His Maid, His Obsession

"Shielding the Monster"

As Ken stepped into the mansion, blood staining his clothes, his father’s voice struck like a whip.

“Why didn’t you kill them?”

Silence.

Ken didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. His wounds ached, but not as much as the weight in his chest. His father’s rage burned in the room, waiting for an answer he would never get.

Ken simply stood there—silent, unshaken, and for the first time… tired of the blood.

Jennifer walked in, a first-aid kit clutched tightly in her hands.

Her eyes flickered over Ken—bloodied, exhausted, silent. He didn’t look at her.

She knelt beside him, reaching for his wounded arm, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just silence.

“Let me help,” she murmured, voice softer than the world he lived in.

Still, Ken said nothing. Just let her.

As Jennifer cleaned his wounds, the silence between them spoke louder than words.

Her hands were gentle, yet firm—just like her presence in his life. Ken’s eyes remained downcast, his mind somewhere far away, trapped between what he was and what he was becoming.

Jennifer sighed, pressing a bandage against his skin. “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

Ken finally looked at her. And for the first time, he wondered if she was right.

Jennifer met his gaze, her eyes searching for something—anything—behind the emptiness in his.

“This,” she whispered. “Destroying yourself. Becoming what they expect you to be.”

Ken let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s all I know, Jennifer.”

She placed a hand over his, warm and steady. “Then let me show you something else.”

Jennifer's breath hitched as she met his gaze. There was no rage this time, no arrogance—just raw, bitter pain.

"You told me I was a monster," Ken murmured, his voice heavy. "And now that I'm changing... why are you the one stopping me?"

She swallowed hard, guilt tightening around her throat. "Ken, I—"

But he stepped back, shaking his head. "Maybe you never wanted me to change. Maybe you just wanted a reason to leave."

"I'll leave you, Jennifer... if that's what you want," Ken said bitterly, his jaw clenched.

Jennifer's heart twisted at his words. He was giving up—on her, on them.

She should have felt relieved. Instead, it felt like something inside her was breaking.

As Ken stood up, Jennifer couldn't hold back anymore. She grabbed him, wrapping her arms around him tightly, sobbing into his chest.

"I hate you..." she choked out between her cries. "I hate you for making me care."

Ken's hands hovered in the air for a moment before he slowly pulled her closer, his voice barely a whisper.

"Then hate me all you want... just don’t let me go."

Jennifer's breath trembled. "I'm just a maid, Ken. A widow. I’m twelve years older than you. People will talk. Your father—”

"f**k what people say," Ken cut her off, his forehead resting against hers. "And my father? He doesn't control me. No one does." His fingers trailed down her jaw, resting at the side of her neck where he could feel the rapid pulse of her heartbeat. "You're scared, Jennifer, but not of them. You’re scared of how much you want this."

Tears welled in her eyes as she gripped his wrist. "Ken, I—"

"Say it," he urged, his lips hovering just above hers, his breath mingling with hers. "Tell me you don't feel the same, and I'll walk away. But if you do..." His voice softened, his thumb tracing slow circles on her skin. "Then stop running."

Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut, torn between fear and desire. "Ken, I don't know how to—"

"Then let me show you," he murmured, closing the distance, his lips barely grazing hers, waiting for her to pull away. Waiting for her to decide.

Jennifer didn't pull away.

Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening around his wrist as if grounding herself. Ken stayed still, his lips hovering over hers, waiting, silently pleading.

Then, finally, she moved.

It was hesitant at first, the barest tilt of her head, but it was enough. Ken closed the space, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate—almost fragile, as if afraid she might break.

Jennifer shivered as his hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and terrifying all at once.

She pulled back abruptly, her fingers ghosting over her lips. "Ken..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with fear, longing, and something dangerously close to surrender.

Ken exhaled sharply, his forehead resting against hers. "I’m not letting you go, Jennifer." His voice was rough, determined. "I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. But don’t push me away because you're scared."

Jennifer swallowed hard, her eyes searching his—stormy, unwavering, filled with something that made her chest ache.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to run.

