Priscilla’s Pov
Maxwell, our head of security, buzzes me on a Saturday morning, saying, "Miss Priscilla, there's a boy named Harry here to see you." I let out a groan and reply, "Let him in."
I quickly throw on the first clothes I find over my pajama shorts and tank top, then make my way through the quiet house to the front door.
"Hey," I greet him with a smile, stepping aside to let him enter. We decided to meet here on Saturdays because it’s more peaceful, and we can enjoy the space without interruptions. Plus, it’s just cozier for me.
He glances around, clearly impressed. I can’t blame him; my home—if you can call it that—is more like a mansion and truly stunning. When we first moved in nine years ago, I actually got lost in it. No kidding! There’s even a digital map right by the en
