TOO LOW TO BE HIS.

THE MORNING AFTER

LEO’S POV

I woke up to the sound of curtains being ripped open.

The morning light didn’t just enter the room; it attacked me.

"Stop," I groaned, throwing an arm over my eyes. "Close them. Now."

"It’s seven-fifteen, Master Leopold. The sun doesn't wait for hangovers, and neither do I."

That voice. The ice-water voice from last night. ughhhh. I thought it was a dream, what is she still doing here.

I squinted, peering through the gap in my fingers. She was there, standing at the foot of my bed. In the harsh morning light, she didn't look like a "grey ghost" like she did last night. She looked... vibrant.

Her skin was clear, very clear, and despite the plain uniform, there was an elegance to her that felt out of place in a servant’s tunic.

She looked exactly like Mary. The same set of shoulders, the same almond-shaped eyes—but where Mary’s eyes were full of warmth, this girl’s were full of flint. I'll say she's a beautiful demon. OK, I accept it , I was a little frightened by her.

"I didn't ask for the sun," I rasped, my throat feeling like I’d swallowed hot sand. "I asked for silence."

"And I’m asking you to sit up and eat." She stepped forward, placing a silver tray on the nightstand with a definitive clink. The smell of poached eggs and strong coffee hit me, making my stomach flip.

"I’m not hungry. Take the food away." I ordered like a child throwing tantrums.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I’m following a schedule. If you don't eat, I have to report a 'lack of cooperation' to Mr. Henderson. And trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else than reporting on your appetite."

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance, like a mother dealing with a particularly dim-witted child. It was infuriating. It was also the most honest look I’d received in years.

"You're very... blunt," I said, struggling to sit up. as the room swayed. I was seriously hungover.

She reached out, grabbed a hot towel from the tray, and stepped closer. "And you’re very pathetic. Lean forward."

I couldn’t help but wonder why she acted so casual and unmoved by my presence.

I mean, I'm 'THE LEO ARCHER-VANE'. Girls don't just act casual around me? They melt.

Could this be a new tactic to get my attention.

Classic "ACT LIKE I DONT CARE, TO MAKE HIM FALL HEAD OVER HEELS FOR ME"?

DId she know how much I had? I bet she didn't. She wouldn't act so casual if she did. Women are gold diggers, it's either she's just pretending to get my attention or she has a motive, none of which are pure.

Did she know who my father was.

She should, technically, because she's in my room, and she called my name? Who did she even think she was?

The headache pulsed harder, I hated mornings like this. They stripped away the armour. No girls laughing too loud just to impress me. Just me, a silk bed, and the consequences of last night, boy. I hate my life.

I’d built my reputation on control. On being untouchable. People bent around me because it was easier than standing in my way. Servants smiled too much. Women tried too hard. Even silence in this house felt rehearsed. But she didn’t bend. She didn’t waver. She didn’t even hesitate.

That unsettled me more than the hangover because why?

She moved like she belonged here, like she was familiar with everything, yet her eyes said she didn’t. Like she was counting minutes. Like this room was a temporary punishment she intended to survive, not enjoy. That kind of distance wasn’t strategy,it was defence.

And defence meant damage.

I wondered what had carved that toughness into her. I wondered who had disappointed her so badly that she looked at a man like me and saw nothing worth fearing or wanting. The thought irritated me. No, worse. It challenged me.

I didn’t like being a test. I was failing.

---

She was suddenly in my personal space, the scent of vanilla again, replacing the fresh smell of my room.

She was beautiful in a way that didn't require effort. No makeup, no expensive jewellery, just natural beauty.

"Lean. Forward," she repeated, her eyes locking onto mine.

For a second, the world stopped spinning. The air between us, charged with a tension I couldn't name. I saw the fire in her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered what it would take to turn that fire into something else.

---------

ELEANOR’S POV

The towel was hot against my palms, like the man in front of me, but no matter how handsome they looked, I couldn’t care less.

Leo Archer-Vane sat on the edge of his silk-covered bed, looking like a broken toy. I pressed the cloth to his forehead. The eye contact was too much. Up close, his eyes weren't just blue; they were a storm of regret and privilege.

I wanted to look away. I wanted to run back to Peckham and forget that this house ever existed. But then I thought of my mother, hooked up to a machine in a sterile hospital room, and I forced my hands to stay steady.

The silence was shattered by the heavy thud of the double doors being kicked open.

"Leopold! What in the hell is this?"

I jumped back, the towel dropping to the floor. Sir Alistair, his father, marched in, his face a deep shade of purple, followed closely by Lady Serena his mother , who was clutching a silk handkerchief to her mouth, her eyes wide with "distress".

They didn't even look at me. To them, I was just part of the furniture.

"The blogs, Leo!" Sir Alistair roared, slamming a tablet down onto the breakfast tray. "You’re trending. 'The Archer-Vane Heir Weeps for a Gold-Digger.' Do you have any idea what this does to the Thorne merger? Do you have any idea how much it costs to scrub this from the internet?"

"Alistair, please, your heart," Lady Serena whimpered, though she looked perfectly fine to me. She cast a glance at Leo, then finally turned her eyes to me.

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

"And who is this?" she asked. "Where is Mary?"

"Mary is in the hospital, Mother," Leo said, his voice flat. "This is Eleanor. Her daughter."

Sir Alistair’s eyes snapped to mine. He didn't see a grieving daughter. He saw a liability. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of papers.

"Perfect timing," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He stepped toward me, holding out a pen. "Sign this. Now."

I stared at the document. NON-DISCLOSURE AND SERVICE INDENTURE.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"It’s your mother’s life, girl," Alistair snapped. "You sign this, and we pay for the dialysis. You sign this, and you stay on this floor, serving my son, and you never speak a word of what happens in this house to anyone. Not the press. Not your friends. Not even your mother."

I looked at the paper, then at Leo, who was staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched in shame. I looked at Lady Serena, who was watching me with a small, cruel smile.

I thought of my promise to myself. Never let a man have power over you.

I held the pen, the weight of it feeling like a mountain. If I signed this, I wasn't just a maid. I was a prisoner.

What am I signing away? My soul? My future?

How can I serve this man for a year without losing my mind?

Will I keep the promise I made to Martha, or am I about to become another woman destroyed by the Archer-Vanes?

I looked at the dotted line, then back at the "monsters" in front of me.