ALEXANDER

The moment the door clicked shut behind Elena Stevens, silence settled over the study once more. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. I already knew she hovered on the other side of the door—uncertain, nervous, hopeful. People like her always did.

I signed the final page of the contract in front of me, the pen gliding smoothly over the paper. Effortless comfort.
The phrase lingered longer than it should have. Unusual. Most applicants droned rehearsed clichés—attention to detail, strong work ethic, team player. She was the first to speak about the house as if it were alive. As if she saw it the way I did.

Interesting, but irrelevant. Personality didn’t keep an estate running. Competence did.

I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers. Thorne stood at his usual position—two steps behind me, angled at precisely forty-five degrees, as always. Predictable. Dependable. The opposite of chaos.

“She’s young,” I said.

Thorne didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, sir.”

“Too young for this job?”

Another beat. “Her references check out. And her eye for detail is… impressive.”

I hummed a low sound of acknowledgment. I had seen it myself—the polished shoes, the controlled posture, the way she scanned the room the moment she stepped inside as if cataloging every surface, every task. She didn’t gawk. She didn’t tremble. She absorbed.

Still, youth was a liability.

“So was the last one,” I said flatly. “And she lasted three days.”

Thorne’s jaw twitched. “Ms. Stevens seems different.”

“She seems desperate.”

“Desperation is often a powerful motivator.”

I didn’t bother responding. He was right, but desperation also made people unpredictable. It made them sloppy.

I disliked sloppy.

My eyes drifted to the closed door again. Her voice replayed in my mind, calmer than I expected, tinged with something like quiet resolve.

I find joy in competence, sir. In doing a job well. In exceeding expectations.

A strange answer. Too honest. Most lied. Some simpered. She didn’t.

I pushed away the thought with a flick of irritation. It didn’t matter. I didn’t hire her for conversation.

“She’ll start immediately,” I said.

“I’ll take her to the staff wing,” Thorne replied. “Have her complete onboarding and review today’s duties.”

I nodded once. “Remind her of the rules.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Thorne?”

He paused. “Sir?”

“No exceptions.”

He inclined his head in a crisp bow. “Understood.”

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone again. My gaze drifted to the massive windows framing the estate grounds. Order. Control. Routine. These weren’t preferences—they were necessities.

And if Elena Stevens disrupted even a fraction of that…

She would be gone by the end of the week.

Still…
That spark in her eyes, that mix of fear and determination—it was the first thing to jolt my interest in months.

Unwanted. Irrelevant.

But unmistakable.

I exhaled quietly, long and measured, and picked up my next file. Work awaited. Distractions had no place here. Not in this house. Not in my life.

And certainly not in the form of a maid with trembling hands and a voice full of stubborn hope.

ELENA

The air outside the study felt different the moment the door closed behind me.

Colder.
Sharper.
As if the house itself were examining me now that its master no longer was.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It barely helped. My pulse still thudded beneath my skin, too fast, too noticeable. Not fear — not exactly. Something else. Something harder to pin down.

Thorne stood in front of me, back straight, expression unreadable. He carried an air of authority that didn’t require words.

“Come,” he said.

I followed.

The corridor stretched long and immaculate, lined with antique sconces and framed oil paintings whose subjects watched us with centuries-old eyes. My footsteps were feather-light on the polished wood floor, but the house seemed to hear them anyway.

Or maybe I only felt like it did.

Thorne walked briskly, his stride efficient but measured. I had to take quick steps to keep up without seeming like I was hurrying. The house wound around us like a labyrinth — high ceilings, narrow hallways, archways carved with ornate detail. Everything looked curated, intentional.

Nothing in this place existed by accident.

“You will find the Voss estate has expectations,” Thorne said as we turned a corner. “High standards. Strict routines.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

His eyes flicked toward me, brief but assessing. “Do you?”

The question settled heavy in my stomach.

“I intend to,” I answered.

