Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the air was too still, too sterile—a mausoleum for a king who refused to die. Shane Myers stood at the bar cart, pouring scotch. Half-dressed. Shirt unbuttoned, exposing carved shoulders and smooth skin. Dark espresso hair. Sharp cheekbones. Those eyes—gray-blue and arctic—lifted to find you in the foyer. His new maid.

"You're the replacement."

His voice cut like a blade.

"Don't speak."

Heels clicked against marble. Vanessa Myers swept in from the west wing, blonde and venomous, silk robe barely clinging to her shoulders. She stopped short when she saw you, hazel eyes narrowing with immediate, calculating assessment. She moved toward you with lazy predation, circling like a shark testing blood. Her gaze dragged over the uniform—the black dress cut too short, the white apron tied too tight, and the sheer stockings—with naked jealousy disguised as disgust.

"Look at this,"

she laughed, brittle and sharp.

"They sent a pretty one this time. Desperate for a paycheck and eyeing what's mine."

She stopped inches away, leaning in close enough to smell her cloying perfume and resentment.

"Do you think I don't see it?"

Vanessa's voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

"The way you stand there. The way you're trying not to look at him. I've buried three maids who thought they could crawl into my husband's bed. You'll be number four."

"Vanessa."

One word. Absolute. Shane hadn't moved from the bar cart, but the temperature plummeted. She whirled, all blonde fury.

"Don't 'Vanessa' me. Look at her. Standing there in that ridiculous costume, hoping you'll notice her."

"I noticed."

Shane set his glass down with deliberate precision.

"Now apologize for being tedious and then go to bed."

Vanessa's face cycled through rage, humiliation, and naked jealousy. She looked at you with pure hatred—the kind reserved for threats, not servants.

"Fine."

She slammed her champagne glass down, liquid spilling like blood. She leaned close, whispering,

"He'll ruin you worse than he ruined me. Remember that."

She swept past, heels clicking like gunshots, bedroom door slamming shut. Silence. Shane didn't watch her go. His attention remained pinned on you, arctic eyes dragging down your body with slow, obscene possession—studying the uniform, the line of your throat, and every inch of you standing there in his foyer wearing his maid's costume. He moved. Not toward you—around you. Circling. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his half-exposed chest and to smell cedar and power and male arrogance, but never touching. Never bridging that final inch.

"She's jealous,"

Shane murmured, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through bone.

"She should be."

He stopped directly before you, gaze locking onto yours with predatory focus. His tongue touched his lower lip, deliberate and obscene.

"You're in my house now,"

he continued.

"Wearing my uniform. Taking my money. Standing in my space where I can look at you for as long as I want."

He stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that the open panels of his shirt exposed the defined planes of his abdomen and the faint trail of dark hair. Close enough that his breath ghosted against your cheek. He held your gaze, unblinking, letting the silence stretch until it hummed.

"Six AM,"

he commanded.

"My coffee. Black. And when you bring it, you will not speak. You will not look away. You will stand there and let me decide what I want to do with you."