Amara's POV
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, heart still jackhammering against my ribs. Of all the people in this sprawling mansion, of all the nights, it had to be him. Trey.
I pressed my hands to my face, heat rushing up my neck. Stupid, Amara. So stupid. Why had I even gone down to the kitchen at two in the morning? Why had I thought no one would be awake, least of all the man whose insomnia could probably power an entire city? And why — God, why — had I changed into the most daring nightdress I owned?
I had a perfectly good robe folded at the foot of the bed. A pair of soft shorts in my bag. I could have thrown on anything. But no. My brain had chosen silk and straps and bare skin as if I were trying to test fate.
I paced the room, bare feet silent against the rug. Every step replayed the scene in my head: his eyes on me, sharp as a blade, then colder than ice. That single flick of his gaze had been enough to make me feel both naked and seventeen again, like I was caught doing something forbidden in the marble halls.
Why did it have to be Trey?
The name alone made my stomach twist. The boy who had once been everything I wanted and nothing I could have. The man who was now my boss, my warning label, my history lesson. Of course he'd found me — it was his house, his rules, his domain. And of course I'd given him the perfect ammunition to reprimand me, to remind me of my place.
I wrapped my arms tight around myself, willing the memory of his voice away: clipped, low, commanding. Wishing I could scrape it off my skin. But underneath my humiliation, something else pulsed — the echo of his eyes before the reprimand, the flash of heat he tried to hide.
I stopped pacing and stared at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The girl looking back at me wasn't the timid maid's daughter anymore. She was older, smarter, and yet she'd just walked straight into a trap of her own making.
"Never again," I whispered to my reflection. "Keep your robe on. Keep your armor up. And stop letting him see you."
The storm rattled against the windowpane. I slipped under the covers and turned off the lamp, but my body was still thrumming with adrenaline. Somewhere down the hall, I imagined him still awake, glass in hand, trying just as hard as I was to erase the sight of the other.
The room was far nicer than anything I'd been given here before — high ceilings, muted wallpaper, a view of the courtyard — but it still smelled like the mansion: cold stone, polished brass, and memories I couldn't quite scrub away.
I set my bag down on the armchair and took a slow spin, tracing every line of the space. I'd been to all the places in this house: the music room with its aching piano, the library stacked with books I wasn't supposed to touch, the kitchen where my mother once worked before dawn. I'd even slept over in Tessa's room more times than I could count, sneaking midnight snacks and whispering secrets under her duvet like we were the same kind of girls.
But my place had never been here — not behind guest-room doors with monogrammed sheets. My place had been at the back, down the servants' corridor, the smell of starch and soap in the air, the maid's quarters where my mother's laughter echoed soft and tired at the end of her shift.
And yet, here I was now, standing inside his mansion — the one his wealthy parents had handed down to him like an heirloom of power and privilege — surrounded by walls that had once felt like my second home and my cage all at once.
The bedspread was still crisp, the lamplight still warm, a single rose in a glass vase by the window. But nothing felt familiar anymore. The mansion had grown colder, more formidable... or maybe it was me who had changed inside it.
I moved to the window, fingers brushing the heavy curtain. Down in the courtyard the rain shimmered like melted glass under the floodlights. Somewhere in the house Trey was awake, probably pacing or working, his voice still ringing in my ears — clipped, distant, the way he'd looked at me in the kitchen like he wanted to burn me and banish me at once.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. The truth was, I'd grown up with the idea of him — the boy with all the rooms, all the power, all the freedom. He'd been my first crash of a heartbreak, my first lesson in how walls could rise between two people even when they shared the same roof. And yet tonight, under the glow of the chandelier, for the first time he'd looked at me not like a child or a charity case, but like a woman.
And that — that was dangerous.
I pulled away from the window and wrapped my arms around myself. I told myself I'd come here for the job, for Tessa, for the wedding. That I could handle him now. That the mansion was just a building, no longer a cathedral of my childhood dreams.
But as I slipped beneath the covers, the storm whispering against the glass, I could still feel the weight of his gaze from the kitchen — like a hand hovering just above my skin, never touching, but hot enough to leave a mark.
But lying here wasn't helping. The sheets felt too crisp, the rose too perfect, the silence too loud. I threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, the silk clinging damp to my skin. My phone blinked weakly on the nightstand — no messages. Not from Tessa, not from anyone. Just me, a stranger in a house I'd once known better than my own.
