What could possibly go wrong in five seconds?
1671 Words
Leila's POV
If the devil had a summer house, it would look like this.
The estate sat on a private hill like it knew the world belonged to it. I had never seen anything like it in my life. A glossy black gate stretched over ten feet high, flanked by security cameras the size of my entire head. Beyond it was a driveway so long and winding, it could've led to heaven or hell, depending on your paycheck.
They called it The Anderson Manor.
I called it serious rich people business I had no place being in.
But here I was, clutching my cousin's oversized tote full of cleaning supplies, my curls wrapped in a silk scarf, and my sneakers swallowing the marble with every step I took inside.
"This place has twenty staff," Zara had whispered like we were about to rob the place. "Twenty! Just to keep the chandeliers from catching dust. Girl, if you break anything, don't run. Just pretend to faint."
God.
I wasn't supposed to be here. Literally. I wasn't even supposed to be in this city.
But my cousin Jodie, Queen of Reckless Life Decisions had fallen off a motorbike in Tulum and fractured her hip while chasing some i********: bartender with a man bun. So, she called me from her hospital bed and cried for three hours about how she was going to lose her job if someone didn't cover her elite, NDA-filled domestic staffing gig.
So now, I was the emergency fill-in for "Laundry and Dusting Rotation C" at Anderson Manor.
I wasn't even mad. I needed the money. Badly.
Rent was overdue again, my baby brother had outgrown his school shoes, and Mom was somewhere on her third week of being missing, since she was a chronic junkie.
So, no. I didn't belong in a marble kingdom with perfume fountains and spiral staircases. But I would scrub it like I owned it.
"Monroe," a crisp voice barked behind me.
I straightened instantly. Mr. Lewis, the head butler, had arrived in his tailored pinstripe uniform and his signature scent of judgment.
"I asked for punctuality," he snapped, eyeing my trainers.
"I'm early, sir."
He didn't answer. Just turned, and I followed, mentally whispering prayers.
"Keep your head down. No speaking to the family. No phones. No lingering. This is not a hotel, Miss Monroe, it is a legacy. One you are not here to admire."
I bit my tongue. My pride screamed, but my rent was louder.
I was handed a cleaning schedule. Six hours. Two wings. One uniform.
"You will not enter the East Wing," Mr. Lewis warned, eyes slicing into me. "It is under lockdown while Mr. Anderson returns from his overseas trip."
I nodded. "Got it."
He paused like he didn't believe me, then turned away, leaving me with the sparkling silence of wealth I couldn't even comprehend.
The house, if you could even call it that was breathtaking. Ivory stone floors. Tall windows draped in velvet. Chandeliers that looked like they were imported from heaven.
I cleaned. Swept. Dusted. Polished marble counters that could pay off my rent if pawned. I hummed quietly as I worked, keeping my bun tight and my energy lower.
I was finishing up the guest parlor when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Again.
Zara, my best friend.
"I swear to God if you're in that rich-ass house and not giving me a tour, I'll call the Pope," she hissed when I picked up.
"I'm working, Zara."
"You're breathing in billionaire air. That's not just work, that's opportunity. Come on, give me a peek!"
I snuck into an empty corridor and turned my camera around. "This is the west wing. Look at this painting. It's like staring into old money."
"Oh my days," she whispered. "This house is hotter than my ex. What's in the next room?"
"I'm not allowed in the east wing," I said cautiously.
"Then it must be where the real magic is. Go. I need to see the devil's bedroom."
I shook my head. "Girl, I'm not trying to get fired or arrested."
"Just peek," she begged. "Five seconds."
I bit my lip.
After all, what could possibly go wrong in the next five seconds?!
One peek. No touch. No noise.
Just a walk-through.
The East Wing was quieter. Colder, even. The air felt different, crisper, like it belonged to someone who didn't like fingerprints or mistakes.
I walked softly, Zara still on video, her voice low. "This looks like Dynasty."
"I know, right?"
I stopped in front of a giant mahogany door. Golden handles. A carved lion's head above it.
"Okay, one second," I whispered. "Then I'm done."
I opened the door—
And froze.
Steam curled from the floor. Warm. Wet. Scented like sandalwood and sin.
Zara's voice crackled through my phone.
"Holy s**t, is someone there—"
I gasped. My phone slipped from my fingers and hit the marble floor with a tiny, traitorous clack.
