The paper in Kaydel’s hand bears the elegant lettering of the wedding invitation—Mr. Solo and Kaydel’s names embossed at the top, the details of the ceremony laid out beneath.

 

Before she can think, she slams it to the floor. The paper flutters and lands discarded at her feet. She takes a step toward Kaydel, each one deliberate, controlled, a furious restraint biting at her temper.

 

“You… you’re disgusting,” Rey hisses, voice trembling with barely contained fury. “Vile. Cruel. You set all of this up! I know you orchestrated everything! I know you forced Mr. Solo into this… into marrying you!”

 

Rey’s fists clench at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Heat surges through her—raw, consuming fury.

 

“Now, now,” she purrs, mockingly gentle, “there’s no need for such anger. Surely you understand… some things… simply happen because they must.”

 

“You’re a devil,” she spits, voice trembling, “hiding behind that perfect, angelic face. And one day… one day… you’ll burn for every sin you’ve committed.”

 

Kaydel tilts her head again, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Oh, my dear Rey,” she murmurs, almost sweetly, “I do so enjoy when you show your claws. It suits you… though I must say, the fire doesn’t scare me.”

 

Rey’s hand shoots up instinctively, trembling with the urge to strike her, to wipe that cruel smirk off Kaydel’s face. But Kaydel catches her wrist with a delicate grip, her fingers cold yet unyielding, and tilts her head, eyes gleaming with mockery.

 

“Careful,” Kaydel murmurs, voice almost teasing. “You wouldn’t want to ruin my pretty face. After all, I must be immaculate when my husband kisses me at the altar.”

 

Rey’s chest heaves, muscles tense, fury coiling like a living thing inside her.

 

Kaydel straightens, letting her fingers trace the fabric of her dress as if nothing had happened.

 

"See you at the wedding" she says softly, almost too sweetly, pivoting gracefully and gliding toward the living room where Mr. Ko Connix and Mr. Solo are.

Chapter 38

Three days before the wedding, Rey forces herself out of bed, draping her shoulders in a shawl that feels heavier than usual. She drags her feet through the halls of the Solo mansion, trying to summon the energy for her piano lessons with Madame Giraud.

 

She is not in the mood. In truth, she hasn’t been in the mood for anything since the encounter with Kaydel. Since discovering that Mr. Solo orchestrated Poe’s dismissal, stripping him of every prospect and opportunity, all because of her. Since the humiliating hours in the bedroom where he forced her to admit she wanted to be his whore. Since… since everything.

 

Yet, despite the heavy weight in her chest, she sits at the piano, her fingers trembling slightly over the keys. Madame Giraud begins the lesson, her eyes sharp, her tone precise. “No, mademoiselle, again,” she says, pointing out every missed note, every uneven phrase, every slip.

 

Rey nods, forcing herself to play, to concentrate, to feel the music instead of the dark storm twisting inside her. The notes flow unevenly beneath her fingers, her mind a whirl of shame, regret, and longing.

 

Hours pass—or perhaps only minutes—and she reaches the final measures of the piece. Her fingers ache, her back stiff from sitting tense, but she pushes through, determined to finish.

 

As the last note trembles into silence, Madame Giraud leans slightly closer, her voice gentler now. “Well done.” 

 

She reaches into her own sleeve and, almost imperceptibly, slides a folded note into the cuff of Rey’s dress. She gives a small, knowing smile, then steps back, pretending to straighten the music sheets.

 

Minutes later, when Rey retreats to the privacy of her room, she unfolds the tiny note with shaking hands.

 

Her eyes skim the few words written, and tears spring unbidden to her eyes.

 

I’m coming for you, my child. 

Be ready on Mr. Solo’s wedding day. 

With all my love, 

Maz.

 

______

 

The dining room is quiet, the only sound the gentle clink of silverware against porcelain. Candles flicker in tall holders, casting warm, dancing shadows over the polished mahogany table.

 

Mr. Solo regards her with a careful gaze, noting the tightness around her eyes and the forced stillness in her posture. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, my love,” he says.

 

Rey forces a smile, edges stiff, brittle. “You must forgive my mood, sir,” she says lightly, though her voice betrays the tremor beneath. “It’s not every day one has to… watch the person they care for most marry another.”

 

He sighs softly, reaching across the table to take her hand in his. The warmth of his touch is both comforting and infuriating. “It will be a quick ceremony,” he says. “I’ll return home to you soon. And I’ll see to it that the reception doesn’t linger unnecessarily.”

 

Rey nods silently, swallowing the tight knot in her throat. “I saw some of the servants carrying Miss Kaydel’s trunks,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

"Yes," is all he says.

