THE CONTRACT
DOVE'S POV
"Mr. Ford, about the schedule—" I started, gripping the strap of my bag. My knuckles were white; it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the floor.
He cut me off instantly. He didn't raise his voice, but the sudden sharpness of it stopped me cold.
"Firstly, address me as Damien. Not Mr. Ford."
My mouth snapped shut, and I nodded, flushing slightly. "Right. Damien. Sorry. I just want to make sure I get this right."
He was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk now, leaning back in the leather chair the following day in the evening. He didn't look like a man looking to hire a maid; he looked like a man used to watching people squirm.
"The rules are simple, Dove," he said. The way he rolled my name off his tongue felt intimate and intrusive all at once. "You are to work on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays."
I mentally scrambled to check my class schedule. "Okay. What times?"
"From 4pm to 8pm."
My brows furrowed. That didn't add up. "Four hours? That's it?"
"That is it," he confirmed, his blue eyes tracking the confusion on my face. "During those hours, your duties are specific. You are to do my laundry and wash any dirty dishes. That is all."
"That's… all?" I couldn't help but ask. The skepticism was bubbling up before I could stop it. "What about vacuuming? Dusting? The floors in the hallway look like they need—"
He raised a hand, silencing me. "I have a cleaning service for the mornings. They scrub, sweep, and deep clean. I don't need you for manual labor like that. I require you specifically for the personal maintenance of my wardrobe and kitchenware. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I breathed out. It sounded too good to be true. Twelve hours a week. No heavy lifting. "And… the payment?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of thick, cream-colored paper. He slid it across the polished surface of the desk until it rested right in front of me.
"I pay weekly," he said, his tone clipped and clinical. "The amount is listed under item three."
I stepped forward, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs. I looked down. The handwriting was sharp, jagged, and aggressive. I skipped past the first two lines and found number three.
My breath hitched. I blinked, sure I was misreading it. I leaned closer.
"Five thousand dollars?" My voice cracked on the last syllable.
I looked up at him. "Five thousand… a week?"
Damien didn't even blink. He studied my shock with a detached, almost scientific curiosity. "If the sum is insufficient, I can adjust it to—"
"No!" I blurted out, shaking my head violently. "No, it's not too small. It's… it's a lot. It's more than enough. I mean, for twelve hours of work? Are you sure?"
"I am always sure, Dove," he said smoothly. "Money is of no consequence to me. Efficiency and obedience are. Read the rest."
I swallowed hard, looking back down at the paper. My hands were trembling as I braced them against the edge of the desk. Five thousand dollars a week. That was twenty thousand a month. The math hit me too physically. In one month, I could pay my tuition, cover Sarah's rent, clear my debts, and still have money to breathe. It wasn't just a job; it was a lifeline.
I forced myself to focus on the text.
Rule 4: Do not tamper with Damien's personal belongings. Rule 5: Do not leave the premises with any items belonging to the house. Rule 6: Do not do anything outside of the scope of these rules. Rule 7: You must put on your maid uniform at all times while on duty.
Standard stuff. Strict, maybe, but for that amount of money, I would have agreed to wear a clown suit and juggle flaming torches.
"Do you agree to these terms?" he asked.
"I do," I said instantly. "Absolutely."
He pushed a heavy fountain pen toward me. "Then sign at the bottom."
I picked up the pen. The metal was cold and heavy. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, a tiny alarm bell ringing in the back of my mind—this is too easy, too perfect. But then the image of the eviction notices and the empty fridge flashed behind my eyes.
I signed my name gingerly. Dove Johnson.
"Done," I whispered.
Damien rose from his chair. He moved with a fluid grace that made him seem even taller than he was. I stood up straighter, trying to match his posture.
He stretched his hand out across the desk.
Thinking it was a handshake to seal the deal, I reached out. His grip was instant—firm and hot. But he didn't shake it.
Instead, he pulled me slightly closer, bowing his head. He lifted my hand to his lips, planting a deliberate kiss right on my knuckles.
My breath caught. His lips were warm, lingering a second longer than was professional. He didn't let go immediately. He slowly lifted his head, those blue eyes locking onto mine, holding me captive.
"I look forward to working with you, sweetheart," he murmured.
My heart skipped a beat at the endearment. It was patronizing, maybe even inappropriate. But the way he said it—low and rough—sent a jolt of electricity straight to my stomach that I hadn't expected.
"I… me too," I stammered, pulling my hand back.
He held on for a split second, testing my resistance, before slowly releasing me.
"As for your uniform," he said, his voice snapping back to business, "Lauren is bringing it."
I frowned, rubbing the back of my hand where his lips had been. "Lauren?"
As if on cue, the heavy double doors to the study swung open.
I turned to see a woman walking in. She looked nothing like I expected. Late twenties, sharp features, high ponytail. She was dressed in a sleek black leather jacket and fitted jeans, looking more like she belonged on a motorcycle than in a mansion.