That seemed to satisfy him. Or at least, he didn’t challenge it. The corridor widened, opening into a long gallery with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. A burst of green cut through the estate’s dominance of dark wood and sweeping architecture.

For a moment, I slowed, caught by the view.

A tremor—not cold, not fear—moved through me. Something like awe. Something like possibility. Something like the terrifying knowledge that I wanted to be here.

I wanted to stay.

Thorne spoke without breaking stride. “The grounds are off-limits unless you have a specific task. The greenhouse, the west garden, and the south path are restricted areas for all staff.”

I forced my steps to quicken. “Why?”

“Because those are the rules,” he said simply. “And rules are non-negotiable here.”

Because Alexander Voss decreed it, was the meaning beneath his words.

We turned again, this time down a narrower hallway with a completely different feel. The floors here were simpler, the walls plainer, the light softer. It was still elegant — impossibly so — but it lacked the ancient weight of the main estate.

This must be the staff wing.

A quiet hum of distant activity filled the air—voices, footsteps, the low clatter of dishes. Normal sounds. Human sounds. They steadied me far more than I wanted to admit.

Thorne stopped at a door.

“This will be your room.”

He opened it with a small silver key. Inside was a compact but well-kept space: a single bed with crisp sheets, a wardrobe that looked older than I was, a small desk beneath a window overlooking a sliver of the courtyard.

It was more than I expected.
It was enough.

I stepped inside, letting my fingers brush the edge of the wooden desk. Smooth. Polished. Not new, but cared for.

“Your schedule begins tomorrow at five,” Thorne continued. “You will receive tasks as assigned. Completed work will be reviewed at the end of each day.”

I nodded. Five wasn’t early to me. I’d worked earlier jobs, harder jobs, jobs where supervisors yelled and demanded and never said thank you.

At least here, the house itself seemed to value quiet.

“And the rules?” I asked softly.

Thorne studied me for a moment, then listed them with clear precision:

“Staff do not enter the east wing without permission.
Staff do not initiate conversation with Mr. Voss.
Staff do not interrupt Mr. Voss.
Staff do not wander the estate after midnight.
Staff do not question the routines or the restrictions placed upon them.”

My hands curled at my sides.

Not out of rebellion — out of the weight of expectation.
Out of the understanding that this place wasn’t like anywhere else I’d ever worked.

“Break any of these,” he finished, “and you will be dismissed immediately.”

I swallowed, throat tight but steady. “Understood.”

Thorne’s expression softened by a fraction—barely noticeable. “You’ll be fine if you do your job well.”

I nodded again.

He stepped back into the hallway. “Settle in. I’ll return shortly with your orientation packet.”

As he walked away, the corridor dimming behind him, I exhaled shakily and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under my weight.

I stared at my hands.

They weren’t trembling.
Not as much as before.

The interview still replayed in loops — Alexander Voss’s voice, low and clipped, questions sharp enough to draw blood. The way his gaze moved like he could see right through me, past my composure, past my calm answers.

I had felt stripped bare under that gaze.

Not exposed.
Not belittled.
Just… seen.

It was unsettling.

No employer had ever looked at me like that.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and whispered to myself:

“You’re here now. You can do this.”

It wasn’t desperation that drove me anymore.
Not entirely.

It was something stronger.
A need to prove myself.
To belong somewhere that demanded excellence instead of settling for mediocrity.

But beneath it all, buried deep where I refused to look closely, there was one more truth:

Something about Alexander Voss — the cold authority in his voice, the precision of his movements, the quiet intensity in his eyes — had shaken something in me I didn’t know could still move.

I didn’t want it to.

I couldn’t afford it.

But it was there.
Faint.
Sharp.
Thrumming through me like a warning.

I straightened, inhaling slowly.

If I was going to survive this house —
If I was going to endure Mr. Voss —
I needed control.

I needed discipline.

And I needed to keep whatever that feeling was buried so deep it never saw daylight again.

Because a place like this?
A man like him?

They didn’t just expect obedience.
They commanded it.