Emmett was a loyal footman at the wealthy Patterson estate, desperate to scrub the slum out of his blood.
He abandoned his family and gave his absolute devotion to the beautiful young miss, Clara.
But when the estate faced bankruptcy, Clara ruthlessly framed him for embezzlement to protect her family’s wealth.
He was shoved into a police carriage in the freezing rain. Through the window, he saw Clara watching him with fake pity, looking at him like a stray dog being put down.
The judge slammed his gavel, sentencing him to a slow, agonizing death.
Because he had spent all his wages on tailored uniforms to fit in, his mother died in a cheap coffin from an untreated illness, leaving his siblings to starve.
As the thick, coarse rope crushed his windpipe, Emmett was filled with agonizing regret.
He didn’t understand how the woman who smiled so sweetly could send him to the gallows without a single ounce of hesitation.
Opening his eyes again, Emmett found himself back in the servant’s quarters, exactly three days before the Patterson family’s downfall.
This time, he wouldn’t be their loyal dog. He was going to be their executioner.
He planned to watch Clara sell herself to the savage new heir, Kearney Bernard, just to keep her luxury.
But at the welcome dinner, the terrifying new master ignored Clara completely, locked his dark, obsessive eyes on Emmett, and whispered.
“You are mine. Nobody touches you.”
Serve Me, My Lord Chapter 1
Emmett’s eyes snapped open. He gasped. His throat closed up completely, blocking the air. He clawed at the stiff, starched cotton sheets. His fingers tore at the thin fabric. The phantom weight of a thick, coarse rope still crushed his windpipe. He choked. A wet, ugly sound ripped from his throat. His chest heaved up and down. He rolled to the side, desperate for oxygen. His body slid off the edge of the narrow mattress.
He hit the floor. His knees slammed into the cold, polished concrete floor. The sharp pain shot up his legs. He gasped again, and this time, air flooded his lungs. The pain in his knees was real. It wasn’t the cold numbness of a broken neck.
He dragged his shaking hand up the side of the nightstand. His fingers hit a small box of matches. He grabbed one and struck it against the wood. The sudden flare stabbed his eyes. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open to look at the small paper calendar pinned to the wall.
He stared at the paper.
October 14th.
His heart stopped. Then it slammed hard against his ribs. Three days. He was exactly three days away from the afternoon Alistair Patterson would fall from his horse and snap his spine.
A loud electronic alarm went off in the hallway. A second later, a heavy fist pounded on his door.
“Emmett! Get up!” Rory yelled through the thin wood. “Finch is on a rampage today!”
Emmett stared at the door. His stomach cramped. Rory. He remembered Rory choking on his own vomit, dying of a fentanyl overdose two years after the Patterson estate went bankrupt.
Emmett swallowed the sour taste of bile in his mouth. He took a deep breath.
“I’m up,” Emmett said. His voice sounded like gravel, but it was completely flat.
He pushed himself off the floor. He walked to the small mirror above the plastic sink. He grabbed the edges of the basin. He looked at his face.
There were no bruises on his jaw. No split lip from the police enforcer’s fist. His skin was smooth and young. It was the face of a naive boy who thought hard work would get him out of the slums. But his eyes were different. They were completely dead.
He pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. He grabbed the dark gray uniform of a lower-tier footman. He pulled the trousers up. He buttoned the stiff collar of the shirt. His movements were fast, rigid, and precise.
He opened the door.
Rory leaned against the wall. He rubbed his eyes. “They put me on laundry duty again. Elias hates me.”
Emmett didn’t nod. He didn’t smile. He just stepped past Rory into the hallway.
“Hey, are you listening?” Rory reached out to grab Emmett’s shoulder.
Emmett’s body reacted instantly. He dropped his shoulder and twisted his torso. Rory’s hand grabbed empty air.
Rory blinked. “What’s your problem?”
“We’re going to be late,” Emmett said. He kept walking.
They walked through the underground service tunnels. The concrete walls felt like a prison. Above them, heavy footsteps thumped against the ceiling. The masters were awake.
Emmett pushed through the metal doors of the staff cafeteria. The smell of burnt coffee and harsh bleach hit his nose.
He grabbed a plastic tray. He walked to the serving line.
“Move your bag, Rory! That’s my chair!” Moira yelled. She slammed her tray down on the table. The plastic cracked.
Rory scowled and pulled his canvas bag away.
Emmett ignored them. He poured black coffee into a mug. He walked to a small table in the corner and sat down. He wrapped his cold hands around the hot mug. He kept his head down, but his eyes watched everyone. He knew all their secrets. He knew how they would all die or end up in jail.
