Sold to Them

Chapter 18

Kaylee's POV

Another day in this confining mansion began with the sun casting a pale light through my window. Groaning, I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed, the weight of the day's impending lessons already settling on my shoulders. The day unfolded with the familiar dread, my limbs feeling heavier as I anticipated the forthcoming lessons.

As I entered the study, Mrs. Thorne's unyielding gaze met mine, her frosty demeanor enough to send shivers down my spine. Her silver hair gleamed as cold blue eyes appraised me. Today's lesson promised to be more complex, the delicate art of conversation and social graces lying ahead like an insurmountable challenge.

"Good morning, Miss Kaylee," her voice carried a hint of condescension and displeasure, her thin lips curving in a faint mockery of a smile. "Today, we shall delve into the nuances of conversation, a skill crucial for any young lady."

I lowered myself into a chair, bracing myself for the ordeal ahead. Mrs. Thorne's gaze remained unrelenting, like a hawk eyeing its prey. "Begin with a hypothetical exchange, where you will provide suitable responses to my statements."

The conversation began, and I felt the weight of her judgment with each word I uttered. My responses seemed to fall short of her expectations, and her disdain became increasingly palpable as the moments ticked by.

"Miss Kaylee," her voice cut through the air like a knife, "your attempts are futile."

Mrs. Thorne's explanations were as cutting as her gaze, her words dripping with venomous disapproval, even before I had a chance to respond. I stumbled over my words under her icy gaze, met with her sharp corrections and impatient sighs.

"Miss Kaylee," she snapped again, her tone laced with exasperation, "one would think you had never held a conversation before."

The minutes stretched on, each exchange a reminder of my inadequacy. Her condescending remarks and calloused corrections grated on my nerves, leaving me feeling like an incompetent child in the presence of a stern schoolteacher. My mistakes became more prevalent as my nerves increased. I stuttered, stumbling to remember the phrases and remarks Mrs. Thorne had repeated numerous times.

"You continue to miss the mark," her voice was an icy blade, slicing through my already dwindling confidence. "We shall repeat this exercise."

Time seemed to blur as I struggled to meet her expectations, my mind a jumbled mess of nerves and pressure. My self-assurance waned with each failed attempt, and I felt myself shrinking under her harsh scrutiny.

"Your responses lack the poise required for a young lady," she snapped, her patience finally breaking. "Let us start over from the beginning."

I forced myself to focus, determined to make a positive impression despite the disheartening odds. Each subsequent attempt was met with a sigh of exasperation or a scathing comment, further chipping away at my self-esteem.

"You persist in faltering. Your only success of the day has been in succeeding to disappoint me." Her intense criticism felt like a blow, knocking the wind out of me. "We shall try this once more."

When the humiliating ordeal finally came to an end, I left the study feeling mentally drained and emotionally bruised. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried, I was destined to fall short of Mrs. Thorne's exacting standards.

As I walked towards the ballroom, I clung to the hope that the dance lesson with Signore Fabrizio would provide a reprieve from the relentless pressure of the etiquette lessons. The thought of moving gracefully, of allowing the music to sweep me away from the cold reality of the mansion, was a balm to my exhausted soul.