Her Job His Rules

The Test

The day was dragging—again.

Laundry was done. Dishes stacked. My legs ached from standing too long in those heels he so graciously insisted we wear. And now? Dinner duty. As usual.

I held the tray steady, my eyes doing everything in their power not to roll. Alexander Felix hadn’t said more than three words to me since breakfast. Not that I was complaining. Silence from him was a luxury. It meant fewer orders, fewer lectures, and fewer opportunities for him to smirk like he knew everything I was trying to hide under this uniform.

I walked into the dining room, straight-backed and dead-eyed. And there he was—at the far end of the long mahogany table, in his usual dark shirt and sleeves rolled halfway up. Of course. Like he lived inside a magazine cover. His phone sat beside his plate, screen facing down. Always down. Probably full of secrets and contacts that could ruin people’s lives with one text.

I placed the tray gently on the table. “Dinner, sir.”

No reply. Just that quiet nod he did—the kind that somehow still managed to feel like an insult.

As I set the plate in front of him, he leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Watching me. Not obviously. But enough.

I turned to leave.

“Ava,” he said, voice calm. Calculated.

My spine straightened automatically. Damn muscle memory.

“Yes, sir?”

He looked me dead in the eye—and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he picked up his pen and dropped it. Deliberately. It hit the floor with a soft clack, landing right by his shoe.

“Pick that up,” he said.

I blinked. Slowly.

What?

It was just a pen. A single, stupid pen. But the way he said it—calm, smooth, knowing—made my stomach twist.

I stared at it for a beat too long. My brain already spiraling.

He knows. Or he suspects. Maybe Mira told him. Or maybe he’s just playing a game, like he always does—testing me. Seeing how far I’ll go before I break or flinch or bite back.

I crouched halfway, bending my knees instead of leaning over. No way in hell I was giving him a front-row seat to anything. Not today, Satan. My hand reached for the pen quickly and came back up even faster, spine rigid.

I held it out to him. “Here you go.”

But he didn’t take it.

Instead, he looked at my hand, then at my face, then leaned forward—arms on the table, interest piqued.

“That’s not how you usually bend,” he said, voice lower this time. A shade darker.

I swallowed hard. “I didn’t know there was a standard, sir.”

He smirked.

I hated that smirk.

“Are you wearing underwear now?” he asked—casual. Like he was asking about the weather.

My lungs emptied.

What—?

Did I hear that right? Did he just—

My throat went dry. My fingers tightened around the pen like it could somehow keep me grounded.

“Excuse me?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. Dignified.

But he just leaned back again, finally taking the pen from my hand. His fingertips brushed mine for a second too long, and I had to stop myself from jerking away.

“You heard me,” he said smoothly, clicking the pen open. “You don’t need to answer. I can already tell.”

He. Can. Already. Tell?

Kill me. Just kill me now.

I gave him a blank stare—because that’s all I had left. My face had already betrayed me with the blush crawling up my neck. My hands were too busy trying not to tremble.

So I just... stood there.

Quiet.

“I expect dinner cleared in fifteen minutes,” he said, returning to his food like we hadn’t just danced over a landmine of personal boundaries.

I nodded once, turned on my heel, and left before my pride started leaking out through my ears.

---

Back in the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, gripping the edge like it might steady me.

What the hell was that?

A test. That’s what.

He wanted to see if I’d panic. If I’d get flustered. If I’d bend over without thinking—literally and metaphorically. And yeah... maybe he got a reaction out of me. But not the one he wanted.

He didn’t get to win that easily.

“You okay?” Mira’s voice cut through my spiraling. She was by the sink, washing a plate, but looking right at me with those curious, annoying eyes.

“Fine,” I said, grabbing a glass just to give my hands something to do.

“He call you out again?” she asked, too casual.

I paused. “Why would he?”

She shrugged, soap suds dripping off her wrist. “You’ve got that ‘I just survived a Felix mind game’ look. Don’t worry, it fades after a while.”

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t have to.

---

Fifteen minutes later, I returned to clear the table. He was gone. Plate half-eaten. Chair pushed back like a man who never had to clean up after himself.

And there it was—his pen. Sitting dead center on the table, like a trophy.

I picked it up slowly. Clicked it once.

What exactly is he trying to prove?

That I can’t handle this? That I’m weak?

Or maybe he’s just bored. Rich, cold, and bored—and I just happen to be the latest thing that stirs his appetite.

But he’s wrong.

I might be wearing the damn uniform. I might be walking on eggshells. But I’m not here to play his game.

I’ll smile.

I’ll serve.

And when I leave this place?

He’ll be the one wondering how he lost control.