His Housemaid, Her Vengeance

Chapter Three

(Michael’s POV)

The sharp ring of my phone pierced through the soft hum of jazz echoing from my speaker. I was elbow-deep in a half-assembled bookshelf, a screwdriver clenched between my teeth, wood dust clinging to the folds of my shirt. I spat the tool out and reached for my phone, gritting my teeth when I saw the caller ID.

DAD.

I wiped my palms on my jeans before answering.

“Yeah?”

“Good afternoon to you too,” came his familiar, amused voice. “How’s my stubborn son?”

I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “Busy. What do you want?”

He laughed. “Straight to the point as always. Listen—I have news.”

I groaned, already dreading it. “What kind of news?”

“A favor kind. I hired someone to help you around the house.”

Silence stretched thick between us.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“A live-in maid,” he continued casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Her name’s Georgiana Rivers. You’ll like her. Polite, capable—sweet girl. Her dad’s an old friend.”

I pushed the half-built shelf aside and stood, my voice rising. “You did what?”

“Hired her,” he said again. “You’ve been complaining for months about how the place is too big for one man, how the work’s piling up—”

“Yeah, I was venting. That’s not the same thing as ‘Please Dad, go find me a random stranger to live in my house.’”

“She’s not a stranger. She’s family—at least to me. I worked with her father for years. You’ll be doing her a favor too. The girl’s been through a rough patch.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t need someone living under my roof. I like my privacy.”

“Well, you also like forgetting to eat, and leaving your laundry in the dryer until it smells like wet dog. Maybe some order will do you good.”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“Language.”

I bit back a curse and sat down heavily on the edge of the coffee table. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

“Because I knew you’d say no.”

His tone softened. “Mike, I’m not trying to control your life. I’m trying to help this girl. She lost her mom. Her family’s been through a bankruptcy. She’s trying to get back on her feet. All she needs is a safe place for a while.”

Guilt nudged the edges of my irritation, but I shoved it away. “So you decided to dump her on me?”

“I decided to put two problems together and make a solution. She needs work. You need help. It’s temporary.”

I leaned back and let out a long sigh. “When is she coming?”

“This weekend.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.” His voice was maddeningly cheerful. “I’ll text you the details. Be nice. She’s nervous as it is.”

I ran a hand down my face. “I have a routine,Dad, and I don’t need anyone interfering with it!”

“Michael.” His tone shifted—calmer, firmer. “Do this. For me.”

That stopped me cold. He didn’t say that often.

After a long pause, I muttered, “Fine.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.”

“I already do.”

He laughed again. “Talk soon, son.”

The call ended.

I tossed the phone on the couch and let out a frustrated breath. A live-in maid. Fantastic. Just what I needed—another person in my space, snooping through my life, asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

This house was my refuge. Big, yes. Quiet, absolutely. But it was mine. After everything I’d gone through—it was my safe space after a long day of work. It was where I didn’t get to see the ugly faces of my employees or anybody at all—this place had been the one thing I could control.

And now, apparently, I was about to share it with someone I’d never met.

Georgiana Rivers.

Even her name sounded like someone who might be too soft for the sharp edges of my life.

I rubbed at the back of my neck and stared at the mess of wood and screws. She’d be here by the weekend. Less than four days. Just enough time to hate the idea more with every passing hour.

I stood, crossed the room, and grabbed my laptop. Maybe I could dig something up—social media, a profile, anything to give me a clue about the stranger moving in.

A few minutes of searching turned up nothing useful. A few accounts with the same name, but nothing definitive. No photos, no rants, no t****k dances. Just…silence.

Which somehow made it worse.

Great.

I slammed the laptop shut and stood.

I didn’t care how nice she was. Or how tragic her story might be. She wasn’t my responsibility. This wasn’t how I worked. I had rules. Routines.

And she was about to throw a wrench in all of them.

I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of whiskey staring out at the garden that was still half-dead from last month’s storm. I’d meant to fix it. Meant to clear out the broken pots, replant the herbs, fix the broken fence.

But like everything else lately, it had fallen to the side.

Maybe that was what Dad saw. The slow unraveling. The way the house was too quiet, too still. The way grief hid in the corners no matter how many windows I opened.

Still, this wasn’t the way to fix it.

I didn’t need a live-in maid. I needed space.

I emptied the glass and set it down with more force than necessary.

Fine. She was coming.

But that didn’t mean she was staying.