Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The next morning, I woke to sunlight slicing through the curtains, the kind of clean, golden light that made the estate look like it had been airbrushed. I stretched in bed, already dressed in a silk pajama set that had appeared overnight in my closet, tags discreetly clipped. Apparently, sleepwear was part of the "necessary" package.

For once, I decided not to fight it.

By the time I'd showered and slipped into a casual outfit—high-waisted jeans, a crisp white blouse, flats that probably cost more than my car but felt like clouds—I was almost enjoying myself. Almost.

The estate was alive in the morning. Sun caught on the fountains, gardeners trimmed hedges with military precision, and housekeepers moved like a ballet troupe in and out of the main hall. I wandered, coffee in hand, pretending I belonged.

That's when I saw it—across the gardens, past a stretch of manicured roses, stood another house. Not a cottage. Not a shack. A house. Big, bright, spacious. Its windows gleamed, laundry lines hung neatly to the side, and I could hear laughter drifting from its open doors.

Curious, I followed the sound.

Inside, I found it bustling—cooks in aprons preparing meals, nannies folding uniforms, staff members chatting over cups of tea before shifts began. The air smelled of bread and rice and the faint sweetness of mango jam. It was warm, lived-in, comfortable—less curated perfection, more heart.

The moment I stepped inside, silence fell. Dozens of eyes turned to me. Then, almost in unison, voices rang out:

"Good morning, Young Mistress!"

I nearly dropped my coffee. "I'm sorry—what?"

A maid, barely older than me, smiled nervously. "Young Mistress. Or... Young Madame, if you prefer."

My brain stalled. "No, no, no. Stop. I'm not a Young Mistress. I don't even own this blouse. It belongs to the capitalist overlord you all work for."

They laughed softly, polite but firm. Another cook bowed slightly. "Young Master said you must be addressed properly."

I groaned. "Oh my god. He's already rebranded me. I didn't even get a press release."

The staff chuckled again, and somehow, the sound didn't feel mocking. It felt... fond.

One of the gardeners set down his tools, grinning. "Don't worry, Young Mistress. We know who you are. And we're glad you're here."

Heat rushed to my face. "Glad? Why?"

An older housekeeper straightened her apron. "Because the Young Master never brings anyone. And now... you." She shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "It makes sense."

I blinked at her, speechless.

Sense. That word again. Fate. Destiny. Permanence. Everyone in this place talked about my life like it was already carved in stone.

I cleared my throat, desperate for levity. "Well, if I'm the Young Mistress, I expect staff discounts at the gift shop."

They laughed again, the tension melting.

For the next hour, I found myself drifting through their world—tasting the fresh bread a cook pressed into my hand, chatting with a nanny about her daughter's school project, admiring the embroidered linens drying in the sun. It was... normal. Strangely, achingly normal.

And yet, as I walked back to the main house, everyone I passed greeted me the same way:

"Good morning, Young Mistress."