The double doors swung open. Mildred Finch, the head housekeeper, walked in.
The cafeteria went completely silent. Over forty servants stood up. They stood straight by their chairs.
Finch walked down the aisle. Her black shoes clicked on the floor. She looked at every collar and cuff.
She stopped in front of Emmett. She leaned in. He smelled peppermint on her breath. She reached out to fix his black bowtie.
Emmett didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He kept his breathing perfectly even. He stared at the blank wall behind her.
Finch’s fingers stopped inches from his neck. She frowned. His tie was perfect. His collar was clean.
She dropped her hand. She let out a sharp breath and walked away.
Ten minutes later, the morning meeting ended. Elias, the head butler, spoke through the intercom.
“Emmett. Main dining room. Polish the antique silver before breakfast.”
Emmett stood up. He walked to the closet and grabbed the wooden cleaning box. He stepped into the hidden service elevator. He pressed the button for the first floor.
The elevator jerked up. Emmett’s stomach dropped.
The doors opened. The basement smell was gone. The air smelled like lemon polish and expensive flowers. The massive crystal chandeliers blinded him for a second. The walls were covered in dark mahogany.
Emmett stepped onto the thick Persian rug. His throat tightened. This room was where they had planned his ruin.
He set the box down on the long table. He pulled on white cotton gloves. He picked up a heavy silver candelabra. He rubbed the polish into the metal.
He moved the cloth in hard, tight circles. He remembered the sound of the judge’s gavel. He remembered Clara’s fake tears in the courtroom.
The heavy doors of the dining room slammed open.
Alistair Patterson walked in. He wore a red riding coat and white breeches. He held a leather riding crop. He was barking orders at a terrified clerk.
Alistair didn’t look at Emmett.
“I don’t care what the Crown’s Treasury says!” Alistair yelled. His face turned red. “Move the funds from the Swiss account! If the trust liquidity drops, my father will cut me off!”
Alistair paced across the rug. He breathed heavily. He stopped at the head of the table.
“Fix it!” Alistair screamed. He slammed the riding crop down on the table.
The leather hit the edge of a large silver tray. The tray flipped up and slid off the table.
Emmett dropped his cloth. His left hand shot out. He caught the edge of the heavy tray right before it hit the floor. The metal dug into his gloved palm. He didn’t make a sound.
Alistair stopped yelling. He turned his head. He looked down at Emmett.
Alistair’s eyes were blank. He looked at Emmett like he was looking at a chair.
Emmett slowly stood up. He held the tray against his chest. He tucked his chin down in a deep bow.
Beneath his lowered eyelashes, Emmett’s eyes were ice cold. He stared at Alistair’s expensive boots. He looked at him like he was already dead.
Alistair scoffed. He turned around and shoved the telegraph dispatch back into the clerk’s hands.
“Idiots,” Alistair muttered. He walked out of the room. He left the doors open.
Emmett stood in the silence. He put the tray back on the table. He picked up the riding crop. He ran his thumb over the braided leather. He set it down next to the tray.
He picked up his cloth. He went back to polishing.
He looked down at the silver tray. His face reflected in the metal.
The corners of his mouth pulled up. He smiled. It was a cold, dangerous smile.
The antique clock in the hallway chimed seven times. The heavy sounds echoed through the room.
Emmett listened. He started counting.
Seventy-two hours. That was all Alistair had left.
Serve Me, My Lord Chapter 2
Emmett walked into the cramped staff break room. The air smelled like stale sweat and cheap tea bags. He held a chipped ceramic mug filled with hot water and a generic tea bag. He walked to the worn-out brown sofa in the corner and sat down.
Rory squeezed onto the cushion next to him. The springs groaned. Rory held a crumpled copy of a high-society etiquette guide. His eyes were wide and excited.
“Listen to this,” Rory whispered. He cleared his throat. He pushed his shoulders back. He started speaking, stretching his vowels. He was trying to mimic the East Coast old money accent the masters used upstairs. It sounded ridiculous.
Emmett stared at his tea. The dark liquid rippled. He listened to Rory’s fake accent. His chest felt heavy. He remembered doing the exact same thing. He remembered spending hours in front of a mirror, practicing how to hold a champagne flute, trying to scrub the slum out of his voice.
“We don’t get paid enough,” Rory complained. He dropped his normal voice. “I can’t even afford a tailored suit. Are you saving up, Emmett? We need to look the part if we want to get promoted to the upper floors.”
