Chapter Five
946 Words
(Michael’s POV)
She’s still here.
I don’t know why I thought she’d be gone by morning. Maybe some small part of me hoped she’d pack her things, tell Mavis she changed her mind, and walk right out the same door she came through. That would’ve been easier for everyone. For me.
But no. There she was. In my dining room.
Wiping down the table like it personally irked her.
Not slow or hesitant like the others before her. No, she moved with this calm demeanor— sharp, clean, efficient. She wasn’t performing. She was working. Like she actually wanted to do a good job.
I hated that.
She didn’t even look at me when I walked in. Just kept wiping the table in steady circles, her hair pulled back, posture straight. I poured myself a coffee, ignoring the way the air smelled—like cinnamon, nutmeg, and something warm.
She finally glanced over. “Morning.”
Just that. No smile. No nervous energy. Just a polite, neutral greeting like we were two strangers on a train.
I didn’t say anything back. I didn’t have to.
She turned back to her cloth, completely unfazed.
I hated that more.
⸻
I escaped to my office, where things made sense.Predictable.
Mavis came in ten minutes later with a tray of freshly baked pastries.
“Georgiana made these,” she said lightly, setting them down without asking. “Said she wanted to be useful.”
I didn’t respond.
“She’s good,” Mavis added. “Organized and respectful. You might even—”
“I don’t like house guests,” I said flatly.
“She’s not a guest.”
“She’s not supposed to be here.”
Mavis sighed like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “You’re allowed to coexist with someone, Michael. You might even find it refreshing.”
I glared at her.
She smirked and left the tray anyway.
⸻
Around noon, I walked past the living room and found her by the bookshelf. Touching my books. Rearranging them.
She didn’t pause when I entered.
“You don’t touch my things,” I said.
She kept her back to me for a second, then responded calmly, “I’m your maid. What am I supposed to touch then?”
“I didn’t ask for a maid.”
“I didn’t ask to be here either.” She turned to face me. No fear. Just quiet defiance. “But since we’re both stuck, maybe don’t glare at me like I’m the pest in the attic.”
My fingers curled at my sides.
Her gaze didn’t drop. She looked me straight in the eye—like I wasn’t the billionaire she worked for. Like I wasn’t supposed to intimidate her.
Then she glanced at the shelf, tilted her head, and casually walked past me like I was background noise.
I stood there for a second longer, jaw tight.
She was going to be a problem.
⸻
Dinner was quiet. Mavis talked. Georgiana listened. I didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary.
Afterwards, I retreated to my study with a glass of scotch and tried to forget she existed.
It didn’t work.
Her presence clung to the air like static waves. Neither loud, nor disruptive. Just there.
⸻
That night, I opened the hallway security feed. Not for any real reason. Just… checking.
She was walking down the corridor with a towel draped over her shoulder. Stopped by the laundry room. Changed the flowers in the hallway vase. Adjusted a crooked painting frame.
Every move was calm. Controlled. Like she’d lived here for years. Like she was used to making herself invisible and valuable all at once.
She didn’t snoop. Didn’t hover outside rooms. Didn’t pause to admire the wealth that surrounded her.
She just worked. Then went to her room and locked the door.
No hesitation. No sneakiness. No signs of discomfort.
It made no sense.
People come into my life with expectations. They want something—money, a favor, a name to drop. She didn’t seem to want anything.
Not even approval.
⸻
The next day, I came downstairs to find her laughing in the kitchen with Mavis.
It stopped the second I walked in.
Her laughter. Not Mavis’
Georgiana turned to rinse a glass without acknowledging me.
I watched her for a tad too long.
She wasn’t wearing makeup. Just a plain black tee and jeans. Simple. Efficient. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing small ink stains on her wrist—pen marks, probably. Messy, human.
Not the polished politeness of someone trying to impress me.
Just… real.
I hated that it made her harder to ignore.
⸻
“She used to study architecture,” Mavis said later when I passed through the hallway. “Lost her scholarship. Family issues, I think. Poor thing.”
I didn’t ask for her story.
I don’t want to know.
⸻
I stayed late at work that night, hoping she’d be asleep by the time I got home.
She wasn’t.
She was in the music room. The one no one ever used.
The piano lid was lifted, her fingers gently brushing the keys—not playing, just touching.
She didn’t notice me right away.
When she finally did, she didn’t jump or apologize. Just stood slowly and wiped her hands on a cloth.
“Sorry. I didn’t think anyone used this room.”
“They don’t and you also have no right being here ” I said coldly
“I didn’t think it was a crime to play an instrument, but if you have a problem with it, I’ll leave.”
Then she walked out.
No dramatics. No pause to gauge my reaction.
- Writer