 

Rey waits for him to say something else, but when he remains silent, she presses, "Where will she be staying?"

 

"Don't worry about that, my love." He allows a faint, controlled smile to touch his lips. "She'll be quite far from our rooms," he says, his gaze locking on hers. "After all, there will be no need for either of us to visit each other."

 

Rey swallows, a bitter edge curling in her stomach. He says that now… but what guarantee is there it will stay that way a year from now, or five, or ten? When he realizes he needs heirs, when he decides he wants children…

 

When she is no longer there…

 

Rey swallows hard, pushing the swelling ache back into the shadows of her chest. If fortune—or God—favors her, perhaps tomorrow will be the last time she ever lays eyes on him.

 

Her heart tightens at the thought, a fierce, unrelenting tug that twists her stomach into knots. She loves him—whole, unreserved, as she has never loved another—but that love is a gilded cage, one she cannot endure. To remain would be to surrender herself, to let her very soul be consumed by a life that offers nothing but pain and emptiness.

 

Rey’s gaze lingers on him, drinking in every line, every shadow, every detail of the face that had captured her heart so completely. She traces the back of his hand lightly over the table, memorizing the warmth, the firmness, the small, unspoken comfort it gives her.

 

But the sorrow coiling in her chest is relentless, gnawing at her from the inside. She can’t bear the distance any longer. With a sudden, trembling motion, she rises and settles into his lap, pressing herself against him as though proximity alone could stave off the ache.

 

His hands find her, steadying her, and his lips brush the curve of her neck in a slow, deliberate kiss.

 

Rey closes her eyes, letting herself be anchored in this fragile, fleeting closeness, knowing it might be the last time she can dare such intimacy. Her heart races, her breath catches, and for a moment, the world outside this room—the wedding, the betrayals, the impossible choices—ceases to exist.

 

He murmurs her name softly, a sound that seems to resonate through her very bones, and she clings to it, to him, to this stolen moment that is hers alone.

 

He smiles, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that somehow makes the room feel warmer despite the tension. “I like it when you stay close like this,” he murmurs, his hand brushing along her back, tracing the line of her spine.

 

Rey forces a fragile smile, letting her eyes linger on his. “I must. For tonight… it’s the last night that’s only ours,” she whispers, the weight of the words pressing against her chest.

 

His expression stiffens for a heartbeat, a flash of understanding crossing his face as if he’s only now realizing the depth of her sorrow. Then he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder, lingering just enough to make her shiver, before his lips trace her cheek in a soft, intimate caress, pulling her closer to him.

 

They eat slowly, feeding each other from their plates, sharing bites and sips, the act almost playful but underscored with desperate sweetness. 

 

When they finally finish, it’s not him who leads her upstairs. It’s her. She grasps the sleeve of his jacket, guiding him silently through the dimly lit halls. The world feels muted, the distant murmur of the house fading behind them.

 

By the time they reach his room, she leans in, pressing her lips to his first, a desperate, urgent kiss that’s more for herself than him, a tentative to ignore the tears that threaten to spill over.

 

She presses a trembling hand against his chest, letting her lips linger just above his, and whispers, voice barely audible, “I love you.”

 

Her hands are steady despite the fluttering of her heart. She begins to undo his shirt, the buttons slipping through her fingers, each one a careful, deliberate motion. Mr. Solo stands perfectly still, letting her work, watching her with a mixture of astonishment and restrained desire, the heat in his eyes betraying his outward composure.

 

She slides to her knees before him, fingers deftly undoing his trousers, loosening the belt with careful precision. When she reaches his shoes, she takes each one off slowly, deliberately, reverently almost, the act both tender and charged with an intimate urgency.

 

She guides him to sit on the edge of the bed, now fully exposed, and with steady, deliberate movements, she removes her own clothing. For the first time, there is no shame in her, no hesitation, only a raw, unguarded willingness to be seen. She allows him to look, to drink in every line, every curve, every inch of her body. 

 

She wants him to memorize her. She wants him to carry the memory of how she looked tonight.

 

Sliding onto his lap, she feels the press of his hard manhood against her, heat and desire coiling between them. She leans in, pressing her lips to his, soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. Her kisses roam across his cheeks, his shoulders, the plane of his chest, the line of his jaw—everywhere she can reach, covering him with the love, sweetness, and desperate longing she has kept hidden.

 

Her hands trace over him, gripping his strong arms, lingering along his chest, finally reaching down to his member, feeling the heat and pulse that calls to her.

