Morning light poured softly through the tall glass windows of the DeLuca mansion.
The halls were quiet, only the faint hum of distant voices and footsteps of staff moving about.
Elena stood in the kitchen, tying the ribbon of her apron, ready to start her work for the day.
Her hands still smelled faintly of soap, and the air carried the scent of coffee and polish.
She had only been working here a few days, yet the house already felt like a maze of secrets.
Every corner whispered of power — the kind that could either protect or destroy.
She tried not to think too much about it.
Her job was simple: keep busy, stay quiet, stay invisible.
But before she could even lift the tray she had prepared for breakfast, she heard the deep, steady sound of his voice.
“Elena.”
She turned quickly.