Emmett took a slow sip of his tea. The hot water burned his tongue.
“I send my money home,” Emmett said. His voice was completely flat. “To the slums.”
Rory rolled his eyes. He let out a loud groan. “You’re an idiot. You can’t let your family drag you down. You have to cut them off if you want to survive here. You need to think about your future.”
Emmett didn’t answer. He looked past Rory. He stared at the cracked mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The reflection blurred. The memory hit him like a physical punch to the gut.
He was standing in his mother’s tiny apartment. He was wearing a rented tuxedo. His mother held out a cheap tin of homemade cookies. He slapped her hand away. The tin hit the floor. The cookies shattered. He turned his back on her crying face and walked out the door. He thought he was walking toward a better life.
The memory shifted. The lighting changed.
Rain poured down his face. His chest was slammed against the cold, wet hood of a black police transport carriage. Rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. The cold metal of handcuffs bit into his wrists.
He turned his head. Through the rain, he saw a black, lacquered private carriage. Clara Patterson stood under a large black umbrella. She wore a pristine white dress. She looked at him. Her eyes were filled with fake pity. She looked at him like he was a stray dog being put down.
Clara leaned over and whispered to the family lawyer. The lawyer walked over to Emmett. He shoved a folded piece of paper into Emmett’s wet pocket. It was a forged confession. Embezzlement and corporate espionage.
The memory twisted again. A dark courtroom. The heavy wooden gavel slammed down. The sound exploded in his ears. The judge’s voice echoed.
A slow, agonizing death behind bars.
“Emmett!”
A hand waved frantically in front of his face.
Emmett blinked. The break room came back into focus. He was breathing too fast. His lungs burned.
He looked down at his right hand. He was gripping the ceramic mug so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The joints popped with a sickening click. The mug was seconds away from shattering in his palm.
He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He forced his fingers to uncurl. He relaxed his shoulders. He pushed the panic down into a dark box in his mind and locked it.
“Are you sick?” Rory asked. He leaned away, looking disgusted. “You look like a ghost. Go to the infirmary. I don’t want to catch whatever you have.”
Emmett turned his head. He forced the corners of his mouth up. He created a perfectly harmless, stupid smile.
“I’m fine,” Emmett said softly. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
The break room door swung open. Moira walked in. She carried a stack of expensive silk shirts. She threw them onto a table.
“The dry cleaners ruined the collars again,” Moira complained loudly. She crossed her arms. “But who cares. Did you hear the news? Lady Patterson is looking for a husband for Clara.”
Emmett’s heart stopped. His blood turned to ice water.
“Really?” Rory leaned forward. “Who is it?”
“Some Wall Street banker,” Moira said. “If she gets married, she’ll need a whole new staff for her new estate.”
Emmett stared at the wall. The name Clara tasted like ash in his mouth. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“If I get assigned to serve Clara, I’ll be rich,” Rory said. He smiled dreamily. “She’s so sweet. She always says thank you. She’ll give huge tips.”
Emmett stood up. The sudden movement made the sofa squeak. He walked to the small metal sink in the corner. He dumped his tea down the drain. He turned on the faucet.
The water rushed out, hitting the metal basin loudly.
Emmett leaned over the sink. He gripped the wet metal edges. Under the noise of the running water, he moved his lips.
“She will bring you hell,” Emmett whispered. His voice was full of pure venom.
“What did you say?” Rory called out from the sofa.
Emmett turned off the water. He shook the drops off his hands. He turned around. The venom was gone. His face was a blank, obedient mask.
“I said Finch is coming to check the afternoon schedule,” Emmett said. “You better hide that book.”
Rory gasped. He shoved the etiquette guide down his pants. He frantically straightened his tie.
Emmett walked to the door. He pushed it open. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Rory and Moira were still talking about Clara’s money. They were trapped in a fantasy.
Emmett stepped out into the dark hallway. He let the door close behind him. He felt nothing for them. He had cut the cord. His ambition to be a rich man’s servant was dead. Now, he only wanted to be their executioner.
Serve Me, My Lord Chapter 3
The morning air was freezing. Emmett walked out of the massive iron gates of Patterson Manor. He wore his oldest clothes. A faded gray hoodie and worn-out jeans. He held a copper tram token in his hand.
He stopped on the sidewalk. He turned around and looked back. The manor sat on a hill, surrounded by morning fog. It looked like a giant, beautiful tomb.
A loud screech of brakes pulled his attention away. A rusted city tram stopped in front of him. The doors rattled open.
