Maid for the billionaire's heart

New home, new hell

BRENDA POV

"I accept," I whispered, taking Xavier's outstretched hand. What choice did I have? No home, no money, and Max still needed medical care. His hand felt warm against my cold fingers, strong and sure while mine trembled.

"You won't regret this," Xavier said, his deep voice surprisingly gentle.

I wasn't so certain.

Three days later, Max was cleared for discharge. He was still weak, his face pale against the hospital sheets, but the doctors called his recovery miraculous. If only they knew the price we'd be paying for that miracle.

"Are you sure about this?" Max asked as a nurse helped him into a wheelchair. At thirteen, he was too perceptive for his own good. "Working for those people? That woman slapped you."

I forced a smile. "It's a great opportunity, Max. Twenty thousand dollars a week! We'll save up, get back on our feet, and find our own place before you know it."

He didn't look convinced, but he was too exhausted to argue.

A sleek black Bentley waited for us outside the hospital. The driver, a stone-faced man in a black suit, held the door open without a word.

"Wow," Max whispered, his eyes wide. "Is this really our ride?"

"Apparently," I murmured, helping him into the plush leather interior. It smelled new and expensive, making me acutely aware of our shabby appearance.

As the car glided through Manhattan's busy streets, Max pressed his face against the window, watching the city pass by. I remained tense, hands folded tightly in my lap.

"Brenda?" Max's voice was small. "What if they're mean to us?"

I reached over and squeezed his hand. "Then we'll handle it together, like we always do. This is just temporary, okay? A stepping stone."

The Bentley pulled up to a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to touch the clouds. The driver escorted us through a private entrance, past security guards who eyed us suspiciously, and into an elevator requiring a special key card.

"The penthouse," he announced flatly as the elevator began its smooth ascent.

Fifty-eight floors later, the doors opened directly into the most luxurious space I'd ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panoramic view of the city, the furniture looked like it belonged in a museum, and everything gleamed with wealth and privilege.

Standing in the center of it all was Xavier, flanked by two women. One I recognized as Rosiana, looking even more glamorous than at the hospital, her face a perfect mask of contempt. The other was older, elegant in a tailored suit, with the same striking blue eyes as Xavier. His mother, I guessed.

"Welcome," Xavier said, stepping forward. "How are you feeling, Max?"

Max shrank against me, overwhelmed by everything. "B-better, sir. Thank you for helping me."

"Please, call me Xavier." He turned to me with a small smile. "Brenda, welcome to your new home."

"This is ridiculous, Xavier," his mother cut in, her voice sharp as cut glass. "You can't seriously be bringing these... people into our home."

"Mother," he warned quietly.

She ignored him, her cold gaze assessing me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "I know your type, girl. Latching onto wealthy men, spinning sad tales. What did you do, push your brother into traffic hoping to catch a rich man's attention?"

"Mrs. Reynolds!" I gasped, feeling Max tense beside me.

"It's Mrs. Huntington-Reynolds," she corrected icily. "And this charade won't last. People like you always reveal their true colors eventually."

"That's enough," Xavier said firmly. "They're staying, and that's final."

Rosiana looped her arm through his possessively. "Darling, your charity case looks exhausted. Maybe Johnson should show them to their... quarters." Her smile was sugar-coated poison.

Xavier sighed. "Johnson, please show Brenda and Max to the east wing staff suite."

The driver nodded, gesturing for us to follow. As we left, I heard Mrs. Huntington-Reynolds mutter, "This will end badly, mark my words."

The "staff suite" was modest compared to the opulence we'd just seen, but it was still nicer than anywhere Max and I had ever lived. Two bedrooms, a small living area, and a clean bathroom.

"You start work tomorrow, 5 AM," Johnson informed me flatly. "Miss Rosiana will brief you on your duties."

After he left, Max sat heavily on one of the beds. "They hate us," he said quietly.

I couldn't lie to him. "Two of them do. But Xavier seems decent, and he's the one signing the checks." I forced a smile. "Get some rest. Things will look better tomorrow."

I was wrong.

