The rain did not ease for days. It clung to the windows of the mansion like a curse, filling the halls with a damp chill. Fires burned in every hearth, but warmth was a rare thing in a house so cold with silence.
Maria threw herself into her work, hoping the rhythm of duties would drown the storm inside her chest. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not forget that moment in the gallery—the brush of Alexander's hand, the depth in his gaze. It lived behind her eyelids, returning in flashes whenever she closed her eyes at night.
But Maria knew one truth: she was a maid, and he was the master. To dream of anything more was a sin.
One morning, while polishing the staircase banister, Maria overheard Mrs. Greene speaking with another servant. The housekeeper's voice was low, but sharp enough to carry.
"The master grows careless," Mrs. Greene said. "He spends nights locked away in that study, pacing like a restless ghost. I've had enough. The house cannot function with him in such a state."
Maria stilled, cloth in hand.
The other servant, an older footman, answered, "He hasn't been the same since the war, Mrs. Greene. Perhaps he simply needs time."
"Time?" Mrs. Greene scoffed. "The estate needs more than brooding. It needs direction. If he cannot provide it, others will."
Her words chilled Maria. She did not fully understand what power games thrived inside the mansion, but she sensed danger hidden beneath them—like snakes waiting in the grass.
Later that evening, Maria was sent to deliver fresh linens to Alexander's study. Her heart raced as she approached the heavy oak door. She knocked softly.
"Enter," came his deep voice.
She pushed the door open, stepping into a room that smelled of leather and smoke. Books lined the shelves, papers cluttered the desk, and a decanter of brandy glimmered beside a half-empty glass. Alexander stood near the window, his shoulders tense as though he carried a burden invisible to all but him.
Maria set the linens on a chair, bowing her head. "Shall I leave them here, sir?"
He turned, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion. "Yes. Thank you, Maria."
She hesitated, sensing the weight in his tone. Before she could stop herself, she spoke. "Forgive me, sir… but you seem troubled."
His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise passing across his face. Few dared to comment on his moods—least of all a maid.
"And what makes you think so?" he asked, his voice careful, as though testing her.
Maria lowered her gaze, twisting her hands together. "Only… you look as though you carry too much alone."
The silence stretched. When she risked glancing up, she found him studying her intently.
"You're perceptive," he said at last. "More than most here." He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "But take care, Maria. Curiosity in this house is dangerous."
Her breath caught. "I—I meant no offense."
He studied her for a long moment, then sighed, the hardness in his face softening. "I know. But there are things about this estate, about me, that are not safe to know."
Maria nodded, her heart pounding. She turned to leave, but his next words rooted her in place.
"Still," he said quietly, "I find your concern… refreshing."
She froze, her back to him, unsure if she had imagined the warmth in his tone. Without another word, she slipped from the study, her pulse racing as though she had fled a fire.
That night, Maria could not sleep. The storm had lessened to a steady drizzle, tapping against the roof like an endless drum. She lay awake in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams.
Why had she spoken? Why had he listened?
Her life had always been built on silence—obedience, invisibility. Yet Alexander Adelson made her want to speak, to be seen, even when it frightened he
Downstairs, in the master's study, Alexander poured himself another glass of brandy. Maria's words lingered in his mind, haunting him more than the ghosts of war ever had.
"You look as though you carry too much alone."
She had no idea how true it was.
He had inherited more than wealth. He had inherited secrets—family debts, rivalries, a legacy stained with blood. And now, with whispers of betrayal stirring within his household, Alexander knew he could trust no one.
No one, except perhaps… the maid with honest eyes who had dared to speak when others kept silent.
But that was madness. She was a servant. He was her master. To let himself look at her as more would be ruin—for both of them.
And yet, as he lifted his glass, Alexander found himself thinking not of his enemies, but of Maria.
Her soft voice.
Her steady hands.
The way she had looked at him, not with fear, but with quiet concern.
For the first time in months, Alexander felt the weight on his chest shift—lighter, though only slightly.
And he wondered, dangerously, if perhaps she was the one thing in this house not meant to break him.