Amara's POV
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my heart still pounding hard against my ribs. Of all the people in this sprawling mansion, it had to be him. Trey.
I pressed my hands to my face and tried to breathe through the heat climbing up my neck. Stupid, Amara. So stupid. Why did I even go down to the kitchen at two in the morning? Why did I assume no one would be awake, least of all the man whose insomnia could probably power an entire city? And why, of all choices, did I change into the most daring nightdress I owned?
I had a perfectly good robe folded at the foot of the bed. I had soft shorts in my bag. I could have thrown on an oversized shirt. I could have worn anything that screamed safe and invisible. But no. My brain chose silk and straps and bare skin, as if I was testing fate, as if I was inviting disaster.
I paced the room, bare feet silent against the rug, my hands clenched and unclenched like I could shake off the memory. Every step replayed the scene. His eyes on me, sharp as a blade, then colder than ice. That single shift in his gaze was enough to make me feel naked and seventeen again, like I had been 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 found me. It was his house, his rules, his domain. And of course I gave him the perfect reason to reprimand me, to remind me where I stood. I handed him ammunition on a silver tray, as if I had learned nothing.
I wrapped my arms tight around myself and tried to push the sound of his voice out of my head. It had been clipped, low, commanding. The kind of voice that did not ask. It decided. I wanted to scrape it off my skin like grime. But underneath the humiliation, something else pulsed. The echo of his eyes before the reprimand. The flash of heat he tried to bury. The fraction of a second where the air between us changed and my whole body noticed.
That was what made it worse.
I stopped pacing and stared at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The girl looking back at me was not the timid maid's daughter anymore. She was older. Smarter. Harder. She knew how to hold her ground in a room full of wealthy strangers and demanding clients. Yet she had still walked straight into a trap of her own making.
"Never again," I whispered to my reflection. "Keep your robe on. Keep your armor up. Stop letting him see you."
Outside, the storm rattled the windowpane. I slid under the covers and turned off the lamp, but my body was still vibrating 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 thought only made my chest tighten. He should not matter to me. Not anymore. Not after everything.
The room was far nicer than anything I had ever been given in this house before. High ceilings. Muted wallpaper. A view of the courtyard. A bed dressed in crisp sheets that looked too perfect to touch. Yet it still smelled like the mansion. Cold stone. Polished brass. Old money. Memories that clung like smoke.
I set my bag down on the armchair and took a slow turn, letting my eyes map the space. I had been everywhere in this house. The music room with the grand piano that sounded like heartbreak when you pressed the wrong keys. The library stacked with books I was never supposed to touch but secretly loved anyway. The kitchen where my mother used to work before dawn, hair tied back, hands moving fast, making sure trays were ready before the family woke.
I had even slept over in Tessa's room more times than I could count. We used to sneak midnight snacks and whisper secrets under her duvet like we were the same kind of girls. Like the world outside her bedroom door did not exist. Like class and money and rules could not reach us there.
But my place had never truly been here. Not behind guest room doors with monogrammed sheets and fresh roses in glass vases. My place had been at the back, down the servants' corridor, where the air smelled like starch and soap and long hours. My place had been in 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. I was surrounded by walls that had once felt like my second home and my cage at the same time.
The bedspread was crisp. The lamplight was warm. A single rose sat by the window like someone thought beauty could make everything feel gentle. But nothing felt familiar anymore. The mansion had grown colder, more formidable. Or maybe it was me who had changed inside it. Maybe the familiarity had been stripped away by time, by humiliation, by the way he still looked at me like I belonged in the shadows.
I moved to the window and brushed my fingers along the heavy curtain. Down in the courtyard, rain shimmered like melted glass under the floodlights. Somewhere in the house, Trey was awake. I could feel it like an ache. He was probably pacing. Or reading emails. Or standing in some quiet room with that controlled stillness of his. His voice still rang in my ears, clipped and distant, the way he looked at me in the kitchen like he wanted to scorch me and banish me at the same time.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and let myself admit the truth I did not want to face. I had grown up with the idea of him. The boy with all the rooms, all the power, all the freedom. The boy who never had to worry about tuition fees or broken cars or whether the electricity bill would be paid on time. He had been my first crash of heartbreak, my first lesson in how walls could rise between two people even when they shared the same roof.
And yet tonight, under the chandelier, for the first time, he looked at me not like a child or a charity case, but like a woman.
That was dangerous.
That was the kind of danger that did not announce itself with loud alarms. It slid under your skin. It made old wounds feel fresh. It made you wonder if the past could be rewritten, even when you knew better.
I pulled away from the window and wrapped my arms around myself. I told myself I came here for the job, for Tessa, for the wedding. I told myself I could handle him now. That the mansion was just a building, no longer the cathedral of my childhood dreams.
But as I slipped beneath the covers again, the storm whispering against the glass, I could still feel the weight of his gaze from the kitchen. It hovered like a hand just above my skin, never touching, but hot enough to leave a mark.
Lying there was not helping. The sheets felt too crisp. The rose felt too perfect. The silence felt too loud. I threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, the silk clinging to my skin like a reminder of my own stupidity. My phone blinked weakly on the nightstand. No messages. Not from Tessa. Not from anyone. Just me, alone, a stranger in a house I once knew better than my own.
I dragged the robe around my shoulders at last and belted it tight as if fabric could hold me together. My hands shook. What was wrong with me? I survived bigger humiliations than being caught in the kitchen. I survived heartbreak that cracked my teenage self open. I survived years of building a career from nothing. So why did one look from Trey Alvarez still unravel me?
A floorboard creaked down the hall. I froze.
The mansion always sounded alive at night, but tonight every noise felt like a warning. My mind jumped to the worst possibility. Was it him? Was he still awake, still restless, still moving through these hallways like he owned the air itself?