A sharp slap across my face jolted me awake. I bolted upright, disoriented, water dripping from my hair and soaking my pajamas.

"Rise and shine, servant girl," Rosiana sneered, holding an empty water pitcher. "It's 5:15, and you're late."

I blinked water from my eyes, cheek stinging. "I didn't…"

"Save the excuses," she cut me off. "There's laundry waiting in the utility room, breakfast needs to be prepared by 7, and the guest bathrooms need scrubbing. All of them."

She tossed a folded bundle at me. "Your uniform. Be in the kitchen in ten minutes."

The "uniform" was a plain gray dress that looked straight out of a Victorian servant drama. I changed quickly, checking on Max who was still asleep, thankfully undisturbed by Rosiana's visit.

What followed was the most grueling day of my life. Mountains of laundry, some items so delicate I was terrified of ruining them. Preparing breakfast under the critical eye of the personal chef, who clearly resented my presence in his kitchen. Scrubbing toilets while wearing rubber gloves that were two sizes too big.

By dinner time, every muscle in my body screamed for relief. But I still had to serve the meal I'd helped prepare, standing silently against the wall while the Reynolds family and Rosiana dined.

"This roast is surprisingly good," Xavier commented after taking a bite. "Johnson, compliments to the chef."

"Actually, sir," Johnson replied, "Miss Mitchell prepared the roast."

Xavier looked at me with surprise. "Is that so? You didn't mention culinary skills among your talents, Brenda."

I felt my cheeks warm under his gaze. "My mother taught me. She believed everyone should know how to cook a proper meal."

"Well, she taught you admirably," he said with a small smile.

Something twisted in my chest at the genuine praise, the first kind words I'd heard all day.

Rosiana's fork clattered against her plate. "It's overcooked and bland," she declared, though she'd been eating it happily moments before. "And I think I taste too much salt."

She stood abruptly, picking up her still-full plate. Before I could react, she strode toward me and threw the contents directly at me. Hot gravy splashed across my chest and face, bits of meat and vegetables sticking to the uniform.

"There. Much better use for subpar food," she said sweetly.

I stood frozen in shock, gravy dripping down my front, burning my skin.

"Rosiana!" Xavier's voice thundered as he stood. "That was completely unacceptable!"

"Oh please," she rolled her eyes. "It's her job to clean up messes."

"Not to be treated like garbage," he snapped. He turned to me, his expression softening. "Brenda, come with me. We need to treat those burns."

Mrs. Huntington-Reynolds made a disapproving noise. "Xavier, the girl can tend to herself."

He ignored her, taking my elbow and guiding me from the dining room. I was too stunned to resist, aware of Rosiana's venomous glare following us.

He led me to what appeared to be his private study and through to an adjoining bathroom. Sleek and masculine, with dark tiles and chrome fixtures. He gestured for me to sit on the edge of the large tub.

"Take off the top part," he said, turning to rummage through a cabinet.

I stared at him, clutching the soiled uniform to me. "Excuse me?"

He turned back, first-aid kit in hand, and must have seen my expression. His eyes widened slightly. "I meant just lower it enough to see the burns. I'm sorry, I should have been clearer."

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I carefully peeled the fabric away from my skin, wincing as it pulled at tender areas. I kept myself covered as best I could, exposing only the angry red marks on my upper chest and collarbone.

Xavier knelt before me, a billionaire on his knees and gently began applying burn cream to the worst spots. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I apologize for Rosiana's behavior," he said softly, his eyes focused on his task. "She can be... jealous."

"Jealous?" I repeated, baffled. "Of the maid?"

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, impossibly blue. "You're hardly just a maid, Brenda Mitchell."

My breath caught in my throat. This close, I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and expensive and see the faint stubble along his jawline. His fingers paused on my skin, no longer tending to burns but simply resting there, warm and electric.

"What am I then?" I whispered.

Xavier's gaze dropped to my lips, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he might actually kiss me. He leaned forward slightly, his breath mingling with mine.

The bathroom door crashed open.

"Xavier, darling, your mother wants to know if…" Rosiana stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing to slits as she took in the scene before her. "What the hell is going on here?”