Winter Parker had never been inside a building that required a retina scan to access an elevator. She had also never stood in an elevator that could fit a small army. And she had definitely never shared such a confined space with a man like Lelouch Wayne.
Not that she was watching him.
That would be weird.
Totally weird.
She wasn't watching the way his arms crossed over his chest, the way the charcoal-gray fabric of his jacket stretched slightly across his shoulders—broad and perfectly tailored. Or the way his posture remained uncannily still, like even gravity didn't dare nudge him out of line.
Nope. Not watching that.
She was, however, staring straight ahead at the reflective metal wall and seeing his entire image in it.
And maybe, just maybe, her own, by comparison.
She looked like a wet cat beside him—hair in a fraying ponytail, thrift store jeans that had lost the will to live, and a duffel bag that might've once been blue but now looked somewhere between tragic and biohazard.
He didn't say a word the whole way up.
Just stared forward, gray eyes expressionless. Like the world was a chessboard and everyone else was already a pawn.
Winter shuffled awkwardly. The silence buzzed.
She cleared her throat. "So… am I supposed to curtsy when we get inside?"
Lelouch didn't move. "Only if you plan to fall on your face."
She grunted. "Charming."
The elevator pinged, and the doors opened into what could only be described as… cinematic excess.
---
The penthouse stretched wide and tall, windows reaching up into forever. City lights glittered beyond the glass, a sweeping skyline of wealth and wonder.
Everything was marble, chrome, glass, and steel. Cold. Quiet. Luxurious to the point of absurdity.
A spiral staircase curved up to a second floor. A grand piano sat untouched in the corner. One wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with perfectly spaced volumes. Another held art pieces that didn't match and somehow still looked curated.
Winter stepped in like she might trip an alarm. "This place has, like… echoes."
He stepped past her, unfazed. "The bedrooms are upstairs. You'll be in the east wing."
"Wing? I get a wing now?"
"You'll be working in the main rooms. Kitchen, study, laundry. You'll receive a daily schedule. All personal errands are logged."
She blinked. "Do I need to file for toilet breaks, or…?"
He didn't laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Small victory.
---
As he walked away—long legs, perfect gait, damn him—she caught a better look at him from behind.
He was too tall. That was the problem. Towering, actually. Like 6'2", if she had to guess. All lean elegance, without any of the slouch or awkwardness tall guys usually had. His black hair was styled like a villain in a drama—neat, crisp, no flyaways. And his face?
Winter hated how beautiful it was.
Not soft beautiful. Sharp. Dangerous. Cheekbones like they were sculpted with intent to wound. A mouth that only smiled when delivering death sentences.
The kind of face that should come with a disclaimer.
She, meanwhile, had the energy of a middle child in a group project.
Her reflection in the penthouse glass confirmed it: short-ish at 5'4", average build, chestnut brown hair that frizzed in the humidity of wealth, and those same stubborn hazel eyes that had gotten her into more trouble than they'd ever gotten her out of. Freckles still dotted her nose. Her features weren't delicate, but they were honest.
And next to him, she felt like someone had photoshopped her into the wrong movie.
---
He showed her the "maid's quarters," which were… not terrible.
Okay, they were fancy as hell.
Private bathroom, full bed, minimalist design, too many pillows. It looked like an Instagram showroom that was pretending to be "cozy."
She dropped her duffel onto the foot of the bed and turned to face him.
"So," she said, arms crossed, "what exactly do you expect me to do?"
Lelouch leaned on the doorframe like he belonged in a cologne ad. "Clean. Organize. Maintain order."
"Order," she echoed. "What am I, a human Roomba?"
"You'll also assist with basic security routines. Check deliveries. Vet mail. Report unusual activity."
She squinted. "So you want me to spy?"
"I want you to be observant."
"Of your enemies?"
"Of everyone."
She blinked. "Wow. You must be terrific at parties."
His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. "You'll start in the morning. Six sharp."
Winter wrinkled her nose. "You realize six is an hour only birds understand, right?"
"You can be replaced."
"Try it. I'd love to see your PR team handle that headline."
He didn't flinch.
She stepped forward. "You don't scare me, Mr. Wayne."
His voice was ice. "That would be your first mistake."
---
After he left, Winter collapsed face-first onto the bed and screamed into a pillow.
One month. Thirty days. It was nothing. It was an eternity.
And if she had to scrub imported countertops while the most infuriatingly attractive man on Earth pretended she didn't exist?
She was going to lose her damn mind.
---
The next morning began at 5:59.
Her alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but something about the penthouse seemed to breathe around her. Like the space itself had expectations.
She rolled out of bed with a groan and pulled on the maid uniform laid out for her. It wasn't awful. Simple black dress, white collar, apron. Modest, but clean. Fitted just enough to feel like a costume.
She tied her hair back into a tight ponytail, scrubbed the sleep from her eyes, and marched down the stairs like a woman entering a warzone.
Lelouch was already in the kitchen. Reading something on his tablet. Suit pressed, posture perfect, espresso in hand.
"You're early," she said, pouring herself water.
"I live here."
She made a face. "Do you sleep? Or just recharge in a glass coffin?"
He looked up. His eyes—gray, cool, always three thoughts ahead—held hers for a moment too long.
"No one's ever asked," he said.
She blinked. "Wait. Was that a joke?"
"Possibly."
"Do I get a calendar to track those?"
"You'll be given a schedule. Kitchen duty starts now."
Winter groaned. "Where's the toaster?"
He didn't answer. He just nodded at a chrome monstrosity on the counter with more buttons than a spaceship.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not a toaster. That's a threat."
---
Breakfast was… burned toast and scrambled eggs that could double as insulation.
Winter watched him take one bite, chew slowly, and set the fork down.
"Feedback?" she asked, arms folded.
"It's… food," he said.
She put her hands on her hips. "Hey, I'll have you know I once won third place in a high school bake-off."
"Out of how many?"
"Three."
His lips twitched.
Then he stood. "There's a spare apron in the cabinet. You'll need it for cleaning detail."
She grabbed it, muttering, "You're lucky I haven't poisoned this espresso."
He turned back. "Don't worry. I have people for that now."
She blinked. "Was that another joke?!"
He left the kitchen without answering.