The boss's maid

Untitled Episode

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*Chapter 3: A Dinner I Didn’t Ask For

The knock came at 8:02 PM.

I was still on my knees scrubbing the marble floor of Henry Wilson’s penthouse when I heard it. Three sharp raps. No one knocks like that unless they own the building.

“Up,” a cold voice said behind me.

I nearly dropped the scrub brush. Henry stood there in a black suit, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom and into a war.

“Put that down,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“Excuse me?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “Sir, my shift isn’t over for two more hours and—”

“Dinner.” He cut me off. “You’re having dinner with me.”

I blinked. “Is that in the contract?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Consider it a clause I’m adding.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked to the door, expecting me to follow. And because I was broke, and because his lawyer’s voice was still in my head saying _six months_, I followed.

The restaurant was on the top floor of Wilson Tower. Glass walls, city lights below us, and tables so far apart you could scream and no one would hear. A waiter pulled out my chair like I was someone important.

“I don’t belong here,” I whispered.

Henry sat across from me and loosened his tie completely. For the first time since I met him, he didn’t look like a billionaire. He looked tired.

“You scrubbed my floor for six hours,” he said. “The least I can do is feed you.”

“That’s not why you brought me.”

“No.” His eyes met mine. Dark. Direct. “I brought you because when I came home and saw you on your knees, my chest did something stupid.”

My heart stuttered. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this something it isn’t. I’m your maid. You’re my boss. That’s it.”

He picked up his wine glass but didn’t drink. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

I looked down. He was right.

The food came. Steak. Salmon. Things I hadn’t eaten in months. But I couldn’t taste any of it. Because Henry wasn’t looking at his plate. He was looking at me.

“You talk back,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Most people don’t. They bow. They say yes sir. You… you slap me, you argue, you look at me like I’m the problem.” A small, almost-smile. “It’s annoying.”

“Good.”

That almost-smile turned real for half a second. Then it was gone.

When dinner ended, he walked me to the door himself. No driver. No assistant. Just him and me in the elevator, the silence heavy between us.

At my floor, before I could step out, he caught my wrist. Gently.

“Six months, Anita,” he said, voice low. “Try not to make me hate how much I look forward to seeing you.”

He let go. The doors closed.

And I stood there with my heart beating way too fast for a girl who was just supposed to be a maid.

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*Chapter 4: The Rule He Broke - 515 words*

Rule #1 of the contract: No touching.

Henry broke it on Thursday.

It was raining. The kind of rain that soaks you in 10 seconds. I’d run out to buy medicine because the housekeeper was sick, and by the time I got back I was dripping on his $20,000 rug.

“i***t,” Henry said the second I walked in. But he was already moving.

Before I could answer, he grabbed a towel and started drying my hair.

“Stop— you can’t—” I sputtered.

“Can’t what?” His hands were gentle, but his voice was firm. “Can’t touch you? Clause added.”

I tried to pull away. He didn’t let me.

“You’re shivering,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sit.”

He pushed me to the couch, wrapped a blanket around me, and then did something that broke me completely.

He made tea.

Billionaire Henry Wilson. CEO of Wilson Group. The man who fired 200 people with one email. Standing in his kitchen in a wet dress shirt, making lemon tea because I was cold.

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

“I know.” He handed me the mug. His fingers brushed mine. Neither of us pulled away. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

We sat in silence. The rain hit the windows. My heart hit my ribs.

“Why me?” I asked finally. “Out of everyone, why did you pick me for this… contract?”

Henry stared into his tea. “Because when you slapped me, you weren’t scared. You were angry. And I haven’t met anyone who looks at me like that in 10 years.”

My throat went dry. “That’s a terrible reason.”

“It is.” He looked up at me then, and his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. “Anita, I’m not a good man. I don’t do nice things. But with you, I want to.”

The word _want_ hung in the air.

Rule #1: No touching.

Henry leaned forward and tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles grazed my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know I’m not supposed to.”

“Then don’t,” I said. But I didn’t move away.

For a second, I thought he might kiss me. The air was thick with it.

Instead, he pulled back and stood. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.”

He walked away, leaving me with a blanket, a mug, and a rule that felt impossible to keep.

That night I wrote in my notebook: _He’s not supposed to be kind. And I’m not supposed to like it._

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