Winter Parker stared up at the towering structure of Wayne Tower as if it might bend under the weight of its own arrogance. Sleek black glass stabbed the morning sky like a knife. Each window gleamed with the kind of cold, unbothered shine that said: you don't belong here.
She adjusted the strap of her purse—cheap vinyl, fraying at the edges—and checked the crumpled letter again. Same sharp lettering. Same impossible invitation.
> Miss Parker,
Wayne Tower. Monday. 10:00 AM.
Not a legal summons. But I suggest you attend.
She had barely slept. Not because she was afraid (although she was), but because every time she closed her eyes, she heard that espresso cup clink. That slow, horrifying slide of Lelouch Wayne's body sideways in his chair. The chaos. The headlines. The implication.
And now he wanted to speak to her. Privately.
Winter wasn't sure if this was a negotiation or an execution.
Probably both.
---
The lobby was more art gallery than office. Stone floors the color of gunmetal. Abstract sculptures that looked like frozen screams. A chandelier like a galaxy in a death spiral.
She stepped to the front desk, heart thudding.
"Winter Parker," she said, trying not to sound like she was being held hostage by her own anxiety. "I have an appointment."
The receptionist barely blinked. "Twenty-ninth floor. Mr. Wayne's office."
The elevator ride felt like a judgment. Her reflection stared back from all four mirrored walls: coat too thin, hair slightly frizzed, boots scuffed from the rain. The girl in the glass did not belong in a place like this.
But Winter had never belonged anywhere.
And maybe, just maybe, that made her dangerous.
---
The twenty-ninth floor opened into a private lobby with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a painting. One sleek black door. No receptionist. Just a long velvet bench and the sound of nothing.
Winter stood awkwardly for five seconds before the door swung open by itself.
Because of course it was sensor-triggered. Of course.
She stepped inside.
Lelouch Wayne was waiting for her.
He sat behind a monolithic desk of dark stone, dressed in another fitted three-piece suit that probably had its own mortgage. His face, as ever, was unreadable—carved in shadows, sculpted in ice.
And he was watching her.
Not studying. Not glancing. Watching.
The kind of stare that pinned you in place and left no room for lying.
"Miss Parker," he said.
Her throat dried up instantly. "Mr. Wayne."
"Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion.
She crossed the room, her footsteps swallowed by the plush rug, and sank into the leather chair across from him. It was firmer than she expected. Not built for comfort.
He set a manila folder on the desk between them. Unlabeled. Heavy.
She eyed it warily. "What's that?"
"My file on you."
Her heart skipped. "You… have a file on me?"
"I like to know who tries to kill me."
She flinched. "I didn't try to kill you."
He tilted his head. "Did you know there was something in the espresso?"
"No."
"Did you hand it to someone else?"
"No. I drank from it and left it on the tray."
"Then explain," he said, voice calm, too calm, "how that cup ended up in my hand."
Winter's lips parted—but no words came out.
He waited. Patient. Icy.
"I—I don't know," she whispered.
Lelouch didn't blink.
"You are either lying," he said, "or you are very, very unlucky."
"I'm not lying."
A long pause.
Then he pushed the folder aside and folded his hands.
"I believe you."
She blinked.
"You—what?"
"You didn't poison me," he said. "You're not the type."
"What's the type?"
He looked her over, unbothered. "You shake when you lie. You can't hold eye contact when nervous. And you genuinely flinch when accused."
"So I'm a bad liar."
"You're an honest one," he corrected. "Which is rarer."
Winter tried not to stare. "Then why the interrogation?"
"I needed to see how you'd react. If you were a plant. If you were paid."
"Paid?"
Lelouch opened a drawer and slid out a photograph.
Winter didn't want to look—but did.
It was grainy. Black and white.
It showed a shadowed figure—short, feminine—talking to the barista backstage. One hand near the tray of espresso cups.
Her own silhouette.
It looked… bad.
"Someone wanted that espresso," he said. "That one. Not the one next to it. Not the cup before or after. Mine."
Winter felt her stomach twist.
"Do you think someone's trying to kill you?"
His mouth curved. Not a smile. Something colder.
"I don't think anything. I know."
She sat back slowly. "So what does this have to do with me?"
Lelouch stood.
Walked to the window.
"Your name," he said, "is now connected to me. Publicly. Permanently. The media won't forget."
"I didn't ask for that."
"I didn't ask to collapse in front of three billionaires and a livestream audience," he said without turning around. "And yet, here we are."
Winter exhaled, shaky. "So what do you want from me? An apology?"
"I want your compliance."
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
He turned. Met her eyes.
"You're going to work for me."
She gaped.
"As what?" she said, horrified. "A baker? A taster? A body double in case the next coffee's poisoned?"
"As my maid."
The words hit like a slap.
Winter laughed once. Loud. Disbelieving.
"No."
"Yes."
"No. Absolutely not."
"You'll live here," he continued, unbothered. "You'll follow a schedule. Chores, errands, monitoring deliveries."
"I'm not doing your laundry!"
"Fine. I'll assign that to the other maid."
"There's another—wait, that's not the point!"
He walked back to the desk. Calm as a god.
"You can't legally force me to be your maid," she said.
"I can, however," he said smoothly, "offer a contract of employment with shelter, food, and stipend in lieu of further investigation."
She blinked. "Are you bribing me with a job?"
"I'm giving you the chance to survive this with your name intact."
Winter stood. "No way. I'm not being your pity project."
"You'd rather go back to the shelter?"
She stilled.
He already knew.
Of course he did.
"I read the reports," he said. "You're sleeping on a bunk bed next to a woman who thinks tin foil keeps out dreams. Your savings are at zero. Your name is viral. You've been blacklisted by four agencies in seventy-two hours."
Her eyes burned.
"This," he said softly, "is the only offer you'll get that doesn't end in a ruined life."
Winter bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
"How long?" she said at last.
"One month."
She stared at him. His face was unreadable.
"And after that?"
"You walk away," he said. "Clean. Quiet. Debt erased."
Winter laughed bitterly. "You think I care about money?"
"I think," he said, "you care about your future. And right now, you don't have one."
She stared at the photo. The folder. The impossible skyline behind his windows.
Then, slowly, she sat down again.
"Fine," she said. "One month."
He nodded once. "Good."
"But I'm not cleaning your toilets."
He almost smiled. "Noted."