Chapter 1

• “Happy Birthday to you!”
• The sound jolted me from sleep, pulling me out of the soft fog of dreams. My eyelids cracked open, only to be assaulted by sunlight that pierced through the heavy curtains. My room—usually my safe haven—suddenly felt intruded upon. On the other side of my blurred vision stood my parents, their smiles wide, surrounded by maids and attendants. My mother’s personal assistant carried a beautifully decorated cake, its flames flickering like a crown of fire atop the frosting.
• I groaned and yanked the blanket over my head, unwilling to face the brightness or the chorus of voices.
• “Princess, it’s time to get up and make a wish—it’s your birthday,” my mother’s voice rang out, gentle yet insistent.
• With a heavy sigh, I peeled the covers off and knelt on the bed, staring at the cake. My heart wasn’t in it. Still, I closed my eyes, muttered a wish I barely believed in, and blew out the candles.
• “Happy Birthday!” everyone chorused, clapping as though this were the greatest celebration of the year.
• My father’s deep voice cut through the noise. “What time is it?”
• “Nearly noon,” my mother replied.
• He turned his gaze on me. “Clara, come downstairs. Your mother and I want to have a word with you.”
• The maids filed out in silence, leaving only one behind to begin tidying my room. I sank back against the mattress, letting out a low growl of frustration.
• “Can you please shut the curtains?” I muttered.
• “Of course, your majesty,” she answered quickly, drawing them closed. Darkness returned, soothing the sting in my eyes, but it couldn’t chase away the weight of the conversation that was waiting for me.
• Dragging myself from the warmth of my bed, I slipped into a pair of jeans, pulled a loose shirt over my head, and trudged downstairs. The long staircase of the castle echoed with my footsteps, a reminder of how alone I often felt in this grand, cold place.
• My parents were waiting in their office, seated at their twin desks. It was such a common sight—my father, stern and upright, my mother with her practiced regal smile—that I hardly noticed the grandeur anymore.
• “I’m here,” I announced, dropping into one of the armchairs with more force than necessary.
• “Happy birthday once more, my little baby,” my mother said warmly.
• “Thanks.” My voice was flat. I wasn’t thrilled about turning fifteen. If anything, I felt suffocated by the expectations growing heavier with every passing year.
• My mother folded her hands neatly on the desk. “Since you are reaching the age of adulthood and will soon begin preparing to take over the kingdom, your father and I have decided it is appropriate for you to receive your first slave.”
• The words struck me like a slap.
• “I don’t want one,” I snapped, cutting the idea off before it could take root.
• My father’s brows furrowed, his tone hardening. “Clara, every princess has a personal slave. It is a sign of status, a symbol of responsibility.”
• “I don’t care,” I shot back, sitting straighter in the chair. “I’m not having a slave. It’s wrong. You know how I feel about it.”
• The air thickened as my parents exchanged a glance. My mother sighed, while my father’s expression turned to stone.
• “You have no say in the matter,” he said firmly. “You are buying a slave today, and that is final.”
• “I don’t need one. I don’t want one,” I protested, my chest tightening.
• “Every princess needs a slave. It is custom,” my mother added, her voice calm but edged with finality.
• “Not for this princess.”
• “There will be no further discussion,” my father thundered. “Go get ready to leave.”
• Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Rising stiffly, I left the office before my tongue betrayed me and landed me in deeper trouble.
• In the kitchen, I poured myself a cappuccino, clinging to the bitter warmth as if it could fortify me against what lay ahead. A hot shower followed, washing away some of my anger, though not the heavy knot in my chest.
• I dressed carefully: a soft baby-blue sweater, snug black jeans, and my worn black Converse sneakers. Standing before the mirror, I brushed out my long black hair, swept my bangs to one side, and applied mascara, blush, and a touch of raspberry lipstick. My reflection stared back at me, a girl trying to look composed while inside she was screaming.
• “Clara!” my mother’s voice carried from downstairs.
• Snatching my phone, I made my way down. My parents stood in the foyer, arms linked, a picture of regal authority.
• “The car is waiting,” my mother said, her eyes sharp. “And don’t even think of coming back without a slave.”
• I pressed my lips together, forcing down the retort that wanted to spill out.
• “—And try to have fun,” my father added almost cheerfully, as though the day weren’t already poisoned.
• Fun. What sort of twisted fun was this?
• Outside, the sleek black limo gleamed under the castle’s shadow. Master Philip, our driver, opened the door with a bow. I slid inside, sinking into the leather seat, and closed my eyes, trying to steady my breath.
• The ride was long enough for my thoughts to darken. The “auction” house was nothing short of a marketplace of cruelty, where vampires were shackled and sold like cattle. Some humans believed that because their hearts no longer beat, they were incapable of feelings or emotions—that they were nothing but tools to be owned. The thought made my stomach churn.
• When we arrived, Master Philip led me through the grim gray building. Its walls felt suffocating, the air heavy with despair. We entered a vast room with a stage and podium, rows of wealthy patrons already seated, their laughter and chatter like buzzing insects.
• I slumped into a chair near the back, my gaze darting around anxiously.
• The man at the podium droned on about “lots” and “bidding prices.” I hardly heard him. My attention was fixed on the vampires being led out—one by one—chained, hollow-eyed, stripped of dignity.