The tiny, folded slip of paper — Ethan Grant's phone number — had become my personal religion. For fourteen agonizing days, it had lived tucked deep inside the stitching of my uniform apron, a burning coal against my skin. Two weeks. I had survived two weeks of perfect silence, two weeks of scrubbing floors and polishing secrets, pretending the warm pressure of his lips on my cheek had been nothing but a fever dream.
My rational mind, the part that was still focused on survival, screamed at me to forget the number, to discard the hope. But the part of me that was nineteen, lonely, and desperate to be seen, kept the number safe. Every time I heard an engine on the gravel drive, every time a shadow fell across the hall, I felt the terrifying, electric jolt of anticipation. I hadn't dared to text him. He was the Grant; he made the moves.
I was wiping down the chrome in the enormous, sterile pantry, focusing on the rhythmic friction of the cloth against the metal, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I jumped, nearly dropping the heavy cleaning solution. It was a number I didn't recognize.
The message was one word.
[2:17 PM] Unknown: Waiting
My hands started to shake, the polished surface blurring. It was him. It had to be. I felt a surge of adrenaline so intense it was painful. How had he gotten my number? The question was stupid, I knew. He works here. The Grants had access to everything — my employment file, my visa details, probably my entire life history.
I tried to keep my reply curt, professional, anything to regain the ground I'd lost the second I read the text.
[2:19 PM] Sasha: Who is this?
The reply was immediate, arrogant, and perfectly Ethan.
[2:20 PM] Ethan: You know who this is. And I was starting to think you weren't going to text me.
I pressed my back against the cold, metal shelving, sucking in a shuddering breath. He had been waiting for me to make the first move. He was testing my desire against my fear. And he had access to my private life. The danger was clear, but the connection was intoxicating. He was thinking about me.
[2:23 PM] Sasha: Why are you contacting me now?
[2:25 PM] Ethan: It's time you came to the study. Grandfather needs something done.
That chilling, casual switch from intimacy to command hit me like a blow. This wasn't a romantic secret; this was an assignment. My new access wasn't about love; it was about utility.
Just moments later, Mr. Harrison found me in the pantry. His face was emotionless, but his eyes held a strange, new intensity. "The Mayor needs you in the West Study. Immediately. You are to dust the shelving and polish the antique clock. Do not touch anything on the desk."
The office door was ajar. Ethan was inside, standing by the window that overlooked the town his grandfather owned, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wore a crisp, white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, making him look less like an heir and more like a man who worked with his hands —a deliberate lie.
He turned as I stepped in, the arrogant, charming smile sliding into place. "You actually came," he said, pushing off the sill.
"I was assigned, Mr. Grant," I murmured, quickly grabbing a bottle of polish, trying to bury myself in the duty.
He closed the distance between us, slowly. "Drop the act, Sasha. I'm not the help, and you're not just a maid. We kissed."
"It was a mistake. A moment of confusion," I lied, the warmth of his proximity making my voice shake.
He reached out and gently took the bottle of polish from my grip, setting it silently on the desk.
"Mistakes feel electric, don't they?" he whispered, his eyes dark, searching.
He lifted his hand, cupping my cheek — the same cheek he had kissed — his thumb brushing my jawline. I leaned into it instinctively, the lonely, desperate part of me winning.
"You should be careful," I breathed. "Your grandmother doesn't want me in this office."
He gave a slight, dismissive smile that showed his teeth. "My grandmother doesn't want you anywhere near this room. I do."
He stepped closer, caging me between his body and the heavy mahogany desk. His eyes dropped to my lips. "Mrs. Elara was too old. Too slow. Too far away. I told Harrison she needed a 'long vacation,' and I put you here."
The words landed like ice water. He hadn't just secured me a new job; he had demonstrated his power by casually displacing a twenty-year veteran to get what he wanted. He saw me flinch, and his smile widened, interpreting my fear as awe.
"This is a promotion, Sasha. You're closer to us now. Closer to the power. Closer to me," he murmured, his face coming closer. "When you're this close, I can keep an eye on you. Keep you safe."
He was offering control disguised as protection, a terrifying, beautiful exchange that made my head swim. I wanted to hate his casual ruthlessness, but the attention — the fact that he had risked so much, ruined another person's life, just to have me closer — was a toxic, addictive validation. I closed my eyes, accepting the poison.
And then, just as his lips were about to touch mine, the house itself revolted.
A heavy, low, unmistakable voice boomed from the hall outside the office: "Harrison! Get in here!"
It was the Mayor.
In a fraction of a second, Ethan's face went from soft intimacy to ruthless panic. He didn't gently push me away. He didn't even step back. He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me, hard, toward the tall, dark filing cabinets by the wall. The force was enough to slam my back against the metal, winding me.
"Be quiet," he hissed, his voice lethal, instantly transforming from seductive to commanding. He was already straightening his shirt, smoothing his face into a mask of bored composure as the massive oak door creaked open.
I pressed myself against the cold steel of the cabinet, hidden from the doorway by a large globe, fighting to catch my breath and keep the sudden, hot rush of tears from spilling over.
The Mayor, George Grant, a man carved from granite and tailored wool, stood framed in the doorway. He stopped, his gaze sweeping the room— a calculated, slow inspection.
"Ethan. You're here." The Mayor's voice was a low growl. "What is she doing in my office?"
Ethan leaned casually against the mahogany desk, retrieving his glass with a practiced ease that made the last thirty seconds feel like a terrible hallucination.
"Grandfather. Relax. I think she's the new maid. Sasha, isn't it? Elara finally retired."
He lied easily, smoothly, denying the woman he had just flirted with and the staff member he had just fired.
I forced myself to step out from behind the globe, meeting the Mayor's cold, dangerous eyes. My voice trembled only slightly.
"Yes, sir. I was assigned to clean in here. I was told the previous maid had left."
The Mayor's eyes narrowed, lingering on my face for a terrifying second. "I didn't authorize a new maid in here yet. This is a private space." He looked at Ethan, then back at me. "Leave it. Now. Harrison will assign you elsewhere."
It wasn't a request. I grabbed my polish and my rags, my movements stiff and robotic. I didn't look at Ethan, whose expression was already bored, dismissive, as if the last five minutes of vulnerability had been erased. I had just been almost kissed, promoted, and violently discarded in the same breath.
I rushed out, fleeing the oppressive quiet of the office for the relative safety of the hallway. I felt the sharp ache in my back where I hit the cabinet, but the pain in my chest was worse. The push was a message, brutally clear: when the world intruded, I was disposable. I was less than a ghost. I was a liability.
The Mayor's office was the nerve center of a criminal operation. And Ethan had just confirmed I was his tool, willing to flirt with the fire but ready to extinguish me the second the flame threatened him. I was terrified, but the adrenaline had solidified something dark and resolute in my core. I had seen too much, and I still had his number.