I dragged the robe around my shoulders at last, belting it tight as if it could hold me together. My hands shook. God, what was wrong with me? I'd survived bigger humiliations than a kitchen walk-in, but the look in his eyes... the look in his eyes had burned through every wall I'd built.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaked. I froze. The mansion always sounded alive at night, but tonight every noise felt like a warning. Was it him? Was he still awake, pacing, waiting to finish what he started?
I stood and crossed to the desk, pulling open the drawer. Inside lay a guest pad and a pen stamped with the family crest. My fingers hovered over the paper. A stupid impulse rose — to write an apology, to write anything — but I slammed the drawer shut. No. Not this time. I wouldn't hand him my shame on paper.
Instead I turned off the lamp again and climbed back under the covers, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow I would wake up early. I would dress in armor: pressed blouse, pencil skirt, smile like glass. Tomorrow he wouldn't see silk, or bare skin, or the girl I used to be. Tomorrow he would see a professional, and I would remind myself why I was here: for the job, for Tessa, for myself.
And maybe — just maybe — that would be enough to survive Trey.
Dawn came early, sliding pale and watery through the curtains. I hadn't slept at all. By six, I was up, showered, and zipped into my armor — a charcoal-gray blouse tucked into a fitted skirt, hair smoothed back so tight it could have been lacquered. The robe lay folded at the foot of the bed like a warning.
I left the guest room and followed the corridor toward the kitchen. The mansion was already awake with staff: the hush of a vacuum down the hall, clinking trays, the smell of fresh coffee and butter. The marble floor under my heels felt colder than I remembered.
"Morning, Miss Amara," one of the maids murmured as she passed me a tray. I smiled, but my stomach felt like it had swallowed stones.
He was at the breakfast table when I entered — of course he was. Trey Alvarez, sleeves rolled to his forearms, coffee steaming by his hand, phone face-down beside the plate as though even his devices knew better than to disturb him at this hour.
I inhaled sharply. His eyes flicked up, catching mine for a single instant before dropping back to the newspaper. No greeting. Just a shift of his jaw, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning," I said, voice neutral.
"Morning," he said, clipped. The sound of cutlery on porcelain felt louder than a gunshot.
I moved to the sideboard and poured myself coffee, determined not to spill, determined to pretend last night never happened. But the air between us hummed like a live wire. Every time I caught a glimpse of his hands — strong, tanned, curled around the cup — the image of them on the kitchen counter flashed back at me, and my cheeks burned.
"You're up early," he remarked without looking.
"Lots to do for the wedding," I answered. "I like to start before the chaos."
His paper rustled. "Smart."
Silence again. Only the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of his spoon. I sipped my coffee, willing my pulse to slow.
I could do this. Professional. Untouchable. I could survive one more breakfast without folding into the old Amara who used to orbit him like a planet caught in gravity.
But then —
"Miss Amara?" a voice called from the hallway. One of the junior staff hurried in, balancing a thin black portfolio on her palms. "This was found in one of the storage boxes downstairs — I think it's yours?"
Before I could say anything, she laid it right on the table between us. The paper had yellowed at the edges, but the drawing still glowed with color: me at fifteen, clumsy pencil lines, a sketch of a bride and groom under a paper arch.
My throat went dry.
Trey's newspaper lowered an inch. His eyes locked on the sketch — on himself drawn taller, older, tuxedo perfect; on me in a fantasy gown with veil and flowers. In the corner, childish comic-book bubbles spelled out a conversation I'd once wished into being:
Trey: "I've loved you all along."
Amara: "And I've waited for you."
My fingers darted forward, trying to snatch it back, but he put his hand flat on the page first. His palm dwarfed the paper.
"Interesting," he said softly.
Heat flooded my face. "It's nothing — I was a kid—"
"You wrote dialogue," he murmured, scanning each bubble. "You planned a whole scene."
I yanked harder, but his hand didn't move.
"Please," I hissed. "It's private."
He lifted his gaze at last, and the look in his eyes made my stomach turn over — not just mockery, but something darker. Recognition. Memory. Maybe even a flicker of guilt.
"Private?" he said. "In my house?"
The staff member fled quietly, leaving the drawing between us like a detonated mine. Across the polished table, Trey's thumb brushed the edge of the paper, slow and deliberate.
"Well," he said at last, voice low. "Looks like breakfast just got interesting."