 

She looks up at him, eyes wide, searching his for reassurance. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing—she’s never done this before—but every motion, every hesitant movement, is for him, for them. The desire to give herself to him, to feel him inside her, outweighs the uncertainty coiling in her stomach.

 

With trembling hands, she positions herself, the tip of him nudging at her, and slowly begins to lower herself. The stretch is sharper than she anticipated, and a soft, involuntary moan escapes her lips.

 

He immediately cups her hips, holding her steady. “Shh… take it slow, my love,” he murmurs. “There is no rush. We have… all… the time in the world.”

 

“I’m sorry… It’s just that—You’re so big, and—”

 

“It’s okay. You’re made to take me, aren’t you?”

 

She nods. 

 

“So show me.”

 

The words anchor her. She rocks slightly, easing herself down, letting the warmth of him fill her, the mix of sharpness and stretch blending with the heat building inside her. Every inch is both unfamiliar and thrilling, her body adjusting under his watchful gaze, guided by his patient hands.

 

He leans closer, pressing gentle kisses along her shoulder. “You doing so great,” he murmurs against her skin. 

 

His hands slide to her back, drawing her close against him, giving her the courage to keep moving, to match his rhythm with hers.

 

“Am I… am I doing it right?” she whispers.

 

He tilts her chin up with a gentle finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, “You’re doing everything right, love. So fucking beautiful… taking me so well…”

 

Each rise and fall is sharper, deeper, her body responding to him, to the way he holds her steady.

 

Her body shudders violently, a high, desperate cry escaping her lips as she climaxes, tears spilling freely—tears of pleasure, of relief, of the love and vulnerability she’s been holding back.

 

With one final, deep thrust, he releases inside her, heat and pulse filling her completely. Oh, and she's so full. And yet she wants more. She wishes she could keep a part of him inside her forever. Because one day his release inside her will dry up, and then she'll have nothing left of him.

 

They collapse together, chest to chest, trembling, hearts racing, breath mingling. She buries her face against his shoulder, tears continuing to fall.

 

“I love you,” she whispers again, voice choked with tears, “I… I love you so much, sir… Please, you need to know it. I always will.”

 

He chuckles softly, a low, warm sound that rumbles through his chest, his fingers brushing lightly through her hair.  “I know… And I love you too,” he murmurs back, lips pressing tenderly to her hair, holding her as she trembles in the aftershocks of pleasure and emotion. “Forever… you’re mine, Rey. Always.”

 

______

 

The next day, he kisses her before going to his own wedding. 

 

He kneels beside the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and leans down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips. His hand lingers on her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.

 

Rey lies still in the sheets, eyes closed, because she doesn’t want to see him dressed for another woman. She wants to remember him as he was the night before, when he still was completely hers.

 

“Will you be alright here?” he asks softly.

 

“Yes,” she whispers.

 

He sighs. “What I’m about to do… it won’t mean anything,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against hers for a long, quiet moment.

 

“I know,” she replies, voice steady despite the ache in her chest.

 

He presses a soft kiss to her temple, lingering just enough to leave warmth behind. “Goodbye, Rey,” he murmurs, pulling back reluctantly.

 

She stays still, keeping her eyes closed as he straightens and moves toward the door. The click of it closing behind him is sharp and final, breaking the fragile quiet in the room. Only then does she let herself collapse back into the pillows, tears spilling freely as the weight of his absence crashes over her. Her chest shakes with sobs, muffled cries that echo in the stillness of the room.

 

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, curled against the pillows, sobbing until her chest aches and her throat burns. But eventually, the tears dry on her cheeks, leaving her hollow, heavy, emptied out. She forces herself to sit up, to breathe, to move.

 

With trembling hands, she wipes her face and pulls herself from the bed. Quietly, almost frantically, she gathers the few things that matter most. Not the expensive gowns Mr. Solo bought for her, not the glittering necklaces or the gold bangles that lie in their velvet boxes.

 

Instead, she takes the clay jar heavy with coins she has saved since she was a girl. She takes her worn, beloved copy of Gulliver’s Travels, its spine cracked and pages soft with use. And she takes the little music box Mr. Solo once gave her—the only thing of his she cannot bring herself to leave behind.

 

Nothing else. Nothing else matters.

 

She places the items into a plain sack, her fingers curling around the fabric as though sealing a promise. Then she bends down and pushes it under the bed, hiding it just as the door opens.

 

“Good morning, ma’am.”

 

Sabine moved to the wardrobe, her hands efficient and steady as always. At Rey’s quiet instruction, she chose one of the simplest gowns, though her eyes flickered for a moment in silent question. Rey offered no explanation. She only stood still, steadying her breath, as Sabine laid out the plain dress and began to prepare her.

