“What is wrong with hitting you.”
Hazel’s voice cut through the servant’s disbelief like a knife through cloth. Cold. Clean. Final. She did not shout. She did not need to. Her calmness carried more terror than rage.
“Hitting you is nothing,” Hazel continued, her eyes sharp as glass. “I am the owner of this house. Whoever I want to leave, they have to leave. Including your master.”
The servant’s face went even paler.
For a second, she forgot to breathe. The sting on her cheek still burned, but the greater pain now was fear. Hazel had never spoken like this before. Hazel used to swallow humiliation like water. Hazel used to lower her head and apologize for existing. Hazel used to avoid conflict the way a wounded animal avoided claws.
But the Hazel in front of her now looked like she cou