Steam billowed through the room like a warning.
And then he stepped out.
Luca Julian Anderson.
Naked.
Completely, unapologetically, jaw-droppingly naked.
The first thing I saw was his chest, broad, golden, carved like he belonged in a Greek myth. Water trailed down each hard curve of his abdomen like it didn't dare touch him without permission. A tattoo just under his collarbone.
His muscles flexed with every breath. Veins ran up his arms like vines over marble. And that face.
That face could ruin the world.
Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Thick, dark lashes. And eyes so cold and cutting, they made my lungs forget their job.
And his d**k?! Holy s**t!
I'm talking about eight inches, thick with veins, pretty red cap, and fully erect.
He looked like a god. He moved like a threat.
And then he saw me.
Everything in me froze.
His eyes, piercing, storm-grey, and lethal, narrowed the moment they locked onto mine. His entire body stilled. Like a predator catching movement in the brush.
"What," he said slowly, voice deep and calm in the most dangerous way, "are you doing in my house?"
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
"Speak," he snapped, voice cracking like thunder.
"I—I'm so sorry," I stammered. "I'm not—I didn't mean—I wasn't looking—"
He took a step forward.
I instinctively backed up, one small shuffle at a time.
Another step. Then another. Each one deliberate. Terrifying. Quiet.
He didn't grab a towel.
He didn't flinch.
He just kept walking toward me with the slow, calculating menace of someone who always got what he wanted.
"What is your name?" he demanded.
My back hit the wall and I swallowed nervously.
"Leila," I whispered.
He stopped inches in front of me. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. My breath tangled in my throat. He leaned in slightly, eyes still locked to mine as I struggled not to look at his body that was giving me goosebumps.
"Leila, what?"
"Monroe. Leila Monroe."
He tilted his head just slightly. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"Where are you from?"
"Brooklyn."
He gave a faint twitch of his brow. "Really?!"
"My mom is American. Dad was from Dominican Republic."
"Was?"
"He died."
Silence fell again. His eyes scanned my face like he was reading every secret I hadn't confessed. Then lower. His gaze flicked down, unapologetic. Taking in the cheap shoes, the oversized shirt, the trembling hands.
He smirked, barely. "You're the temp."
"Yes," I croaked. "My cousin Jodie, she's in Tulum. Broke her hip."
"You shouldn't be here," he murmured. "Not in this wing. Not at all."
"I—I got lost," I lied, lamely.
"I hate liars," he said.
And I believed him.
He finally reached for a towel, slow, like he was still deciding whether I deserved to leave this house whole. He wrapped it low on his hips. It did nothing to tone him down.
He was still lethal.
Still beautiful.
Still the most dangerous thing I'd ever seen.
Then he took one more step toward me and I swear my soul tried to climb out of my body.
He placed one hand against the wall beside my head, boxing me in without touching me.
"Tell me the truth, Leila Monroe. Are you going to scream? Cry? Run to the media and sell your story? You wouldn't be the first."
"No!" I shook my head. "I would never, I swear. I wasn't trying to, I didn't even know you were in there!"
He studied me again. This time, not like prey.
But like a possibility.
And that, somehow, scared me more.
"You have a brother," he said suddenly.
My heart stuttered. "How did you—?"
"Your phone. The wallpaper. You two at Coney Island. He's what, thirteen?"
"Twelve."
"You're raising him?"
"Yes."
His eyes flickered with something I didn't understand. A pause. A moment. Then it vanished.
He stepped back finally. I exhaled like I'd been drowning.
And then he said the words that shattered me.
"I need a fiancée."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Fake. For six months. Appearances. PR. Certain people think I need a softer image. I think you're desperate enough to play the part."
My mouth opened. Closed.
"You'll be compensated, of course," he added casually. "Your brother's school. Your bills. Your freedom."
"This is a joke."
"It never is with me."
I stared at him. Shirtless. Towering. Calm.
His voice dropped to a low whisper, almost seductive in how cruel it sounded.
"You walked into my world uninvited, Leila."
"I'm sorry, please don't fire me sir, Jodie will kill me." My eyes fell to the ground as I stood uncomfortably.
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Paid upfront, you won't need this job anymore."
"This is crazy." My heart was starting to pound and I could feel a migraine brewing. Everything was happening so fast and spiralling.
How could five seconds change my life that much?
"How does that sound for six months of pretending you belong to me?"
- Writer