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 in me, the old habit of trying to fix things by explaining, by apologizing, by making myself smaller so others could stay comfortable.
I almost wrote. I almost let my shame spill onto paper so he could read it and feel powerful.
I slammed the drawer shut.
No. Not this time. I would not hand him my humiliation in ink. I would not volunteer my weakness.
Instead I turned off the lamp again and climbed back under the covers, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow I would wake early. I would dress in armor. A pressed blouse. A fitted skirt. A face that revealed nothing. Tomorrow he would not see silk or bare skin or the girl I used to be.
Tomorrow he would see a professional.
Tomorrow I would remind myself why I was here. For the job. For Tessa. For myself. For the life I fought to build.
And maybe, if I held tight enough to that, it would be enough to survive Trey.
Dawn came early, sliding pale and watery through the curtains. I had not slept at all. My body felt heavy, but my mind stayed sharp with nerves. 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 looked lacquered. My makeup was minimal but precise. Concealer to hide the shadows. Lip color muted. Nothing soft. Nothing inviting.
The robe lay folded at the foot of the bed like a warning I did not want to forget.
I left the guest room and followed the corridor toward the kitchen. The mansion was already awake. Staff moved with quiet efficiency. The hush of a vacuum down the hall. Trays clinking. The smell of fresh coffee and butter. The marble floor under my heels felt colder than I remembered, or maybe my skin was just too aware.
"Morning, Miss Amara," one of the maids murmured as she passed with a tray.
I smiled politely, but my stomach felt like it had swallowed stones. I hated how the title sounded here. Miss Amara. It made me feel like I was pretending. Like the house itself was waiting to call me out.
He was at the breakfast table when I entered. Of course he was.
Trey Alvarez sat with sleeves rolled to his forearms, coffee steaming beside his hand. His phone lay face down near his plate, as though even his devices understood they should not interrupt him. A newspaper was open in front of him. He looked like he belonged in a magazine spread about power and control.
I inhaled sharply and forced my shoulders to stay squared.
His eyes flicked up and caught mine for a single instant before dropping back to the newspaper. No greeting. No apology. Just a subtle tightening of his jaw, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It could have been annoyance. It could have been amusement. It could have been nothing.
But in my body it felt like something.
"Good morning," I said, voice neutral and steady.
"Morning," he replied, clipped.
The sound of cutlery on porcelain felt louder than it should have. Every small noise carried extra weight, like the house itself was listening.
I moved to the sideboard and poured myself coffee, determined not to spill, determined not to look at him too long, 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 and tanned, curled around the cup, an image from last night flashed in my mind and my cheeks threatened to burn.
"You're up early," he said without looking up.
"Lots to do for the wedding," I answered. "I like to start before the chaos."
His newspaper rustled. "Smart."
Silence again.
Only the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft clink of his spoon against the cup. I sipped my coffee, willing my pulse to slow. I could do this. Professional. Untouchable. I could survive one breakfast. I could survive a month of them, if I had to.
I reminded myself of the contract. I reminded myself of the fee. I reminded myself of my sister's tuition and my dream cottage and the company I built with my own hands. I reminded myself that I was not that fifteen year old girl anymore.
Then a voice called from the hallway.
"Miss Amara?"
A junior staff member hurried in, balancing a thin black portfolio on her palms. She looked nervous, like she knew she was stepping into a room filled with landmines. "This was found in one of the storage boxes downstairs," she said. "I think it's yours."
Before I could respond, she placed it on the table between us.
My breath stopped.
The paper was old. Yellowed at the edges. But the drawing still glowed with color, as if my younger self had poured every hope into it. A sketch of a bride and groom under a paper arch. Clumsy pencil lines. Flowers drawn too big. A veil like a waterfall. The handwriting was unmistakably mine.
My throat went dry.
Trey's newspaper lowered slowly. His eyes locked onto the sketch, then moved over every detail. On him drawn taller, older, tuxedo perfect, as my teenage imagination insisted he would look. On me in a fantasy gown, veil and bouquet, everything I was never meant to have.
In the corner, childish comic style bubbles spelled out dialogue I once wished into existence.
Trey: "I've loved you all along."
Amara: "And I've waited for you."
My fingers darted forward, desperate to snatch it back, but his hand came down first, palm flat on the paper. His hand dwarfed it, pinning my secret in place like he had been waiting years to find it.
"Interesting," he murmured, not quite to me, not quite to himself.
Heat climbed my neck, burning my ears. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. "It's nothing," I said too quickly. "I was a kid."
"You wrote dialogue," he said softly. His voice was quiet, almost reverent, but edged with something I could not name. His gaze tracked each bubble as if he was committing them to memory. "You planned a whole scene."
I pulled harder, but his hand did not move. Not even a flinch.
"Please," I hissed, my throat tight. "It's private."
At last he lifted his gaze to mine.
The look in his eyes made my stomach turn, not with mockery, but with something heavier. Recognition. Memory. A flicker of guilt that threatened to show before he buried it. Something old stirred behind his control, then hardened again into authority.
"Private?" he echoed, voice a low challenge. "In my house?"
The staff member, sensing the storm building, slipped away without a sound, leaving the drawing stranded between us like a detonated mine. The silence swelled until I could hear the ticking clock on the wall. Each second stretched the air tighter.
Across the polished table, Trey's thumb brushed the edge of the paper. Not careless. Not teasing. Slow and deliberate, as though he was weighing the past in his hand. His jaw flexed. His expression stayed unreadable, but his eyes never left mine.
My pulse pounded in my ears. I could feel my own humiliation rising like a tide, threatening to drown the calm mask I fought so hard to build.
Then he spoke, voice low, roughened by something he did not name.
"Well," he said, and the word landed like a match tossed into dry grass. "Looks like breakfast just got interesting."