Ken wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her against his chest as Jennifer trembled in his hold.

She clenched his shirt in her fists, sobbing silently, her body shaking with every breath. Years of loneliness, fear, and the weight of a love she was too afraid to name crashed over her like a storm.

Ken didn’t say a word. He just held her.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand pressed against the small of her back, keeping her close as if afraid she might slip away. He felt the warmth of her tears seeping into his shirt, but he didn’t care.

"I'm here," he murmured against her hair, his voice raw. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Why do you make it so hard to hate you?"

Ken let out a broken chuckle, his grip tightening around her. "Because you never really hated me, Jennifer."

She pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face looking up at him. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb, his gaze softer than she'd ever seen.

Jennifer knew she was falling.

And for the first time… she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop.

The air in the dining hall turned suffocatingly thick. Jennifer, still in the kitchen, gripped the edge of the counter, her breath shallow as she overheard the conversation.

The man leaned back in his chair, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. His drunken confidence reeked of arrogance.

"So, Ken," he slurred, eyes flicking toward the kitchen door, "if she ain't for sale, can I at least f**k her?"

The room went dead silent.

Ken didn’t move at first. His fingers, wrapped around the whiskey glass, tightened until the glass cracked in his grip. A droplet of blood trickled down his knuckle, but his face remained unreadable.

Then, in one swift motion, he was on his feet.

Before anyone could react, a loud BANG echoed through the hall.

The man who spoke barely had time to register the bullet lodged in his leg before he screamed, toppling off his chair, blood pooling onto the expensive carpet. The other mafia men stumbled back in shock, their drunken haze sobering instantly.

Ken exhaled slowly, lowering his smoking gun. His cold eyes glared down at the man writhing on the floor.

"Say that again," Ken said, his voice eerily calm. "And next time, I won’t miss your head."

POV: Late at Night – Jennifer Came to Heal My Hand

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. I sat on the edge of my bed, the sting in my knuckles barely registering. My mind was elsewhere—on the conversation at dinner, on the sick laughter of those bastards, on the rage that had boiled inside me like a curse I could never shake.

Then, the door creaked open.

I didn’t have to look up. I already knew who it was.

Jennifer stepped in, her presence as quiet as ever, like she didn’t belong in a place like this. In her hands, she carried a small first aid kit, her expression unreadable. She didn’t ask. She just sat beside me, taking my injured hand into her soft, steady ones.

“You don’t have to do this,” I muttered.

She ignored me, gently dabbing at the dried blood on my knuckles. Her fingers worked carefully, as if she could erase the violence from my skin.

I exhaled sharply. “Why do you still care?”

She paused for a moment but didn’t meet my eyes. “Because someone has to.”

I clenched my jaw. That answer—it did something to me.

The room was too quiet, too heavy. The warmth of her touch burned into me like something dangerous. As she wrapped the bandage around my hand, her fingers lingered for just a second too long.

Then, she stood up, stepping back like she was never meant to be this close to me in the first place.

“Don’t get hurt over me again,” she whispered before turning to leave.

"You knew?" Ken asked, his voice low, almost dangerous.

Jennifer stilled, her back still facing him as she packed the first-aid kit. Her hands trembled for just a moment before she steadied herself.

"I did," she admitted softly.

Ken clenched his jaw, his fists tightening. "And you said nothing?"

She turned to face him then, her eyes calm but tired. "What was I supposed to say, Ken?"

His breath hitched. He felt something inside him crack—anger, betrayal, something deeper that he couldn’t name. "You should’ve told me," he muttered.

Jennifer exhaled, stepping closer. "And what would you have done?"

Ken scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "You know exactly what I would’ve done."

"Exactly," she whispered. "That’s why I didn’t."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

"You think keeping things from me protects me?" Ken’s voice was sharp now, bitter. "Or were you protecting them?"

Jennifer held his gaze, unflinching. "I was protecting you from yourself."

Ken stared at her, his heart pounding.

And for the first time, he didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious.