The mansion was quieter after the guests departed, but the air felt heavier, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the laughter and whispers from the dinner. Maria moved through her chores the next morning with a heaviness in her chest she couldn't shake.
She told herself to forget it all—the mocking voices, Alexander's defense, the intensity of his eyes. But forgetting proved impossible. Each moment replayed like a shadow trailing her, reminding her that the world above and the world below in this house would never truly remain separate.
Maria was polishing the tall windows along the east hall when Clara drifted near, her hands folded primly but her eyes sharp.
"You made quite the scene last night," Clara whispered, her tone a mix of envy and scorn.
Maria froze, cloth in hand. "I did nothing," she said quickly.
"Exactly," Clara replied. "And yet you still managed to catch every glance. Do you think we didn't notice? The master watches you, Maria. Even the guests noticed. It won't end well."
Maria's face burned. "That isn't true."
Clara tilted her head, her smile thin and cold. "Deny it all you like. But mark my words—Mrs. Greene sees everything. And if you become a problem, she'll deal with you."
With that, Clara swept away, leaving Maria trembling.
That evening, as the servants prepared the household for bed, Maria carried a basket of folded linens up the grand staircase. The halls were dim, the sconces casting flickering shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. She climbed carefully, the basket heavy in her arms.
Halfway up, she stopped.
At the landing above, Alexander stood, his hand resting on the polished banister. His dark eyes caught hers, unreadable in the low light.
Maria froze, her breath catching.
"Maria," he said, his voice low.
She dipped her head quickly. "Good evening, sir."
He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving her. "Have the others spoken to you? About last night?"
Her throat tightened. "Yes, sir. Some of them."
A flicker of anger crossed his face. "They overstep."
Maria shook her head quickly. "No harm was done. They only warned me."
"Warned you?" His jaw clenched. "About me?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "About… being noticed."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of a nearby lamp. Alexander's eyes softened, though the storm beneath them did not fade.
"Maria," he said slowly, "there are truths about this house I cannot explain—not yet. But understand this: I do not look at you lightly. And I will not allow anyone to treat you as less than you are."
Her breath trembled in her chest. "But, sir, I am only—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "You are not only anything. You are… different."
The words struck her like lightning. She stared, unable to speak, her heart pounding so loudly she feared he could hear it.
At last, Alexander straightened, the steel returning to his expression. "Go on with your duties," he said, his voice carefully neutral again. "We will speak another time."
Maria dipped her head, clutching the basket tighter, and moved past him quickly. But as she ascended the final steps, she felt his gaze burn into her back like a brand.
Later that night, Maria lay in her attic bed, unable to sleep. The storm outside had passed, leaving the sky unusually clear. She could see stars through the small window above her, scattered across the heavens like a promise she could not reach.
Her heart wrestled with itself. She knew she should fear this—his words, his attention, the danger Clara had warned of. Yet something inside her ached for it, a warmth she had never felt in her life.
For the first time, Maria wondered if her arrival at the mansion had been fate. Perhaps she had been brought here for more than work. Perhaps she had been brought here for him.
Down in his study, Alexander sat before the fire, a glass untouched at his side. He should not have spoken to her on the staircase. He should not have allowed the truth of his feelings to slip past his guard.
And yet, he could not regret it.
Maria's eyes had unsettled him—clear, honest, alive in a way that pierced through the suffocating weight of secrets. She reminded him of what it meant to feel, to want. And that, more than anything, terrified him.
Because if he wanted her, truly wanted her, he would be dragging her into a world of danger she could not imagine.
But Alexander knew himself too well.
It was already too late.