 

“Is Madame Giraud here yet? For my lessons?”

 

“Yes,” Sabine answers, adjusting the fall of her skirt. “She’s waiting in the music room.”

 

Rey nods once, forcing a small smile of composure, though her heart feels fragile in her chest. “Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

 

Sabine inclined her head and turned to leave, but Rey’s hand shot out, catching her wrist.

 

“Sabine,” Rey said softly.

 

The maid paused, glancing back with a faint crease in her brow. “Yes, ma’am?”

 

Rey’s throat tightened, but she managed a small, earnest smile. “I just—I just wanted to say that you’re—Well, that you’re a good person. And that I like you very much.”

 

Sabine blinked, clearly taken aback. For a moment she studied Rey’s face, as if weighing the sincerity of her words. Slowly, her frown eased, and she gave a careful nod. “You are kind to say so, ma’am. You’re a good person too. In fact, it is easy to see why Mr. Solo loves you so.”

 

The silence that followed was heavy, aching. Rey pressed her lips together to keep from breaking, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

 

But then Rey cleared her throat, forcing her voice into steadiness. “Thank you.”

 

The maid inclined her head once more, then slipped quietly from the room, the door closing with a soft click.

 

Alone again, Rey moved quickly. She reached beneath the bed and drew out the hidden satchel. With careful hands she gathered the hem of her gown and bound the bag securely beneath her skirts, the bulk concealed by the layers of fabric. Her heart hammered as she smoothed her dress, testing the weight, making sure it could not be seen.

 

She hesitated, looked at the diamond ring on the finger of her left hand.

 

And then she took it off, leaving it on the dressing table before walking with measured steps through the halls until she reached the music room.

 

Madame Giraud was already there, her posture regal as always, her dark gown severe against the pale morning light. She turned at Rey’s entrance, inclining her head politely. “Good morning, mademoiselle.”

 

Before Rey could move further, Madame Giraud stepped closer. Her voice lowered, as she leaned toward Rey’s ear.

 

“Are you ready?” she whispered.

 

Rey’s breath caught, but she nodded once, firm despite the fear tightening her chest.

 

At that, Madame Giraud’s lips curved into a rare, warm smile. She moved to the gramophone in the corner of the room, winding it carefully. Soft strains of piano music filled the air, drifting through the door and into the corridor beyond—gentle, practiced notes that would convince any passing ear that the lesson had begun.

 

One of the paneled walls of the music room shifted with a muted groan, a hidden seam splitting wide. The heavy wood swung open, revealing a dark passage beyond.

 

Rey’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock.

 

Madame Giraud turned back to her, the smile lingering. “Go, chéri,” she said softly. “Be free.”

 

And from the shadowed passage, a familiar figure emerged.

 

Maz.

 

Rey’s eyes flooded with tears, and before thought could catch up, she stumbled forward and fell into the older woman’s arms, a sound escaping her that was neither laughter nor sobbing but some desperate, trembling mixture of both.

 

Maz held her tightly, her hands strong despite their age, one pressed against the back of Rey’s head as though shielding her from the world. “There, there, my child,” she murmured, her voice rough with affection. “I missed you too.”

 

Rey’s voice shook as she clung to her. “How…? How did you…?”

 

Maz pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, her own mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Child, I’ve known this house longer than Mr. Solo has lived in it. And every old house,” she added, tapping the wall with a gnarled finger, “has its secrets.”

 

A trembling laugh broke from Rey, half relief, half disbelief. “Of course you would know.”

 

Behind them, the gramophone played on, a bright, deceptive melody filling the silence.

 

Maz stroked her hair once, steady and reassuring. “Come, my child. We’ve no time to waste. The household thinks you’re at your lessons. Let’s keep it that way.”

 

Maz glanced back at Madame Giraud, a fleeting smile softening her usually stern expression. “Thank you, Gisele,” she murmured.

 

Rey hesitated at the threshold of the passage. Her voice wavered slightly as she asked, “But… what about you, Madame? If they find out you helped me—”

 

Madame Giraud lifted one elegant hand, her expression calm, almost amused. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, mademoiselle.”

 

“But Mr. Solo—”

 

“I’ve already arranged my departure,” Madame Giraud said gently, cutting her off. "I’ve delayed my return to Paris for far too long. This gives me the perfect reason to go."

 

Rey barely had time to glance over her shoulder before Maz’s hand was on her elbow, pulling her into the hidden passage. The heavy door closed behind them with a muted thud, swallowing the last trace of daylight.

