The soft hum of early morning filled the luxurious suite, broken only by the gentle rustling of sheets. She stirred first, eyes fluttering open to the dim light leaking through the curtains. A glance to her right confirmed he was still asleep, one arm draped lazily over his side, his breathing even and unbothered.
"Great," she muttered under her breath as she sat up, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. The tension from the night still hung in the air, even if they'd both pretended not to notice how close the couch was to his bed—or how many times they'd both turned just to "accidentally" catch the other watching.
Moving quietly, she gathered her clothes and slipped into the bathroom, thankful to have the space to herself. Steam filled the air not long after, and the shower washed off the awkwardness—well, most of it.
When she stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around her hair, and another around her body, she instinctively reached for her clothes… and paused. Her gaze landed on him, now very much awake and very much shirtless, leaning against the edge of the dresser like he owned the world and the air around it.
Which, unfortunately, he kind of did.
"You—" she blinked, taking a step back. "Don't you knock?"
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Didn't think I needed to knock in my own room."
She turned sharply, towel twisting dangerously around her chest as she held it tighter. "Put on a shirt."
He laughed—a rich, low sound that grated on her already prickling nerves.
"Why?" he drawled. "If you're going to be glued to my side every day, you might as well get used to the view."
"Unbelievable," she said through clenched teeth, back still turned. "You're insufferable."
He didn't reply right away. She could feel his smirk behind her like heat on her skin.
"Insufferable, sure. But at least I'm not the one standing in a towel giving orders."
She exhaled sharply, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a comeback. Instead, she grabbed her clothes and stormed into the closet. When she emerged again—fully dressed in jeans and a plain tee—he was still shirtless and unbothered, scrolling through something on his phone.
"Bathroom's free," she muttered, heading for the door.
"Thanks for the update, maid," he said without looking up. "You know, I could get used to this."
She slammed the door a little harder than necessary.
As soon as she stepped out and shut the door behind her, Xander let out a long exhale and raked a hand through his dark, slightly messy hair.
"Annoying," he muttered under his breath as he made his way toward the bathroom. "Utterly annoying."
He turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face, trying to clear the image of her—blue eyes, arms crossed, throwing sharp retorts like she was swatting away flies. Calm. Composed. Impossible to rattle.
"She walks around like she owns the place," he said to his reflection, amused despite himself. "Doesn't even flinch when I'm being an ass."
He dried his face, but his eyes lingered on the mirror. The smirk forming was slow and calculating.
"She's definitely not your typical maid," he said, tapping the countertop rhythmically with his fingers. "Carries herself like someone who grew up with power. Rich, maybe. Nobility-level posture. Way too calm for someone thrown into my mess of a world."
He tilted his head slightly. "So why's she here, then?"
The idea hit him, and he straightened. "She's trying to get into my pants."
He laughed—short and dry—but the suspicion settled in his expression. "Maybe that's the angle. Be my 'maid,' play the good girl routine, stick around long enough for me to get comfortable and then—bam. Headlines. Scandal. Blackmail."
He rolled his eyes, the thought irritating and entertaining all at once.
"Well, that's not going to happen," he muttered, grabbing a towel and tossing it over his shoulder. "If she thinks she can out-stubborn me, she's got another thing coming."
Then his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Let's see how long she lasts after scrubbing toilets and making breakfast. That should crack her little princess act."
He stepped into the shower with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"If she wants to be around all the time, I'll make sure she earns every second of it."
Dinner was awkward.
Not the food—it was excellent, as always, thanks to the in-house chef. But the tension between them crackled across the marble table like static electricity.
He was scrolling through his phone, elbow on the table, one hand under his jaw, while she sat across from him, sipping water like it was wine and she desperately needed the taste of anything else.
"I've been thinking," he said, breaking the silence without looking up.
"That's a first," she muttered.
He finally glanced up, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "Cute. But not quite accurate. I think a lot. Like right now, I'm thinking… it's ridiculous that you're called my personal maid, but you haven't done a single personal thing for me."
She arched a brow. "You have a chef, two butlers, a weekly cleaner, and a driver who doubles as a handyman. What exactly do you need me to do? Paint your nails?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Funny. But no, not quite. From now on, you'll be the one cooking my meals and cleaning my room."
She blinked. Once. Slowly. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," he said with mock innocence. "If you're going to follow me around like a leashed bodyguard with a mop, might as well earn the title."
"There's a professional chef five doors down who makes gourmet meals. And I doubt you even know where your own vacuum is."
"That's not the point," he said lazily, tossing his phone aside. "You're my personal maid, emphasis on personal. That means personal chores. Intimate assistance. Total obedience."
"I'm sorry, are you hearing yourself? This is the twenty-first century, not a feudal drama."
He grinned. "Yet here you are, working as a maid in a mansion. Funny how life circles back."
She didn't flinch. She just leaned forward, calm as a lake, and rested her chin in her hand. "Fine. If that's what it takes, I'll do it."
That caught him off guard. He blinked, watching her carefully. "You'll do it?"
"Yes," she said, still calm, still watching him like a cat bored by a fluttering moth. "I'll clean your room. I'll cook your food. I'll even pretend I enjoy it. Just don't come crying when I accidentally bleach your favorite shirt or spice your breakfast like a five-alarm fire."
"Touché," he murmured, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You're really not like the others, are you?"
"Nope," she said, standing and collecting her plate. "And you're really not worth the trouble you cause."
As she turned to leave, he added casually, "Oh, one more thing."
She stopped, not turning around.
"There's a formal event in two days. Black tie. You're coming with me."
That made her glance over her shoulder. "Why?"
"You're my shadow now, remember?" he said smoothly. "What kind of watchdog skips out on a night of wine, politics, and pretend smiles?"
"Because that's exactly what I need," she muttered. "A night pretending to like you in front of people who actually do."
He flashed a dazzling grin. "Don't worry. I'll pretend right back."
She stared at him for a beat too long, then turned and walked away.