They called him the "Montclair Devil." A spoiled, cruel monster confined to a wheelchair—a man who had broken every servant they sent him. And then they sent me. I was just a slave woman ordered to bathe him. But when my hands untied the linen cloth covering his legs, I saw something no one was ever meant to see…
The stone floors of the great house were cold. Colder than the stifling August air that stuck my linen shirt to my back. It was 1840, the heart of New Orleans, and I was walking to the west wing of the Montclair estate.
My bare feet made no sound on the polished marble. I had learned to move like a ghost. Ghosts lived longer.
I was walking to the "Devil's Wing." There lived Mr. Alexander Montclair—heir to a fortune built on shipping and sugarcane.
The other house servants watched me leave. Their faces were wet with sweat and unconcealed sympathy.
"He'll break you, child," Cook Hattie whispered, pressing a small, dry bag of lavender into my hand. "Look at the ground. Don't speak unless he speaks first. And never, ever stare."
He was a monster—or so they said. Known for his brutal arrogance, explosive temper, and cruel, elaborate humiliations. One of the girls, Delia, had returned from his rooms a week earlier, her hands shaking so badly she dropped a priceless porcelain tray. The next morning, before dawn, she was sent out into the fields. A life sentence.
And now I was called.
To the one task no one wanted. A job saved for the new girls—those who didn't yet know all the rules.
I was to bathe him.
Why me? I'd been bought just three weeks earlier at the St. Louis Street market. I was quiet. I wanted to be invisible. And yet, it was he who had pointed me out. He'd spotted me in the hallway. It was the most terrifying thing.
I stood before the carved mahogany door. It was taller than any man's, overwhelming in the semidarkness. Even in the hallway, I could smell it—not disease, but tension. Expensive tobacco, old books, leather.
I knocked. Once. Softly.
"Come in."
The voice wasn't a shout. It was low, calm, bored. That was worse.
The door opened silently. The room was vast and shrouded in shadow. Heavy velvet curtains tightly shut out the light. It was a luxurious prison.
And in the center sat he.
On an ornate cart, like a throne of rosewood and brass. His torso was bare. Instinctively, I lowered my gaze—but not before I saw. He was strong. Broad shoulders, a powerful chest, arms that could snap a man in two.
He stared at me impassively. Not like a man staring at a woman. Like a researcher staring at an insect.
"You're new," he said. "Isidora."
"Yes, sir."
"Look at me."
My blood ran cold. I lifted my head. His eyes were the color of harbor water in a storm—a cold, steel-gray blue. Eyes that had seen too much and felt nothing.
"I was told you were… different. The last one to cry."
He jerked his chin at the copper bathtub, steam rising from it. The boy guarding the cauldron bowed nervously and fled, closing the door. We were alone.
"I hate shaking hands," he said quietly. "If you're going to bathe me, do it."
The silence wasn't peace. It was a truce.
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