His Maid, His Obsession

As Ken sat across from his father in the dimly lit study, he barely concealed his irritation. The old man’s voice was sharp with disapproval. "Why the hell did you threaten the last maid, Ken? Do you enjoy scaring people?" Ken exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the armrest, his expression blank but clearly annoyed. He didn’t bother responding. His father leaned forward, eyes hard. "Listen carefully. We have a new maid—Jennifer Davis. She’s thirty-five, recently widowed. You will treat her with respect. If I hear otherwise… you won’t like the consequences." Ken’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He already hated her. Ken’s lips curled into a smirk, his annoyance finally slipping into words. He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes dark with defiance. "We’re the f*****g Mafia, Dad. I’m a Mafia heir. I don’t give a damn about respecting maids." His father’s gaze turned sharp, dangerous. "Watch your mouth, Ken." "Whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice."** He muttered before walking out, leaving the heavy silence behind. As Ken stormed out of the palace, the air inside shifted, settling into an eerie calm. Not long after, Jennifer Davis arrived. Dressed in a simple yet neat uniform, she carried herself with quiet grace. Her petite frame and soft, feminine features made her seem delicate, but there was a quiet strength in the way she moved—stern yet gentle, honest yet reserved. Richard Williams glanced at her and gave a slight nod of approval before returning to his work. Without hesitation, Jennifer began her duties, her hands steady, her focus unwavering. She didn’t belong in a place like this—among criminals, power, and violence. She was too pure, too angelic for a world built on blood and fear. Yet here she was, stepping into the lion’s den, unaware of the storm that awaited her. The kitchen was dimly lit, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting a warm hue over the space. The scent of freshly cooked food lingered in the air as Jennifer moved quietly, her hands working with practiced precision. Unlike the other maids, who whispered among themselves, stealing glances at her, she remained silent, focused, detached. There was no hesitation in her movements, no unnecessary chatter—just quiet efficiency. A few of them wanted to approach her, maybe offer help or start a conversation, but something about her demeanor held them back. She wasn’t cold, just… distant. She spoke only when necessary, never more. As she plated the last dish, the kitchen door creaked slightly, and for a brief second, she paused—a faint, unreadable look flickering in her soft eyes. Then, just as quickly, she returned to her work, as if she existed in a world separate from everyone else. Lia hesitated before stepping closer, clutching the edge of her apron. Jennifer continued working, unbothered, her hands steady as she finished plating the dish. "You should be careful," Lia finally spoke, her voice low. "Ken… he’s dangerous. You should stay away from him." Jennifer didn’t react, just kept arranging the food with quiet precision. Lia swallowed, glancing around before lowering her voice even more. "Your duty includes cleaning his room. The last maid who did that… he shot her." At that, Jennifer finally paused, but only for a brief second. Then, without fear, she simply gave a small nod, her expression unreadable. "Understood." That was all she said before turning back to her work, as if Lia had just informed her of something as simple as the weather. The palace was eerily silent by midnight when Ken returned, his black shirt soaked in blood, his knuckles raw and bruised. His boots left faint red prints on the marble floor as he strode inside, his expression unreadable, eyes dark with exhaustion. A few guards stood near the entrance, but no one dared to ask what had happened. Bodies had already been disposed of. The mess cleaned up. Just another night in the life of a Williams. Ken walked straight to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. Without hesitation, he stripped off his ruined clothes and stepped into the shower. The water ran red as it cascaded down his body, washing away the blood, the grime… but not the violence buried in his veins. He let the heat ease his aching muscles, his mind blank, his body exhausted. Once done, he dried off, slipped into fresh clothes, and collapsed onto the bed. Within minutes, the ruthless Mafia heir was asleep—silent, still, like a beast resting after a hunt. As the morning sun barely crept over the horizon, Jennifer arrived at Ken’s room, her steps steady, her expression as calm as ever. Without hesitation, she pushed open the heavy door and flipped on the lights. A deep, irritated groan came from the bed. Within seconds, Ken’s voice, rough and laced with annoyance, filled the room. "Who the f**k turned on the lights?" But before he could even sit up, Jennifer was already at work, picking up his discarded clothes from the floor, straightening the mess he had left behind. Her voice was firm, unapologetic, yet completely devoid of fear. "If you don’t want the lights on, don’t live in a palace, Mr. Williams," she said simply, without even looking at him. Ken’s eyes snapped open, his jaw tightening as he pushed himself up on his elbows. No one—no one—had ever spoken to him like that. But Jennifer? She just continued cleaning, completely unaffected by the monster lying in that bed. Ken's eyes darkened as he leaned back against the headboard, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal whisper. "Do you have a death wish, maid? Keep testing me, and I’ll make sure you don’t live to see another morning." Jennifer didn’t pause, didn’t even