Chapter 6: Dawn Ultimatum

Five

Before dawn, I woke up.

Because during those five years, every day I had to attend to the Northland president like a servant, getting up early to pull a Nespresso shot and cook his breakfast.

If I couldn’t personally satisfy him, I’d be sent to wait on even more people—scrubbing floors in silence, eyes down, a ghost in my own skin.

Even though I’ve lived this life again and returned to the Southern Republic,

The scars on my body can’t be erased, and the habits I developed are hard to break—a raised seam near my collarbone stares back at me in the mirror when I button my blouse.

I lay awake until sunlight streamed through the window.

I stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster. The city outside was just beginning to stir, a distant rumble of traffic and the scent of fresh-cut grass from the grounds below. I breathed in slowly, letting the peace settle over me, but the anxiety remained—a kettle whistle used to make me flinch; it still does.

After washing up, mom’s maid came over to deliver a message, arrogantly scolding me for sleeping in and not coming downstairs to greet Mrs. Thompson.

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, voice sharp as ever. Her attitude hadn’t changed one bit—still clinging to old family hierarchies, still convinced she held some authority over me.

I picked up my coffee mug, and Rachel slapped the maid across the face—a sharp crack that made my grip tighten around the handle and drew a collective intake of breath from the staff.

That maid always relied on borrowed power, used to being arrogant.

In my previous life, when I first returned home, she spread whispers about me—calling me ruined, implying I should disappear to “fix” it. Those words lodged like glass.

I went for the marriage alliance by presidential order, but in her eyes, it became a crime.

I wanted to punish her on the spot.

But my parents tried every way to stop me, accusing me of being cruel and heartless.

This time, after being hit, the maid jumped up and shouted, "I am Mrs. Thompson’s maid!"

Rachel sneered, "I am the housekeeper assigned to Ms. Thompson by the First Lady."

At the mention of the First Lady, the maid instantly wilted.

I had her tied up and sent to the front yard for public punishment—our security protocol, private and contained behind the hedges, with documentation logged.

Mom and Aubrey arrived quickly.

The maid clung to them like a lifeline, "Mrs. Thompson, Miss Sinclair, please save me!"

Mom, just like in my previous life, reproached me.

She said with deep pain, "Where did I go wrong with you?"

I lifted my eyes slightly.

Her words hit me with the same cold sting as before, but this time I didn’t flinch. I held her gaze, letting the silence stretch until she looked away, her confidence faltering just a little. In the pale morning light, I felt both vindicated and tired—a warrior still fighting for the home she’d lost. At sunrise, I planned my next call—to the First Lady, and to the press.