Spilled Milk

The morning felt like surfacing from deep anesthesia. The dull weight between my legs, cold resin against skin, and the faint hum of the Apple Watch on my wrist pulled me back into reality with merciless clarity. Every thought of resistance was extinguished. All that remained was the desperate need not to fail Loona’s expectations again.

The kitchen carried the aroma of fresh espresso. Loona was already sitting at the island in a silk robe, tapping on her iPad, glancing up briefly as I entered. Her expression was warm, almost proud.

"Good morning, John," she said softly. Reaching for my wrist, she scanned the sleep and heart rate metrics on the screen, nodding in approval. "Very good boy. You look well-rested. Your shake is ready."

I took a stool diagonally across from her, drinking obediently. It was a deceptively peaceful atmosphere—until the heavy swing door to the utility room pushed open.

Arisa stepped out. Dressed in her simple skirt, working with practiced efficiency, she looked as unbothered as ever. But as she reached into the nook for the long floor mop, the handle caught the edge of a shelf. A sharp jerk rocked the wood; the mop tipped forward and struck the glass milk carafe sitting on the counter with a hollow crack.

The glass shattered with a loud crash, sending a white pool spreading across the polished stone surface and splattering heavily onto the dark hardwood floor.

"Damn it," Arisa muttered, reaching immediately for the roll of paper towels. "I'm so sorry, Loona, I didn't mean to. I'll get that right up—"

"Don't worry about it, Arisa," Loona cut in with a calm, casual wave of her hand and a disarming smile. "You've got your hands full over in the other wing. Don't trouble yourself. John will happily take care of it for you, won't you, sweetheart? He loves being useful in the morning anyway."

Before I could react, Loona’s gaze locked onto me. It was no open command, no visible sharpness—just that effortless, warm smirk that left me not a single millimeter of leeway.

"Just grab the cleaning cloths from the lower cabinet, John," she added idly, turning her attention back to her screen and taking a sip of espresso.

A hot rush of shame surged up my neck. Arisa was my father's housekeeper—the exact woman who had caught me in the hallway only recently, bulging pants and mocking comments included. And now I was supposed to drop to my knees right in front of her, pretending it was my absolute pleasure.

Yet last night's conversation remained burned into my mind like a brand: *I'm giving you a way out. Only that will be the end of it.*

Swallowing dryly, I stood up without a word and pulled two microfiber cloths from the cabinet. Arisa remained by the counter, arms crossed, watching me in complete silence. She didn't say a thing. But her eyes carried an overly alert, amused gleam, and a silent, knowing curl played at the corners of her mouth.

The resin cage ground painfully against my thighs as I lowered myself before the island. I dropped to my knees right at the hem of Arisa’s skirt. To reach the splatter, I had to bend forward deeply, nose inches from the hardwood, wiping the sticky milk from the floor in circular strokes.

Arisa looked down, completely relaxed, plainly entertained by the sight of the humiliated son of the house at her feet. After a few seconds, she simply shook her head with a faint grin, picked up her bucket, and slipped quietly down the hallway toward the other wing.

I remained on my knees, heart racing, soaking up the last traces of the mess.

Above me, silk rustled softly. Loona stood up, walked over, and planted her bare foot just inches from my hand on the floor. With the tip of her toe, she nudged my fingers gently, then laid a brief, possessive hand on the back of my neck.

"Very neat," she murmured, offering a warm smile. "Get up and get dressed. You wouldn't want to be late."

I pulled myself up, knees sore against the hard wood, and tossed the damp cloths into the hamper. As I reached for my bag, Loona reached out to straighten my collar.

"Oh, by the way," she whispered, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes as she pressed a cool kiss to my cheek. "Emma is waiting for you during the first long break. Don't keep her waiting."

With burning shame in my gut and the relentless clamp of the cage in my groin, I left the penthouse to face the next link in the chain waiting at school.