 

They hurried through the narrow corridor, the walls pressing close, the air cool and musty. Rey’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. “Where… where are we going?” she whispered.

 

Maz’s grip was steady, guiding her along. “A cart is waiting for us,” she said simply. “We must move quickly.”

 

The passage twisted and turned, forcing them to duck beneath low beams and step carefully over uneven stones. Shadows flickered against the walls as they pressed onward, until a faint glimmer of morning light signaled the way forward, and they emerge in a small clearing in the gardens on the west side of the estate.

 

In the distance, almost hidden among the bushes, an old cart waited. Maz approached it with purposeful steps, her eyes scanning the surrounding garden as she went. Reaching into the back of the vehicle, she pulled out a heavy, dark hooded cloak.

 

“Quickly,” she murmured, holding it open for Rey. The fabric was thick and coarse, but soft enough to drape easily. With practiced hands, Maz lifted it over Rey’s shoulders, drawing the hood up over her head so that her face was mostly hidden in shadow.

 

“There,” Maz said, adjusting the cloak so that it wrapped snugly around Rey’s frame. “No one will recognize you now. Keep low, and stay close to me.”

 

Rey nodded, her fingers clutching the edges of the cloak, heart racing as the sensation of hidden identity both comforted and unnerved her. Maz gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before stepping back to climb into the cart herself, her eyes still sharp and watchful as the horse shifted impatiently, sensing it was time to move.

 

The cart creaked as it began to roll along the dirt path, leaves brushing softly against the wheels, carrying them further away from the estate.

 

Rey turned in the cart, her gaze lingering on the Solo mansion as it faded from view. The grand estate—the place she had grown up, the only home she had ever known—shrunk behind the trees, its walls and windows slowly swallowed by the morning light.

 

A sharp ache of loss tightened in her chest, a quiet sorrow for the life she was leaving behind. Sensing it, Maz reached over and took Rey’s hand, her grip strong and steady.

 

“You’ll be safe now,” Maz said softly. “I swear it, Rey. That vile man will never touch you again.”

Chapter 39

For six days, the cart rolls steadily over winding dirt paths, through forests and open fields. The rhythmic creak of the wheels and the soft stamping of the horse’s hooves form a constant, almost hypnotic background. They stop only when they need to rest or eat, always careful to avoid towns or travelers who might ask questions they aren’t prepared to answer.

 

Rey is no longer Rey. She is Kira. And Maz is Rin. New names for a new life, a new identity forged out of necessity. They don't say it out loud, but they know Mr. Solo won't let Rey go easily. They know... that he will try to find her.

 

But he doesn't know who Kira is. He has no interest in any woman named that. No interest if someone called that is traveling around the country.

 

They use the small stash Rey keeps hidden in her glass jar and the careful savings Maz has tucked away over the years, paying for food, lodgings, and the occasional modest comforts that make the journey tolerable.

 

During long stretches of travel, Rey notices the little things she has missed about Maz. How she smooths a wrinkle in Rey’s cloak before she climbs down from the cart, or insists Rey drink water first before taking a sip herself.

 

It isn’t grand gestures, but the steady, unspoken affection in these small moments makes Rey’s chest ache. She realizes just how much she has missed the everyday care of Maz—the way she notices everything, the way she moves through the world protecting Rey in ways no one else ever has.

 

By the fifth day, they sit in a small, dimly lit inn, quietly eating their dinner, and for the first time since their journey started, they allow themselves to speak of the past.

 

Rey swallows a bite of bread, her throat tight.

 

“Maz?”

 

The older woman looks up at her.

 

“I was wondering... why didn't you ever answer my letters? I sent so many... I thought you would—”

 

"Letters?" Maz interrupts her with a frown. "What are you talking about?"

 

"The letters. The ones I gave to—"

 

—To Mr. Solo.

 

Her voice trails off, and she stops mid-sentence, feeling the cold weight of her mistake. She doesn’t need to finish. She knows now—he never sent them. He probably threw them in the fireplace as soon as Rey's back was turned.

 

Why did I even think he’d deliver them? She takes a slow, steadying breath before speaking again, her voice quieter, resigned.

 

"Never mind," she says, and then looks back at Maz. “Perhaps you could tell me why… why did you come back?”

 

Maz’s eyes flicker with a shadow of something—pain, displeasure, maybe both. “I heard… I heard Mr. Solo was going to marry,” she says carefully. “For a second, I thought… hoped… that maybe it was you, Rey.”

 

Rey blinks, startled.

 

“But then,” Maz continues, “I found out the bride was Miss Kaydel. And that’s when I knew… I knew he would make you his mistress. And I couldn’t—couldn’t allow that.” She falters, swallowing hard. “Because you deserve better, my child. You’re too good, too pure for him.”