She was holding a glossy black shopping bag.
Damien gestured to her. "This is Lauren. My personal assistant."
Lauren's expression softened instantly when she saw me. She smiled—a genuine, tired warmth that eased the tension in my shoulders.
"Hi! You must be Dove," she said, walking over. "Welcome to the madness. Don't let him scare you too much, his bark is worse than his bite."
Damien shot her a look that could freeze water, but Lauren just ignored him. She handed me the shopping bag.
"Here you go, hun," she said cheerfully. "The boss ordered this specifically. Why don't you go try it on? We need to make sure the fit is right so you can start immediately."
"Right now?" I asked, taking the bag. It felt suspiciously light.
"Right now," Damien said from behind me.
Lauren pointed toward the door. "Go down the hall, third door on the left. Guest bathroom. It's got a full-length mirror. Go on, don't be shy."
"Okay. Thank you."
I took the bag, clutching it to my chest. "I'll be right back."
I practically skipped out of the study. My mind was racing. Everything was finally going right. The pay was incredible. Twenty thousand dollars. I could buy groceries. I could buy Shawn a new phone. I could finally exist without the crushing weight of poverty sitting on my chest.
I pushed open the door to the guest bathroom and gasped. It was bigger than my entire bedroom. Marble floors, gold fixtures, and vanity lights that made me look like a movie star.
I set the bag down on the counter, my hands trembling with adrenaline. I was so glad I had listened to Tiana. I was so glad I had come here.
I reached into the bag and pulled out the fabric.
My smile dropped.
I held it up, staring at it. I shook it, thinking maybe it was folded in half.
It wasn't.
"What is this?" I whispered to the empty room.
I stripped off my clothes quickly, telling myself it probably looked different on. I pulled the uniform on.
It was black with white frills—classic maid style—but the similarities ended there.
I looked in the mirror, and my face heated up instantly.
It was short. Aggressively short. It barely grazed the top of my thighs. It came with a pair of fishnet leggings, which I had pulled on, but they did nothing to cover me. If I bent slightly—even an inch—I'd be flashing the world.
I tugged at the hem, trying to pull it down, but the material was stiff and unforgiving.
And the chest.
It was a corset-style top that pushed everything up and out. It showed cleavage—not just a little, but a lot. It wasn't just a uniform; it was a costume. It felt like something meant for a bachelor party, not for washing dishes.
"I can't wear this," I muttered.
But then the number flashed in my head. Five thousand dollars.
If I walked out there and refused, would he fire me? Would I lose the money?
I bit my lip hard. It was just laundry. It was just dishes. Maybe it was just his style. Rich people were weird, right?
I took a deep breath, smoothed the impossibly short skirt down one last time, and opened the bathroom door.
I walked back down the hall, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, feeling exposed with every step. The air conditioning in the house suddenly felt freezing against my bare legs.
I reached the study door. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.
Damien was sitting in his chair, but he had shifted. His legs were up on the desk now, ankles crossed in a display of total, relaxed dominance. He had a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, swirling it gently.
He looked up when I walked inside.
His gaze darkened instantly.
He didn't look at my face. His eyes swept over the outfit, starting at my legs, lingering on the fishnets, traveling up the skirt, and stopping at my chest. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Lauren had left. The room was empty except for us.
I stood by the door, intimidated by the sheer intensity of his stare. He wasn't looking at me like an employee anymore.
"Turn around," he commanded. His voice was rougher than before.
I hesitated, hugging myself tighter. "Sir?"
"Turn around, Dove. Let me see the fit."
My face burned, but I did it. I did a slow turn. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and physical, tracing the curve of my spine and the exposed skin of my legs. I turned back around quickly, desperate to break the tension.
"It suits you," he said, taking a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving me.
"It's… it's too uncomfortable," I said, my voice shaking. "And revealing. I feel… naked, Damien. I can't clean in this. If I bend over, everything will show."
He lowered the glass, tilting his head to the side. A small, unreadable smile played on his lips.
"I'm hurt," he said.
"What?"
"I picked out the dress myself," he said. His tone was playful, but there was an edge to it. Something sharp. "I think it suits you perfectly. You look… obedient." He accessed me like an interesting piece of art in a gallery,
A cold prickle of unease worked its way down my spine. The way he said obedient made my stomach churn.
"I don't think—" I started.
"The money is good, isn't it, Dove?" he interrupted softly. "Five thousand a week. To wear a dress and wash a few plates."
He took his legs off the table and leaned forward. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a cold, possessive intensity.
"You signed the contract," he reminded me. "Rule number seven. Uniform at all times."
I stood there, shivering in the tiny dress, staring at the man who suddenly felt less like a savior and more like a trap snapping shut. I began to wonder what exactly I had just signed away.