Emmett stepped up. He dropped his token into the slot. He walked down the narrow aisle and sat in the very back row, pressing his shoulder against the cold window.
The tram drove away from the wealthy suburbs. The scenery outside the window changed. The perfectly cut green lawns disappeared. They were replaced by cracked sidewalks, brick walls covered in soot and grime, and the tall, dead smokestacks of abandoned factories.
The inside of the tram smelled like cheap cigarettes and unwashed clothes. A baby cried loudly two rows ahead.
In his past life, Emmett would have covered his nose. He would have looked at these people with disgust. Now, he just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the vibrating glass. He let the noise wash over him. It was real. It was alive.
An hour and a half later, the tram stopped in the middle of the industrial district. Emmett stepped off. The cold wind whipped a dirty newspaper across his boots.
He walked down the broken pavement. He headed toward his family’s tenement housing complex.
He stopped at a corner grocer. The bell above the door jingled.
He walked down the narrow aisles. He grabbed two loaves of fresh bread, a large carton of milk, and three boxes of the expensive chocolate his younger siblings loved. He carried them to the counter. He pulled out the few dollar bills he had saved.
The store owner, a heavy man with a dirty apron, scanned the items. He looked Emmett up and down. He sneered.
“What’s wrong, pretty boy?” the owner mocked. “Did the rich folks kick you out? Couldn’t cut it in the big house?”
Emmett’s face didn’t change. He didn’t feel the hot flash of anger he used to feel. He just looked at the man’s tired eyes.
“Thank you,” Emmett said politely. He picked up the heavy canvas sacks and walked out.
He walked two blocks to a peeling brick building. He took a deep breath. He walked up the wooden stairs. Every step groaned under his weight.
He reached the third floor. He stood in front of a door with chipped white paint.
He raised his hand to knock. He stopped. His fist hovered in the air.
For five seconds, he couldn’t move. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. The guilt was suffocating. The last time he saw his mother in his past life, she was lying in a cheap coffin, dead from a sickness she couldn’t afford to treat. Because he had kept all his money to buy tailored uniforms.
He swallowed hard. He knocked on the wood.
He heard hurried footsteps inside. The lock clicked. The door opened two inches.
His fifteen-year-old sister, Elspeth, peeked out. Her eyes were sharp and guarded.
When she saw Emmett, her eyes went wide. Then, her face hardened into a glare.
“What do you want?” Elspeth asked coldly. “Did you come to beg Mom for more money to buy your stupid fancy clothes?”
The words felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. He deserved it.
Emmett didn’t argue. He just lifted the heavy grocery bags and held them out to her.
Elspeth looked at the food. He saw her throat move as she swallowed. She was hungry. But she kept her hands by her sides. She was too proud.
A weak cough came from inside the apartment. “Elspeth? Who is at the door?”
Emmett pushed the door open gently. He stepped past his sister.
The apartment was tiny. The air smelled heavily of damp mold and old cooking oil.
His mother lay on a sunken, ripped sofa in the living room. She wore a faded blanket over her shoulders.
When she saw Emmett, she gasped. Tears instantly filled her eyes. She pushed her weak arms against the cushions, trying to sit up.
Emmett dropped the bags on the floor. He crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees on the dirty carpet. He reached out and grabbed her hands. Her skin was rough and freezing cold.
“Mom,” Emmett whispered. His voice shook. The emotion broke through his flat mask. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. I was a selfish bastard.”
His mother looked shocked. She pulled one hand free and touched his cheek. Her thumb brushed his skin.
“Emmett,” she cried. “You’re home. As long as you’re safe, nothing else matters.”
Two small heads peeked out from the bedroom door. Maeve and Tobin. They stared at him with big, scared eyes. They barely recognized their older brother.
Emmett turned his head. He reached into the grocery bag. He pulled out the boxes of chocolate. He looked at them with the softest expression he had ever made.
He waved the boxes.
The kids couldn’t resist. They ran across the room and crashed into his legs.
Emmett dropped the chocolate. He wrapped his arms around their small bodies. He pulled them tight against his chest. He buried his face in their hair.
Elspeth stood by the door. She watched them. Her eyes turned red. She wiped her face with her sleeve and quietly closed the front door.
Emmett looked around the cramped, poor room. The block of ice inside his chest finally melted.
He squeezed his siblings tighter. He made a silent vow. He didn’t care how much blood he had to spill. He didn’t care who he had to destroy. In this life, he was going to rip the Patterson family apart, take their wealth, and build a fortress for his family.