A woman in her late twenties moved quietly through the manor's second-floor corridor, a feather duster in one hand, a cleaning cloth tucked into her apron pocket.

The hallway was elegant. Polished wooden floors that gleamed in the afternoon light streaming through tall windows, expensive paintings hanging at precise intervals, decorative vases positioned on pedestals like they were worth more than she'd earn in a year.

They probably were.

Her chestnut brown hair was tied back in a practical braid, a few loose strands escaping to frame her face.

Green eyes, tired but still sharp, scanned the surfaces she cleaned with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this work for years.

Who'd learned to become invisible.

She wore the standard maid uniform of the household. Black dress with white trim, fitted but modest, designed to be functional rather than flattering.

Still, it couldn't completely hide her figure. The gentle curves that suggested she'd lost weight recently, her frame leaner than it had been months ago.

Like she'd been skipping meals.

But she was still beautiful. The kind of quiet, natural beauty that didn't need adornment and couldn't be hidden by exhaustion or cheap fabric.

The kind that made men look twice.

Her hands moved mechanically. Dusting. Wiping. Straightening things that were already straight.

Just a few more months.

The thought repeated in her mind like a mantra, steady despite the exhaustion pulling at her bones.

A few more months of wages and I'll have enough for Mother's medical bills. The healer said the treatment is expensive, but it's possible. Just need to keep saving.

I can do this.

She moved to the next vase, carefully lifting it to clean beneath.

"Ah... there you are, newcomer!"

The voice came from behind her.

She froze, her fingers tightening around the vase.

Because... she knew that voice. Heard rumors about it. Had been avoiding it for two weeks since she'd started working here. Had changed her cleaning routes, timed her work to avoid certain corridors, kept her eyes down whenever he passed.

But it hadn't been enough.

Young Master Killian.

She set the vase down carefully, buying herself a few seconds to compose her expression.

Then she turned slowly, forcing her face into something neutral, professional.

A boy stood at the end of the corridor, maybe twenty feet away. Nineteen years old, tall and well-built in the way wealthy young men were when they had access to good food and personal trainers.

His dark hair was styled with casual elegance, his clothing expensive. A deep blue coat over a white shirt, everything tailored perfectly to his frame.

He was handsome, objectively. Sharp features, confident posture, the kind of smile that probably made merchant daughters swoon at social functions.

But the way he was looking at her made her skin crawl.

He grinned and started walking toward her, his steps unhurried.

She took a step back instinctively, her heart starting to hammer against her ribs.

Stay calm.

"Do you need anything, Young Master?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "If you require assistance, I can fetch the head butler or—"

"No," he said simply, still approaching, still smiling.

She took another step back. Then another. Her shoulder blades hit the wall behind her.

Damn it.

Trapped.

Killian stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could smell expensive cologne and wine on his breath. Too close. Far too close.

Close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to meet his eyes, and the position made her feel even smaller.

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze traveling over her face, lingering on her hair, dropping lower to her throat, her collarbone, the modest neckline of her uniform.

She felt her hands start to tremble. She clutched the cleaning cloth in front of her like it could somehow protect her.

"You're beautiful," he said finally, his voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. "And wonderful. You know that?"

Her stomach twisted.

"W-What are you saying, Young Master?" She stammered, the words catching in her throat. "I'm just a maid. I don't—"

"Bullshit."

He chuckled, the sound low and amused, like she'd told a joke.

"Don't play humble with me. I've been watching you since you started here."

The words sent ice down her spine.

"The way you are, the way you carry yourself..." He reached out slowly, deliberately, giving her time to see it coming but not enough time to stop it. "You're wasted on cleaning duties."

His fingers tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

She flinched at the touch, couldn't help it, but he didn't pull back. His fingers lingered, trailing along her jaw.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice still soft, still intimate.

Her throat felt tight. She had to swallow twice before she could speak.

"Agnes," she whispered.

"Agnes." He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting it. His smile widened. "Beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

"Young Master, what are you doing?" The words came out quieter than she intended, trembling despite her efforts to control them.

Please stop. Please just stop.

His grin widened further.

"What do you think?"

Her eyes widened as understanding dawned with horrible, sickening clarity.

No.

"Please, no, Young Master, I—"

"Do you want me to kick you out?"

His tone stayed pleasant, conversational, but there was steel beneath it now.

"Send you to the streets? I could tell Father you were stealing. Or that you were inappropriate with guests. He'd believe me." He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her face. "And then where would you be? No job. No references. No way to pay for..."

He paused, tilting his head, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"What was it? Your mother's medical bills?"

The world seemed to tilt.

He knows.

Her breath caught in her chest, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.

He's been asking about me. Finding out about me.

Her hands trembled against the cloth she still clutched, knuckles white.

She slowly shook her head, the movement small, defeated, hating herself for it but not knowing what else to do.

"No," she whispered. "Please don't."

His smirk returned, triumphant, victorious.

"You're smart. I like that about you."

He reached for her waist, his hand already moving, fingers spreading like he had every right.

But then—

"What's happening here?"

A voice bellowed through the corridor like thunder.

Killian froze mid-motion, his hand stopping just inches from her body.

The color drained from his face so fast it would have been comical under different circumstances.

Agnes felt her knees go weak with relief so intense it was almost painful.

Killian turned around slowly, his confident posture crumbling like wet paper, shoulders hunching.

"F-Father?"

A man stood at the corridor's entrance, backlit by the window behind him. Maybe in his late forties, with the same dark hair as his son. He wore formal attire. A dark coat and vest, everything immaculate, everything proper.

But his expression was thunderous.

Cyrus Glimor. The master of the household.

Agnes had only seen him a handful of times since she'd started working here. He was always busy, always traveling on business, leaving the manor's daily operations to his staff.

"What," he said, his voice deadly quiet now, somehow worse than the shouting, "are you doing?"

Killian's mouth opened and closed. He was scrambling, she could see it in his eyes, trying to find an excuse that would work.

"I was just checking on the new maid, making sure she—"

CRACK!

The slap came so fast Killian didn't have time to raise his hands.

So fast Agnes barely saw Lord Glimor move.

The sound echoed through the corridor.

Killian stumbled sideways, one hand flying to his reddening cheek, shock written across his face like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

Agnes pressed herself harder against the wall, trying to make herself smaller, invisible.

Don't look at me. Please.

"Don't you know," Lord Glimor said, each word precise and cutting like a blade, "how to respect a woman?"

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