The maid’s secret

CHAPTER SEVEN

DAMIAN’S POV

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

I’d been reading through the day’s contracts in my study, but the words had long blurred into nothing. My mind kept drifting, restless, unsettled. I set the papers aside, exhaling sharply. Silence had always been my comfort. Yet tonight, I found myself waiting for a sound I wasn’t supposed to miss.

And then it came.

Soft footsteps. Small. Light. Deliberate.

I turned my head slowly toward the door. It opened just a crack, then all the way, revealing a familiar mop of curls.

Lily.

She clutched her doll to her chest as she peeked inside, grinning when she caught my eyes. “You’re here.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You again.”

She marched in as if she owned the place, closing the door behind her. “I was bored. Mama’s busy, and the other ladies don’t let me play near the kitchen. So I came here.”

My gaze narrowed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

She shrugged, climbing onto the same armchair she had claimed before. “Maybe. But you didn’t tell me to stay away either.”

I should’ve. Every instinct told me to. Yet the words refused to form.

Instead, I studied her. So small. So fearless. She swung her legs, her doll hitting the chair’s edge rhythmically.

“Don’t you have toys?” I asked.

“Only this one.” She lifted the doll proudly. “Her name’s Daisy. Mama gave her to me when I was little. She’s my best friend.”

“Your only friend?”

She thought about that. “Maybe. But sometimes people don’t need a lot of friends, right? Just the right ones.”

Her words hit deeper than I expected. My jaw tightened, and I looked away. This girl had no idea who she was talking to. No idea what kind of man sat in front of her.

And yet… she kept talking.

“Do you ever get lonely in here?” she asked suddenly, her eyes wide with innocence.

I didn’t answer at first. My instinct was to shut her down, to remind her she had no right to question me. But her gaze held steady, unafraid, waiting.

“…No,” I said finally. “I don’t get lonely.”

“You don’t sound sure,” she said softly.

I almost laughed—almost. This child, dissecting me with words no one else dared to speak.

Before I could respond, she slid off the chair and wandered to my desk, her tiny fingers brushing over the neat stacks of papers.

I watched her carefully. No one touched my things. No one even approached this desk. Yet instead of anger, I felt something else. Something I hadn’t felt in years.

Unsettled… but not in a bad way.

“Go back before your mother notices,” I said finally, my voice firm but lacking the edge it usually carried.

She turned to me, smiling. “I will. But can I come again?”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve ended this here. But when I opened my mouth, the word wouldn’t come.

“…We’ll see,” I muttered instead.

Her smile widened, and with that, she skipped out of the study, leaving the faint echo of her laughter behind.

For the first time in years, the silence that followed didn’t feel so heavy.