บท 3: Bloodlines and Roots
I was born Oliva Ezinne Deveraux, the daughter of wealth and legacy. My parents were African elites, their bloodline stretching back generations to tribal kings and warlords. But the real foundation of our wealth was something far darker—diamonds. My father's side built their empire on the backs of miners who bled and starved for gems that adorned the necks of socialites. Blood diamonds—tainted jewels—funded our palatial estates and designer wardrobes, paid for my private school education in the United States, and carved out a lavish life far away from the realities of the people left in the dirt. I still don't know what our family's real name was before they changed it to be more "Americanized."
Growing up, I knew what it meant to fit into a world built on appearances. My mother, Chidera, made sure of that. "Always act as though you belong," she would say, inspecting every detail of me. Hair straightened to perfection, nails manicured, dresses pressed to crisp lines. My skin—deep, smooth brown—was always oiled, glowing under the scrutiny of high society. But it was my hair that was her greatest obsession.
"We must never give them a reason to think you don't belong," she'd say, her fingers hard at work smoothing my hair into silk with hot combs and chemical perms. Anything to make sure it stayed straight, stayed controlled. In her world, an untamed curl was a crack in the veneer—a betrayal of the image we worked so hard to project.
But now, my reflection told a different story.
The bathroom mirror in the maid's quarters was small, cracked along the edge, but it was enough to show me what I was becoming. My hair, once slicked down and glossy, had begun to rebel. Frizzy curls sprouted at my roots, stubborn and wild, forming the beginnings of an unruly Afro. The perm that had once held it in submission was growing out, and with every passing day, I looked less like the polished socialite I had once been.
I ran a hand through the thick coils, feeling the rough texture under my fingertips. There was a strange comfort in it, like a part of me I hadn't realized I missed was clawing its way to the surface.
But it also felt dangerous. If my mother could see me now, she would have been horrified. She'd say it was proof that I was slipping, that I was no longer "fitting the part." And maybe she'd be right. The woman I used to be—the one who wore designer dresses, mingled with elites, and accepted Nathan Carlisle's ring—was gone. All that was left was this version of me: messy, frizzy, and banished to the servant's quarters of Dominic's estate.
I didn't mourn the loss. Not really. But the world I came from never let go easily.
Working for the Carlisles was a constant reminder of the tightrope I walked between two identities. By day, I was Liv—just another maid in a house that ran on whispered orders and unspoken rules. But at night, when the world was quiet, I couldn't escape the truth of who I was and where I came from.
My parents had built their fortune on the suffering of others, and I had lived off that fortune without ever questioning it. Now, stripped of everything, I was starting to see the cracks in the perfect image we had cultivated for so long. And those cracks ran deep.
The next morning, I woke early, the sound of rain tapping against the windowpane. The room was cold—Dominic's estate was as unforgiving as the man himself. I pulled on my uniform, a plain black dress and white apron, and tied my hair back as best I could. It didn't matter how I looked now—no one cared, as long as I kept my head down and did my work.
I made my way to the kitchen, where the cook handed me a list of tasks without so much as a glance. It was the same routine every day: clean the floors, dust the furniture, and disappear before anyone noticed I existed.
But as I scrubbed the tiles in the grand foyer, the memories from the night before lingered in my mind. Nathan's visit, his presence in Dominic's study, and the tension between the brothers—it all gnawed at me. They were like two wolves circling the same prey, each waiting for the other to make a move. And I was caught between them, whether they knew it or not.
I had once thought Nathan was my future. He was charming, magnetic—a man who could light up a room with a smile. I had fallen for him so easily, believing that he saw me, that he loved me. But Nathan only ever loved what I represented. With me on his arm, he could parade his wealth and status, a Carlisle heir flaunting his exotic prize.
When the scandal broke—when my mother's infidelity was exposed—Nathan dropped me faster than the headlines spread. I became toxic by association, a liability he couldn't afford.
And now, here I was, scrubbing floors in his brother's house, trying to disappear.
I finished the morning's chores without incident, but Dominic was always on the edge of my awareness. His presence lingered like a scent carried on the wind—subtle but impossible to ignore. He wasn't like Nathan, who reveled in attention and praise. Dominic didn't care about anyone's approval, least of all mine.
But there was something in the way he looked at me that unsettled me. Like he saw through the mask I wore, even though I tried so hard to keep it in place.
That afternoon, I found myself alone in the library again, drawn to it despite the warnings. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of old books. I traced my fingers along the spines, feeling the weight of stories that had survived centuries.
I wondered what it would feel like to be a part of something lasting. Something real.
"Can't stay away, can you?"
The voice startled me, and I spun around to find Dominic standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
"I was just—"
"Don't bother lying," he said, stepping into the room. "You're terrible at it."
His words stung, but there was no malice in them. Just a cold, blunt truth.
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. "Why do you care?"
Dominic studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I don't," he said finally. "But you should. This house has rules for a reason."
His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. There was more to this estate—and to Dominic—than I understood. But I wasn't ready to ask the questions. Not yet.
That night, as I lay in bed, the rain still drumming against the window, I ran my fingers through the roots of my hair. The curls felt strange and familiar all at once, like a part of me I had forgotten how to embrace.
I thought of my mother's voice, sharp and commanding: "We must never give them a reason to think you don't belong."
But here, in Dominic's house, I wasn't trying to belong. I was just trying to survive.
And if survival meant letting the old Livy fade away, then so be it.
Because the woman I was becoming—messy hair, raw hands, and all—wasn't going to let anyone control her again.
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