Amara woke before dawn, the mansion wrapped in stillness. For a moment, she forgot where she was - the plush bedding, the faint scent of lavender rising from expensive linens. Then memory rushed back: Vanessa's cutting words, the glimmer in Damian's eyes, the weight of a job that felt more like walking a tightrope blindfolded.
She dragged herself out of bed, dressed, and slipped downstairs. The kitchen gleamed, more steel than warmth, but a plate of fresh pastries had been set out, untouched. She reached for one, only for a voice to slice through the silence.
"You're up early."
Amara was startled. Damian stood in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled, tie missing, his usual armor undone. He looked… human, somehow.
"Couldn't sleep," she admitted, trying to mask her surprise.
He studied her, eyes sharp even in the half-light. "You're not built for silence."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Most people can rest in comfort. You look like comfort makes you restless."
The words hit too close. She tore a piece of pastry, chewing to avoid answering. He didn't press, but his gaze lingered, as though he saw more than she wanted him to.
By mid-morning, the house was buzzing again. Deliveries came in, calls rang off the hook, and Marissa swept through the halls with her clipboard like a general commanding troops. Amara trailed after her, learning the rhythm, scribbling notes until her wrist ached.
That was when she overheard it - two staff members whispering in the corridor.
"…can't believe he's hosting her again."
"After everything last year? Bold."
"She's poisonous. Everyone knows it. But he doesn't listen."
Amara slowed, curiosity prickling. "Who are you talking about?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The maids froze, eyes widening. One of them stammered, "Nobody. Just gossip." Then they scattered like startled birds, leaving Amara standing alone, her heart ticking faster.
Her mind replayed Vanessa's smirk, the way the guests had shifted uncomfortably during dinner. Poison, they'd said. After everything last year.
What had Vanessa done?
That evening, Damian called her into his office. Papers were spread across the desk, contracts and itineraries for the upcoming gala. Amara stood stiffly, waiting for instructions, but he didn't speak right away. Instead, he studied her like a riddle.
"You're curious," he said finally.
She crossed her arms. "I'm observant."
"Curiosity can be dangerous in this house."
"So can ignorance."
His lips curved, not quite a smile. "You think boldness will protect you?"
"No," Amara said evenly. "But truth might."
The air thickened between them. For a moment, she swore he was about to say something real, something that peeled back the careful facade he wore. But then, just as quickly, the wall returned.
"Truth," he echoed softly. "We'll see how much you can handle."
Before she could ask what he meant, the office door swung open. Vanessa entered without knocking, perfume flooding the air.
"Darling," she said sweetly, ignoring Amara entirely. "We need to talk about the guest list."
Amara stiffened, caught between them. Damian's expression cooled into marble. "Later," he said.
Vanessa's eyes flicked to Amara then, sharp as glass. "Of course. Later."
She swept out, leaving the scent of roses and something darker behind.
Amara exhaled shakily. "She doesn't like me."
"She doesn't like anyone." Damian's voice was flat, but a shadow crossed his features. "Especially not those who stand their ground."
Something in his tone made Amara's pulse quicken - not fear, but the creeping sense that the mansion's battles went deeper than she understood. And that somehow, against all logic, she was becoming part of them.
That night, lying in bed, Amara stared at the ceiling, Vanessa's smirk carved into her memory. The whispers echoed in her mind - poison, last year, he didn't listen.
Her instincts screamed this wasn't just about her job. This was about secrets. About power.
And if she wasn't careful, she was going to be pulled under before she even understood the rules of the game.