spare him a glance as she picked up an empty glass from his nightstand and placed it on the tray with practiced ease. "If that were true, Mr. Williams, I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it through the door." Her tone was steady, almost indifferent. Ken’s fingers twitched. No stutter. No hesitation. No fear. Ken exhaled sharply, annoyed beyond reason. Without another word, he pulled out his gun, c****d it, and aimed it directly at Jennifer’s head. The metallic click echoed in the room, but she didn’t even blink. "You talk too much," he muttered, eyes cold. "Maybe I should just get rid of you now." Jennifer, mid-folding one of his shirts, barely spared him a glance. Instead of fear, there was nothing but quiet patience on her face—like a mother indulging a stubborn child. "If shooting me will help you wake up properly, then go ahead," she said simply, placing the folded shirt on the dresser. "Just don’t expect me to clean up the mess afterward." Ken’s finger twitched on the trigger. The audacity. The absolute nerve of this woman. "KEN!" His father’s voice boomed through the room, sharp and laced with fury. Ken’s grip on the gun faltered for a split second, but he didn’t lower it. Richard Williams stood at the doorway, eyes burning with rage as he took in the scene—his son, sitting on the bed, pointing a loaded gun at the maid who looked completely unbothered. "What the f**k do you think you’re doing?" Richard barked, stepping forward. "Put the damn gun down!" Ken clenched his jaw but didn’t move. "She doesn’t know her place," he muttered, still staring at Jennifer, who continued fixing his room as if nothing was happening. Richard's glare darkened. "And you think killing a maid in my house is a f*****g solution?" His voice was dangerously low now. "Lower the gun. NOW." Ken clicked his tongue in irritation but finally uncocked the gun and tossed it onto the bed. Jennifer, unfazed, simply adjusted the curtains, then turned to Richard with a polite nod. "Breakfast will be ready in an hour, sir." Then, without another word, she calmly walked past both men—as if a gun hadn’t just been pointed at her head. As Jennifer walked out without a single glance back, Ken stared after her, his jaw clenched. "F*cking insane woman," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. Richard, still standing in the room, didn’t miss the anger—or the frustration—in his son’s voice. And then, without warning—SMACK! Ken’s head snapped to the side as his father’s hand landed across his face with a sharp slap. "Enough of your goddamn tantrums, Ken!" Richard snarled. "You’re acting like a spoiled brat, not a f*****g Mafia heir!" Ken’s eyes darkened, his cheek stinging, but he stayed silent, his fists tightening by his sides. Richard exhaled sharply, stepping back. "Next time, if I see you pulling that s**t again, you won’t just get a slap. Now, get dressed and act like a f*****g man." At the long mahogany dining table, Richard Williams sat at the head, while Ken slouched in his chair, his face still holding the faint sting of his father’s slap. The air was tense, thick with unspoken words. Jennifer moved silently, placing dishes on the table with her usual calm efficiency. The aroma of fresh, perfectly cooked breakfast filled the air—eggs, toast, smoked meat, and black coffee. Richard picked up his fork, taking a bite without hesitation. "Perfect, as always," he muttered, nodding in approval. Ken, however, didn’t even touch his plate. He leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Jennifer noticed, but she said nothing. She wasn’t here to force-feed spoiled Mafia brats. Richard, however, noticed. His gaze flicked to his son, already irritated. "Eat." His tone left no room for argument. Ken scoffed, pushing the plate an inch away. "I don’t eat food made by lunatics." Jennifer, standing nearby, didn’t react. She simply folded her hands in front of her apron, waiting for further instructions. Richard, however, slammed his fork down, the sound echoing through the dining hall. "You’ll eat whatever the hell is put in front of you, Ken. And unless you want another slap, you’ll shut up and start acting like a damn man." Ken’s jaw clenched. He hated being ordered around, but he hated his father’s wrath even more. With a glare, he grabbed the fork, stabbing into the eggs aggressively—as if punishing the food for existing. The night was silent, the palace drowned in dim lighting as Jennifer finished her last set of chores. The air felt heavier in Richard’s absence, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t her concern where the Mafia boss had gone. She turned a corner toward the servants’ quarters when— A firm hand grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, she was pinned against the wall, her back pressing into the cold surface. A strong arm caged her in, and her breath hitched—not in fear, but at the sheer suddenness of it. Ken stood before her, his eyes shadowed, his jaw tight, his grip unyielding. "You’re getting on my nerves, maid," he muttered, his voice rough, edged with irritation… and something else. Jennifer stared up at him, her expression blank, unreadable. "Then let me go, Mr. Williams." Ken’s grip on her wrist tightened slightly, but his frustration only grew when he saw it—no panic, no fear, nothing. "You don’t get it, do you?" he whispered, leaning in, his voice dangerously low. "I could do anything to you right now, and no one would stop me." Jennifer simply exhaled, her gaze steady. "Then do it." Ken froze. That damn tone again. "I could break you, Jennifer," he murmured, his voice dangerously low. "Right here. Right now." Jennifer didn’t even blink. Her calm, unreadable gaze held his like a mirror reflecting nothing. "Then do it."