The smell of ammonia was my only weapon. Chemical, sharp, and brutally clean — a beautiful, sterile poison that burned away the memory of anything organic. I scrubbed the white marble tiles until the reflections were blinding, until the cold ache in my hands matched the hollow space in my chest. My job, at nineteen, was to turn a house into a mausoleum of wealth. To ensure nothing here felt messy, nothing felt real.
The Grant estate wasn't a home; it was a fortress built of historical money and modern arrogance. Every surface I touched radiated the kind of oppressive power that didn't need to shout to crush you. It just existed, heavy and final.
My role was simple: to be the silent engine of this machine, the girl from Africa hired to erase the dust, the stains, and the inconvenient truths. I had learned quickly that the most important thing to clean wasn't the floors, but my own face, ensuring no shadow of feeling — no fear, no recognition —ever reached the surface.
Invisible. It was the only thing standing between me and the running girl still hiding inside my skin.
I paused, leaning on the worn handle of the bucket— the one cheap, honest thing in the entire foyer. My heart hammered a tiny, frantic rhythm.
A sliver of sunlight, fractured by the chandelier, caught the polished floor, and for a terrifying second, the reflection wasn't crystal.
It was the low, corrugated tin roof back home.
The images were always the same: golden dust motes, the distant, muffled rhythm of the neighborhood drums, and then the shift. The unnatural silence. The kind of silence that swallowed people. My mother, beautiful and fierce, gone. Kian, my brother, nine years old, gone, too.
The lie I lived inside was the only thing that kept me breathing. I wasn't a survivor; I was a failure. I had run. I had left. They died because of me, or while I was busy running away. My guilt was a stone carried beneath my ribs, a cold, heavy anchor. This gilded cage, this job, this town was the only place far enough to try and hide the weight. To simply be Sasha, the maid.
"Sasha, stop fussing with that floor. It's spotless."
Mrs. Grant, the Mayor's wife. Her voice was pure powdered ice, smooth and chilling. I didn't look up, murmuring the practiced response.
"Just ensuring the sealant is curing evenly, ma'am. My apologies."
She smelled of jasmine and profound boredom. She was a still water creature, and my necessary existence was an irritation to her perfect world. She wore power effortlessly, without even noticing.
"The Mayor will be hosting a breakfast. I want the conservatory ready. Every surface clear. Do not interrupt them. Do not exist in their field of vision."
The unspoken rule was clear: disappear. The danger here was predictable, formal, and structured, unlike the chaos I'd fled. Predictability was survival.
I retrieved to the conservatory, my temporary sanctuary. I found my five minutes of peace pressed against the rough bark of the huge potted fig tree. I breathed in the rich, honest smell of soil that hadn't been sanitized. I was saving money. I was far away. I was anonymous.
Then, the world shattered.
The sound was pure combustion: an expensive engine, driven with flagrant arrogance, tearing up the gravel drive and slamming to a stop right outside the back entrance. The noise was startling, a violent intrusion. I flinched, pulling away from the fig tree and reaching instinctively for my cleaning caddy. I needed to look busy, look small.
Ethan Grant stepped out.
I had seen the Mayor's grandson before, but always from a safe distance, a figure moving through the house like sunlight. He was tall, perfectly sculpted, moving with devastating, effortless grace. He was the golden boy, the political heir, the one who was supposed to make everything look legitimate.
He didn't walk; he strode. He didn't look; he commanded attention. He was carrying a gleaming, matte-black briefcase and talking rapidly into his phone, his jaw set in what looked like intense frustration. He moved fast, cutting across the conservatory floor toward the inner hallway that led to the private study.
I was backing away, trying to merge with the shadow of a large wooden credenza, when he pivoted abruptly to avoid a discarded crate of champagne bottles left by the catering staff. It happened in an instant: the briefcase swung wide, and he didn't even slow down enough to notice the object he was about to hit.
The collision was brutal. Not just a bump, but a hard, physical impact. The briefcase hit my shoulder, jarring my entire frame, and the shock knocked the glass caddy right out of my hand.
Shatter.
The sound was impossibly loud in the conservatory's silence. Glass fragments, bottles of polish, and scrubbing brushes exploded onto the marble floor. I stumbled, my ankle twisting, and found myself falling — not onto the floor, but against him.
I hit his chest, hard, the expensive fabric of his suit jacket pressing against my face. My hands instinctively shot out to stabilize myself, clutching at his arms. He stopped speaking mid-sentence, the phone falling slack in his grip, his body suddenly rigid.
My breath hitched — a sound too loud, too desperate. The ammonia, the polish, the scent of expensive male cologne — it was all mixed with the metallic, terrifying smell of fear. My fear.
He didn't shove me away. He didn't flinch. He just held my arms, his hands warm and strong through the thin cotton of my uniform.
"God, I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice low, no longer distracted by the phone call. It was rough, intimate, and too close. "Are you alright?"
I pulled back instantly, terrified, scrambling away from his heat and touch. I fell back against the credenza, trying to make my body small, focusing only on the mess — the evidence of my failure scattered all over his perfect floor.
"I—I am so sorry, Mr. Grant," I stammered, my voice thin and foreign. "My fault. I wasn't watching. I'll clean it immediately."
I didn't dare look at his face. I was already reaching for the shattered glass, an almost frantic need to erase the evidence.
"Sasha. Stop."
His command was gentle, but firm. I hesitated, my fingers hovering just above a piece of jagged green glass.
Then he reached down, his hand sweeping past my ear to pick up his fallen briefcase, and his movement brought him impossibly close again. I felt the heat radiating off him, and I finally forced myself to look up.
His eyes were startlingly clear hazel, and they weren't angry or impatient, like his grandmother's. They were concerned, yes, but beneath that, they were intensely curious. They weren't looking at the broken glass. They were looking at me.
"You're shaking," he said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, human observation. He didn't move away. He just stood there, letting the silence settle, making me feel visible in a way that terrified me.
"Take a breath. It's just glass."
But it wasn't just glass. It was the moment I stopped being a ghost. And in his gaze — in that warm, sudden, intimate seeing — I felt the most dangerous surge of my life: the terrifying knowledge that I desperately wanted this beautiful, dangerous man to see me again.