 

Rey shakes her head, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not pure anymore, Maz.”

 

Maz’s expression twists, a flash of hurt crossing her features before she masks it. She reaches across the table, her hand brushing Rey’s. “Purity is in the heart. And your heart, Rey… it’s as pure as it’s ever been.”

 

Rey feels the warmth of Maz’s hand against hers, but it doesn’t stop the tears that slip silently down her cheeks. 

 

“I should have listened to you, Maz,” she says, her throat tight, the words catching. “You were right… And I was… I was so stupid. Selfish. I—” Her voice breaks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Maz leans closer, her eyes softening, a quiet strength in her gaze.

 

“You don’t have to apologize, child. He should be the one asking for forgiveness. He used you… he took advantage of you. But he won't do it anymore. You are safe. You are with me. And I'll never let him touch a hair on your head again, I promise. I’m sorry I failed to be there when you needed it most.”

 

“No, Maz… you didn’t fail me. You—”

 

“I did,” Maz interrupts, but her voice is steady, unwavering. “I should have seen the danger sooner. I should have shielded you before it was too late. But I am here now.”

 

Rey lowers her head, letting the words sink in, the warmth of Maz’s hand grounding her trembling body. After a long moment, she whispers, “Thank you. I… I don’t know what I would do without you.”

 

Maz gives her hand a final, firm squeeze, her gaze locking with Rey’s. “You’ll never have to find out.”

 

______

 

After six exhausting days on the road, Maz and Rey finally arrive at a modest supper house on the edge of a quiet village. A wooden sign hangs above the door, its paint weathered by years of rain and sun, but still clear enough to read –- Takodana. 

 

Inside, the air is warm and filled with the comforting scents of stew, baked bread, and herbs. The space is humble but inviting—long wooden tables worn smooth by countless hands, a hearth glowing at the far end, and shelves lined with jars of preserved vegetables and spices. After nearly a week of constant motion, the bustle of the room feels strangely soothing, a reminder of ordinary life.

 

The supper house is run by a woman named Phasma, her hair streaked with silver and her eyes soft and bright. There is a steadiness to her presence, a quiet kindness that eases the tension in Rey’s chest almost at once.

 

Mrs. Phasma offers them a simple arrangement: work in the kitchen and serve guests in the evenings, and in return, they may sleep in a small loft room above the hearth. It is no luxury—the space is narrow, with two modest cots, clean linens, and the faint scent of woodsmoke that lingers in the beams—but it is safe, tucked out of sight, and theirs for as long as they need it.

 

Maz and Rey set their few belongings down in the loft, the low ceiling forcing them to duck slightly as they move about. Rey sinks onto one of the cots, running her fingers over the clean linens, while Maz carefully hangs their cloaks to dry near the rafters.

 

“Maz… have you met Mrs. Phasma before? You seemed so at ease with her.”

 

Maz lets out a low chuckle, “Oh, yes. I’ve known Phasma a long time.” She sits on the edge of her cot, “Life took me many places before the Solo Manor. I wasn’t always a maid, you know.”

 

Rey blinks, surprised. “No?”

 

 “Oh, no. I’ve worn many shoes before scrubbing floors. Worked kitchens like this one, carried trays heavier than you, bartered, traveled.”

 

"Was that when you met her?"

 

Maz nods. “Phasma… She lost her husband when she was very young. Sadly, the world… it isn’t kind or generous to widows. But she built this place herself, from nothing. Every plank, every shelf, every pot you see below, she put it here with her own hands. She’s smart, capable, and fierce in ways most people don’t notice. That’s why I trust her—why I knew she’d take us in without asking too many questions.”

 

Maz reaches over, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rey’s face. “You can trust her too, Rey,” she says softly. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you wouldn’t be safe.”

 

Rey exhales, the tension in her shoulders finally easing, replaced by a fragile but undeniable sense of peace. She allows herself to lean slightly toward Maz, letting the warmth of her presence and the safety of this small loft seep into her bones for the first time in days.

 

Maz gives Rey’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, her eyes soft but firm. “It’s time we rest a little,” she says. “We’ve been on the road for days, and tomorrow… tomorrow we have a long day ahead of us if we want to earn our keep here.”

 

______

 

It's strange sleeping in a bed without Mr. Solo with her.

 

She thought she wouldn't miss it. She spent 16 years of her life sleeping alone in the servants' quarters, after all. She never imagined that a few months of going to sleep and waking up in his strong, warm arms would make her accustomed to it.

