HIS MAID

POV: Ameera “If I die in that man’s house, please delete my search history first.” Kira, my best friend, didn’t even flinch. She was standing on the bed, barefoot, aggressively throwing my bras into an overstuffed duffel bag. “I already planned to,” she said with a deadpan face. “Also gonna throw your diary in a blender. No one needs to know about your weird dreams with Mr. Billionaire Bossman.” My pillow hit her square in the face. “Shut up, Kira.” “I’m just saying,” she mumbled, yanking out my lucky panties and tossing them in too. “You applied to be a maid in a billionaire’s mansion. That's not normal behavior. That’s the plot of every spicy forbidden romance novel ever written.” I groaned and collapsed on the bed dramatically. The springs creaked like they were about to give up too. “I didn’t apply to get laid,” I muttered, burying my face into the mattress. “No, you applied because the woman who raised you is in the hospital and the bills are eating you alive,” Kira reminded gently, her tone shifting. I didn’t answer. Because she was right. --- Nanny Doreen was all I had. She took me in when my parents died. Held my hand through fevers, heartbreak, and high school hell. She never complained—not once. Now it was my turn to take care of her. The cancer was eating through her body like fire through silk. The hospital bills came with zero remorse. I’d tried everything—side jobs, freelance, even crowdfunding. Nothing made a dent. Until I saw a private listing for a live-in maid at Vance estate. Salary? Insane. Requirements? Confidentiality, professionalism… and total obedience. I didn’t care. I would’ve scrubbed toilets with a toothbrush if it meant keeping Nanny Doreen alive. But Kira? She was another story. “This guy you’re working for, Killian Vance?” she said, waving her phone in the air. “He’s the definition of tall, dark, and I-will-f*ck-up-your-life.” I peeked over her shoulder at the photo. God. He was... unreal. Suit. Sharp jaw. Eyes that looked like they’d seen things no one should. He had the kind of face you didn’t forget. And the kind of reputation that made tabloids whisper. “Don’t fall for him,” Kira warned, reading my face. I snorted. “He wouldn’t even look at me.” “Exactly. That’s the most dangerous type.” --- Three hours later, I stood in front of a twenty-story glass mansion that looked like it belonged in a Marvel movie. Or a crime syndicate movie. Probably both. A black-suited guard checked my ID and buzzed me in. I stepped into a white marble foyer so clean it probably had its own air filter. My cheap sneakers squeaked on the floor. This wasn’t just rich. This was… richer than rich. Cold, clean, calculated. A woman with perfectly pinned grey hair approached, clipboard in hand. “You must be Ameera,” she said with clipped British elegance. “I’m Miss Agnes. I run this estate and all the people in it.” Her tone made me straighten up immediately. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” “Good. You’ll address me as Miss Agnes. You’ll address the staff by title. And you’ll address the master of the house as ‘Sir,’ never by name unless given permission.” The master of the house. Was this a mansion or a Regency novel? She looked me up and down. “You’ll be shown to your room. Uniforms are provided. You’ll be briefed on the schedule and assigned duties.” I nodded. “And, Ameera…” she paused, eyes narrowing. “Do not wander. Stay out of restricted wings. And whatever you do, do not mistake kindness for safety. This is a house of silence.” A chill slid down my spine. Miss Agnes didn’t elaborate. --- That night, after I unpacked in a surprisingly modern maid’s quarters, I stood staring at the city skyline through my tiny window. Killian Vance hadn’t shown up once. No greetings. No first meeting. Not even a hello. Just silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets. My phone buzzed. A photo from Kira popped up — a selfie of her giving me a thumbs-up with the caption: 💬 "Day 1 of Billionaire Bootycamp. Don’t die, dumbass 😘" I snorted out a laugh. Then my eyes dropped to the other notification. Hospital invoice: Doreen West – $2,000 due I took a breath. I could do this. I had to. --- Somewhere above me, in a suite I’d never be allowed to enter, I imagined him—Killian Vance—existing like a god behind glass. Cold, untouchable. And I was just the maid. But something in my chest whispered... Not for long. *******✓ . . . . . . . . " not for long" huh😏