TOO LOW TO BE HIS.

A GHOST IN MY ROOM

LEO ARCHER-VANE’S POV

The world was spinning, why wont it? i was drunk to stupor!

Every step from the elevator to my bedroom door felt like walking on broken glass through a thick fog of Macallan and regret. Well, I love Macallan. It makes me forget my sorrows, the only thing that gets me high, just how I like it.

My head was thumping; a rhythmic, brutal drumming against my skull that timed itself to my heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Failure. Thump.

I leaned my forehead against the double doors. I just wanted to crawl into my silk sheets and disappear. I wanted to forget the flash of that bartender’s camera, forget Beatrice’s shrill voice, and forget that I was a twenty-four-year-old man who didn’t know how to be anything other than a disappointment

I pushed the doors open, expecting the usual shadows, silence, and the scent of my own mess. Instead, the light was on.

I squinted, the brightness searing my retinas. A figure was standing by my dresser. Tall, slender, and dressed in a charcoal-grey uniform that looked like a shroud. For a terrifying second, I thought the alcohol had finally caused a permanent hallucination.

"Who the hell are you?" I slurred, the words thick and clumsy. I tried to stand up straight, but my shoulder clipped the doorframe, making me stumble.

The figure turned.

She wasn't a hallucination. She was very real. And she was holding one of my five-hundred-pound dress shirts like it was a piece of trash she was about to incinerate.

I waited for the usual reaction. I waited for her to blush, to stutter, to offer me a glass of water with a trembling hand and a flirtatious smile. That’s how it always went. They hired these girls, and within a week, they were trying to find their way into my bed or my bank account.

But this girl? She didn't move.

She stood there, her spine as rigid as an iron rod. Her hair was pulled back into a knot so tight it looked painful.

But it was her eyes that stopped my heart. They weren't flirty or even star-struck. they were dark, and they burned with a level of hatred I had never seen directed at me in my own home. why? Well, I guess I'll find out soon.

"I’m the help, Master Leopold," she spoke with so much confidence. She wasn't even intimidated by my presence? And a help, she said? Oh well, what audacity.

"Though 'help' seems like a generous term for someone tasked with cleaning up the filth of a man who can’t even stand on his own two feet." She proceeded.

I blinked, certain I’d misheard. Master Leopold? the title was there, but the way she spat it made it sound like an insult. Like a slur.

"Where’s Mary?" I demanded, trying to find my 'Heir' voice. It came out as a weak rasp.

"Tell Mary... tell her to get me a drink. And get out. You’re in my room."

"Mary is in the back of an ambulance," the girl snapped. She took a step toward me, and instinctively, I took a step back. She was radiating a fury that felt physical. Was she about to beat me up in my own room?

"She collapsed on your stairs while you were out spending enough on a single bottle of scotch to pay her rent for a year. She’s fighting for her life because she spent twenty years serving people like you."

The words hit me harder than the hangover. Mary? My Mary? The woman who used to bring me warm milk when I had nightmares as a kid? The only person in this house who didn't look at me like a balance sheet?

"She... is she okay?" I asked.

"She’s in renal failure," the girl said, her lip curling in a sneer. "Not that you’d care. You were too busy being a 'disgrace' in Mayfair.

I’m her daughter. I’m the replacement. And if you think for one second I’m here because I want to be, then you’re more delusional than you are drunk."

She turned back to the dresser and slammed the drawer shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in my head.

I stared at her in surprise, not from the booze,guilt? Shock? No one spoke to me like this. My father gave orders. My mother gave guilt. My "friends" gave flattery.

But this girl, this grey ghost in my room, she looked at me like I was something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. She saw through the watch, the name, and the mansion. She saw the pathetic, shivering drunk underneath it all.

"Get out," I whispered, though there was no heat in it. I felt naked under her gaze.

"With pleasure," she said. She walked past me, her shoulder brushing mine, and for a split second, I caught the scent of her; warm vanilla. God, I hate vanilla!!!

She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder.

"The bucket is by the bed, Master Leopold. Try not to choke on your own privilege tonight. I have enough work to do without adding your funeral to the list."

The door clicked shut behind her.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, my head in my hands. I looked at the glass she’d polished, sitting on the nightstand. It was perfect and spotless.

I closed my eyes, but all I could see were those dark, fiery eyes.

Who is this girl? Why doesn't she look at me like I’m a God? Why are her eyes so full of fire?