The maid’s secret

CHAPTER NINE

Damian’s POV

The clock ticked steadily in the quiet study as I scanned through another contract. Numbers, terms, deadlines—things that usually kept me sharp, grounded.

But lately, they blurred together.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence. I frowned. No one ever disturbed me here unless it was urgent.

Before I could answer, the door creaked open and a small figure slipped inside.

Lily.

She carried a bundle in her hands, clutched tight against her chest. When she saw my gaze, she grinned mischievously.

“You didn’t tell me I couldn’t come back,” she said, tiptoeing across the room.

I set my pen down, leaning back in my chair. “You’re braver than most of the adults in this house. Do you know that?”

“I’m not brave,” she said matter-of-factly, climbing onto the armchair across from me. “I just like talking to you. And…” she unwrapped the bundle with a flourish, revealing a half-squashed packet of biscuits and a small apple. “I brought snacks.”

My brow arched. “Snacks?”

She nodded eagerly, holding out the packet. “Mama says I shouldn’t waste food, but I always save some. And since you sit here all alone, maybe you need snacks too.”

For a moment, I simply stared at her outstretched hand. No one offered me things. People asked. Demanded. Feared. But this child? She gave freely, without hesitation.

I took one biscuit between my fingers. “You shouldn’t be giving away your food.”

“I have plenty,” she said brightly, already biting into an apple slice. “And Daisy doesn’t eat much.” She lifted her doll and whispered conspiratorially, “She’s shy.”

Against my better judgment, the corner of my mouth twitched. “I see.”

She leaned forward, crumbs dusting her chin. “Do you like them?”

The biscuit was plain, nothing extraordinary. But under her expectant gaze, it tasted different. Warmer.

“…Not bad,” I admitted.

Her smile lit up the entire room.

We ate in silence for a while—her swinging her legs and humming to herself, me pretending to focus on the papers but instead stealing glances at her.

“Do you always work this much?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you get tired?”

I hesitated, my jaw tightening. “Tired isn’t an option.”

She tilted her head. “Mama says everyone needs rest, even grown-ups.”

Her words cut deeper than they should have. I shifted in my chair, unsettled by how easily this little girl broke through walls others never even dared to touch.

“Lily,” I said quietly, “your mother will notice you’re missing.”

She shook her head, crumbs scattering. “No, Mama thinks I’m asleep. And I won’t stay long. Just until you finish your snack.”

Something in my chest loosened. Against all logic, I let her stay.

As the minutes stretched on, I realized something alarming. For the first time in years, the silence of my study didn’t feel heavy. It felt… human.

And all because a little girl dared to share her biscuits with me.

When she finally slipped out, humming to herself, the room felt emptier than usual. Too quiet again. I stared at the crumbs she’d left on the armrest, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.

But then my thoughts drifted—unbidden—to her mother.

The maid. Amelia.

I had barely spoken two words to her, yet I caught myself noticing things I shouldn’t. The way she moved quickly through the halls, always keeping her head down, as if she were trying to become invisible. The quiet strength in her shoulders as she carried trays heavier than she was. The soft curve of her lips when she murmured something to her daughter.

I told myself it was nothing. That I didn’t care. But every time she passed by the open door of my study, my eyes followed her against my will.

And when she didn’t appear at all, I found myself checking the security feeds.

The cameras showed every corner of the house, as they always had. I had installed them for control, for order. But tonight… my eyes lingered on one feed longer than I should have.

The staff quarters hallway.

There she was—Amelia—folding linens with quick, practiced motions, her hair falling loose against her cheek. She brushed it back absently, unaware of the watchful eyes tracking her through the lens.

Something about her unsettled me. She wasn’t like the others. The rest of the staff bowed, flinched, stuttered when I so much as passed near. But she… she avoided me completely. She moved like a shadow, silent, determined not to be noticed.

And that, strangely enough, made it impossible not to notice her.

I leaned back in my chair, jaw tightening. This was foolish. Dangerous. She was a maid. Nothing more.

So why did I keep watching?

Why did it feel like she was a puzzle my mind was desperate to solve?