 

But it did. And she feels a strange emptiness every time she wakes, as if the sheets are too cold, as if something is missing. She doesn’t like the feeling, yet she can’t deny it. The memory of his weight against her, the steady warmth radiating through the nights, has become a strange sort of comfort she never realized she relied on.

 

Her chest tightens at the thought, a small ache she can’t name. But she swallows it down every morning before she goes to work, forcing herself into the rhythm of the supper house, the tasks, the chatter of customers, the smell of stew and baked bread. Every day, she tries to forget the life she had before.

 

She cannot—cannot—allow herself to think of him. Not really. Because when she lets her mind wander there, when a single memory slips through the cracks, the ache in her chest turns sharp, and tears prick behind her eyes.

 

So she buries it. She focuses on the mundane, the ordinary, the work she can touch and see and control. And yet, in the quiet moments—washing dishes, folding linens, moving through the low-lit rooms of the supper house—she feels it hovering, a ghost she cannot chase away.

 

Phasma and the other waitresses at Takodana are a welcome distraction. In the few weeks since she and Maz arrived, Rey has come to think of them almost like a family. They eat together at the long kitchen table, share stories, laugh, even if Rey remains the quietest among them.

 

Fortunately, they don’t pry into her life before Takodana, and she’s grateful for that. But Rey knows, in subtle ways, that each of them is running from their own demons. She knows Jyn fled to avoid a marriage her father had arranged. She knows Celeste is hiding from debts she can’t repay. She knows Mara’s husband nearly killed her before she found safety here.

 

And Rey knows that they sense it too—that she is running from something. Or someone. In the first weeks, she spent most of her time glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting Mr. Solo to appear out of nowhere, to drag her back to the Manor and claim her as his mistress once more.

 

But he did not. And slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the tension began to ease, the constant tightness in her chest loosening with each day that passed without incident. 

 

Rey’s days in the supper house settle into a rhythm, the work steady and grounding. She spends mornings in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, kneading dough, and washing dishes, her hands moving with practiced care. Afternoons are spent arranging tables, polishing silverware, and preparing for the evening crowd. It is hard, honest labor, and it keeps her mind busy enough to fend off unwanted thoughts.

 

She doesn’t serve the tables, of course. It would be far too risky to show her face so freely, especially in a place always bustling with travelers and strangers. Instead, Rey stays behind the scenes—between the kitchen and the storeroom, tending to everything that keeps the house running quietly in the background.

 

Phasma understands this without needing any explanation. It was she who decided Rey would work in the back, and Rey is grateful for that protection. Even so, there’s a faint bitterness in knowing the world outside is still a danger to her, that her freedom exists only because she remains hidden in the shadows of the kitchen.

 

Rey cannot even accompany the other girls to the village church. One Sunday morning, when she tried to follow them, Maz caught her by the arm and gave her a firm shake.

 

“It’s better if you stay in the supper house for now.”

 

Rey frowned. “It’s just the church, Maz. I only want to pray.”

 

“Mr. Solo could have eyes everywhere. You don’t know who might be watching.”

 

 “We’re a six days length away from the Manor. Surely he wouldn’t—”

 

“You can’t be sure. We don’t know how far he’s willing to go to find you.”

 

Rey hesitated, her brow furrowing. “So I’m not allowed to go at all?”

 

 “Not yet. Not until we know it’s safe. I can’t risk you being seen.”

 

Rey hesitated, the stubborn streak in her clashing with the truth in Maz’s words. Finally, she nodded, letting herself be guided back to the safety of the supper house.

 

She resolved, then, to make her prayers in the privacy of their small room from then on.

 

______

 

Rey is sitting at the back of the supper house, tucked into a quiet corner near the shelves of dry goods. She turns a well-worn page of Gulliver’s Travels, reading the words for what must be the hundredth time.

 

A chair scrapes suddenly across the floor, and Jyn drops into the seat beside her, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. She nudges Rey lightly with her elbow, her eyes glinting with mischief.

 

“You know,” Jyn begins, taking a sip, “the girls have been curious about you for weeks now. It’s not every day we get a lady working here.”

 

Rey’s brow furrows, her lips parting in surprise. “A lady?”

 

“Of course.” Jyn tilts her chin toward the book in Rey’s lap. “You can read.”

 

“Yes,” Rey murmurs, frowning faintly, as if the connection makes no sense to her.

 

“So you must’ve been a lady before you came here,” Jyn concludes with a shrug, as though the matter is obvious.

 

A laugh slips from Rey before she can stop it, and she shakes her head. “I can promise you, I was never a lady, Jyn. I only had the fortune that, once, a man was kind enough to teach me.”

