The mansion woke before dawn.
I had barely slept in the narrow bed tucked at the end of the servants' wing. The sheets smelled faintly of bleach, the silence thick, broken only by the distant hum of security cameras rotating through the halls.
By five, I was already in uniform—black dress, white apron, hair pinned back. The kind of outfit that screamed servant. My stomach twisted, but I reminded myself: money. Rent. Medicine. Survival.
The kitchen buzzed with quiet, efficient chaos. Other staff avoided my eyes, as though even looking at the newcomer might get them in trouble. The unspoken rule was clear: don't stand out.
But then he walked in.
Adrian.
His presence filled the room the way fire fills a matchbox—dangerous, contained, but ready to burn everything. He wore another dark suit, his hair slicked back, his jaw freshly shaven. He looked at the cooks and housekeepers like they were ghosts, and when his eyes fell on me, my breath caught.
"You're still here," he said. Not a question. A test.
"Yes, sir." My voice barely carried.
He smirked, like my trembling amused him, and turned toward the coffee set before him. But before he could reach for the cup, a voice drifted in from the hallway.
"Adrian?"
The temperature in the room shifted.
She appeared in the doorway, dressed in silk that clung to her like it had been poured on. Blonde hair, diamonds on her wrist, lips painted blood-red. She didn't look like she belonged in the same world as me.
"Clara," Adrian said smoothly, his tone different now—softer, practiced. "You're up early."
She crossed the kitchen without glancing at anyone but him, looping her arms around his shoulders. "I couldn't sleep without you."
My chest tightened. Fiancée. The word whispered in my head even before she spoke it aloud.
"When are you done with your meetings? We still have the charity gala tonight," Clara said, her fingers brushing the lapel of his suit.
Adrian kissed her knuckles, eyes cold even as he smiled. "I'll be there."
For a moment, it felt like I had vanished. Like the room held only the two of them.
But then Clara's gaze flicked toward me. Sharp. Assessing.
"And who's this?" she asked, her tone laced with sugar and poison.
"A maid," Adrian replied flatly. "New."
Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Pretty for a maid."
Heat crawled up my neck. I dropped my gaze, wishing the floor would swallow me.
Adrian didn't look at her. He didn't look at me. He simply finished his coffee, set the cup down, and murmured, "Come along, Clara. We're late."
They left, her heels clicking like gunshots against the marble floor.
Only when the sound faded did I realize I had been holding my breath.
The cooks finally resumed moving, whispering among themselves. But my mind was elsewhere—caught between the ice in Adrian's eyes and the sharpness in Clara's smile.
If Clara was his fiancée…
Then what did Adrian mean last night when he said I belonged to him?
I carried a tray of dishes to the sink, but my hands trembled so badly one of the glasses slipped, shattering across the floor.
"Careful," one of the older maids hissed, pulling me aside. Her eyes darted toward the doorway, as though afraid he might still be watching. She lowered her voice. "Word of advice? Don't let him notice you. Don't let her notice you either. People who catch the Don's attention… don't last long here."
Her warning sent a shiver racing down my spine.
But it was already too late.
Adrian had noticed me. And so had Clara.
And something told me that whatever game I had been dragged into was only just beginning.