 

“A man? Kind?” Jyn lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Hard enough to find one of those.”

 

 “I disagree. There are many kind men in the world.”

 

Her chest tightens. Poe’s face flickers in her mind—his steady warmth, his laughter. And then another, darker and sharper, a shadow she cannot shake: Mr. Solo.

 

“If you say so.” Jyn leans back in her chair, unconvinced. After a beat, she gestures toward the book. “So, what are you reading?”

 

“Gulliver’s Travels,” Rey replies, holding up the battered cover, though she knows Jyn won’t be able to read the letters scrawled across it.

 

Jyn squints at the name, her brow knitting. “And who’s he? This Gulliver of yours?”

 

“He’s a surgeon,” she explains patiently, “who one day is shipwrecked and washes up on an island of very, very small people.”

 

Jyn blinks at her, head tilting. “Small people?”

 

“Yes,” Rey says, the corner of her mouth twitching at Jyn’s bewilderment. “Tiny as dolls. The island is called Lilliput.”

 

Jyn frowns, brow furrowing in thought. “Lilliput…? Never heard of it. Where is that? I don’t remember any island by that name anywhere close to here.”

 

 “It isn’t real, Jyn. It’s a story.”

 

Jyn lets out a bark of laughter, nearly spilling her coffee. “A story? Saints, Rey, you’ve been hiding back here reading about made-up islands full of toy-sized people?”

 

Rey smiles despite herself, shaking her head. “It’s not nonsense. There’s meaning in it. Lessons.”

 

“Lessons?” Jyn arches a brow, smirking. “What—how to escape from doll-sized people?”

 

Rey’s laugh slips free before she can help it, soft but genuine. “You don’t understand.”

 

“No, I don’t,” Jyn says, leaning back in her chair, clearly entertained. “But I’m glad you do. Saints know you’ll need something to keep you sane in this place.”

 

Rey watches Jyn laugh, and she feels a surprising warmth for her. Jyn doesn’t understand—she doesn’t see how a story can open whole worlds, how it can make you forget yourself for a little while—but Rey likes her anyway. It’s the sort of conversation she would have had with Rose, if she were here.

 

The thought catches her off guard, and the smile slips from her lips. Rose.

 

Her chest tightens, the weight of absence pressing down like a stone. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever see her again. And worse—the last memories she carries of Rose are tangled in guilt and regret. Words unsaid, moments tainted by her own mistakes.

 

But then she feels a gentle nudge at her shoulder.

 

“You know,” Jyn says, her tone playful, “I imagine you’re having a grand time with your story about little people on some imaginary island, but Celeste just made buttermilk. Want to come have some with us?”

 

Rey blinks, caught off guard for a moment, and then lets herself smile faintly. She closes the book carefully, sliding it into her lap.

 

“Yeah… I’d like that,” she murmurs, rising to follow Jyn.

 

______

 

The supper house is quiet when Rey finally returns to her small room. She lights a single candle, sets it by the bed, and reaches for the small music box hidden beneath her folded clothes before she can even think about what she’s doing. 

 

She places it gently on the table and lifts the lid. At once, the tiny ballerina inside begins to turn, and the soft melody spills into the silence.

 

Rey leans her chin on her hand and watches the figure spin, her chest tightening.

 

You deserve to have pretty things, Mr. Solo had said when he gave it to her.

 

Where is he now? she wonders. Is he smoking a cigar in his armchair in the library? Is he sitting in his study with a glass of whiskey? Or—her stomach twists—is he with Kaydel?

 

She can picture it too easily. The wedding, the vows spoken beneath glittering chandeliers. The new Mrs. Solo sweeping into the manor, taking her place with all the ease of someone born to wealth and beauty.

 

Rey imagines her walking those marble floors, her gowns rustling as she enters each room—rooms Rey had once scrubbed on her knees, rooms where she had once lain tangled in Mr. Solo’s arms.

 

Her throat tightens as the thought sharpens, more intimate, unbearable. The two of them behind closed doors, Kaydel in his bed, his hands on her, his mouth against her skin. The image sends a sour wave through Rey’s stomach, her chest clenching with a jealousy she has no right to feel.

 

The ballerina twirls on, endlessly graceful, while Rey blinks hard against the heat stinging her eyes.

 

She closes the lid with trembling fingers, silencing the melody mid-note. The room falls quiet again, and she sits in the stillness, her heart aching with a longing she cannot name, for a man who no longer belongs to her.

Notes:

This story is going to be a long... and dark... ride.

Updates every day, or every other day.