~Becklan's POV~
And then it hit me like a bucket of icy water: he's showering. And I—Becklan—currently stark naked under this single, flimsy layer of cotton, am stuck in the same luxury room as him, the room he could easily have booked a separate suite for.
What would happen? My revenge-driven brain screamed, realizing the stakes had just gone from public humiliation to extreme intimate proximity. I had to create a fortress of personal space, and fast.
I scrambled off the mattress, dragging the duvet with me for a brief, glorious second, then abandoned it entirely. My hands flew to find my clothes. I didn't bother with folding or delicacy; I shoved my dangerously short uniform back on, buttoning it up with frantic urgency.
I went straight to the sleek, oversized sofa across the room. I curled up, hugging a throw pillow to my chest, trying to make myself look small, insignificant, and definitely not available for viewing.
I was trying to create maximum physical and emotional distance between me and the monster who just trapped me in this gilded cage.
Just as I settled into my cramped misery, the bathroom door creaked open.
My heart hammered against the throw pillow. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be instantly, deeply unconscious. Do not look, Becklan. Do not give him the satisfaction.
But curiosity won. I needed to confirm what I'd seen before, needed another glance. So I slowly opened one eye and looked.
Leon emerged, and my internal monologue died a swift, eloquent death.
He was breathtaking. He moved with a lazy, effortless confidence that proved he knew exactly how much attention he commanded. His bronze skin was glistening, still damp from the shower, catching the soft glow of the recessed hotel lighting.
He had a thick, white towel wrapped low around his hips, low enough to be highly illegal. Water droplets tracked tiny, shining paths down the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen, disappearing just beneath the towel's precarious edge. His dark hair was wet and pushed back, exposing the cold, sharp angles of his face and jaw.
Leon was disgustingly hot. No point denying it. God, let that towel drop… Just a little peek, for research purposes. I smirked slightly at my own wonderfully stupid thought, clutching my pillow.
Then, the cold, intense voice shattered my internal perversion.
"Something funny, Beck?"
My eyes flew open, all fake innocence. I blinked slowly, pretending I'd just crawled out of the sweetest sleep of my life. "Nothing, sir," I muttered, forcing a sleepy voice like I hadn't just been mentally undressing him.
He sauntered over, scooping up a towel robe. "Then why did you abandon a perfectly good bed for the torture device I call a sofa?"
I sighed dramatically. "It's because you're the boss, Mr. President. And I did not want to... presume. Or make you feel uncomfortable. Or—"
"Don't bother," he cut in, not even letting me finish my perfectly reasonable excuse. He sounded bored, like we were discussing the weather. Then he added, "Relax. You're definitely not my type."
My jaw dropped. The audacity!
He continued, completely ignoring my stunned expression. "I usually go for someone stronger. Someone who can actually handle me. Someone with real meat on their bones—not… this." He gave my aggressively toned, fashion-model frame a look of pure disdain. "Honestly? You look like you'd break in half if I sneezed on you."
I gasped. My carefully constructed cool shattered. He wasn't just rejecting me; he was insulting my entire being, my aesthetic, my very metabolism! The nerve!
Snap?! I wanted to yell. I've got core strength for days! I could out-pose him, out-snark him, and probably even outrun him on a treadmill!
My mind, however, immediately retaliated with the most childish, yet satisfying, insult: Well, you're not my type either, you corporate python-owner with an illegally low towel!
He just stood there, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying my stunned frustration. My cheeks flamed. This wasn't just about 'types'; it was him reminding me of my place. And, annoyingly, it was working.
We spent the night in awkward tension, I on the rock-hard sofa, he on the plush hotel bed. Sharing a room felt more like punishment than comfort.
In the morning, I woke up stiff, achy, and with a distinct, searing pain in my lower back.
But that was the minor problem. The real issue? I woke up to see Leon sitting in bed, staring at me.
Before I could even muster a sarcastic "Good morning, sleeping beauty," he spoke, his voice clipped and impatient.
"Why are you even awake? Do you have any idea what time it is, Beck?"
I glanced frantically at my wrist, though I wasn't wearing a watch. My eyes shot to the digital clock beside the sofa: 8:05 AM. I was late!
"I'm sorry, sir!" I quickly jumped up, forgetting all about my dignity and my aching spine.
"Just get our things together and let's check out," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
After checking out, the driver efficiently loaded our belongings into the car. Once we arrived at the mansion, Leon turned to the house staff. "Prepare the house," he instructed crisply. "We have a guest coming over, a friend of mine will be visiting."
The first thing I did was put Leon's luggage inside his room. The second thing? I sprinted to my own quarters to take a long, hot shower and wash off the lingering feeling of cheap humiliation. When I came out smelling fresh and slipped into a new, impossibly tight version of my uniform, I felt my confidence snap back into place.
When I got downstairs, the atmosphere had shifted from standard corporate dread to excited staff gossip. Leon's friend had arrived, and all the maids were buzzing.
"He's even cuter than the boss," one of them whispered.
"And he's polite, too! Leon looks like a grumpy statue beside him," another muttered.
Anything that looked nicer, behaved nicer, or simply wasn't Leon Verdanis automatically impressed me. That was the standard of an employer I believed fate owed me.
Just as I was soaking in my new, positive energy, the phone rang. Lan picked up, then looked at me.
"Beck, the boss said you should come to the lounge outside and serve him and his guest some wine."
I straightened my uniform and headed into the lounge. Leon sat across from a man who was unfortunately for my sanity, stunning. Tall, sharply dressed, and wearing the kind of warm, gentle smile that made people instantly like him. His name, they said, was Frank.
As I moved forward to pour the wine, a tiny, daring thought slipped into my mind: Frank, are you single? One I definitely wouldn't dare voice aloud.
Frank's eyes followed me as I served him. He didn't just glance; he genuinely looked, and I could tell he liked what he saw. My ego gave a quiet, satisfied purr.
I finished pouring and took a calculated, slow retreat, pausing just around the corner, hidden by a giant marble pillar, to listen.
Frank's voice, warm and smooth, floated toward me.
"Leon, who is that? He's got some good shape.
I held my breath, bracing for Leon's inevitable, begrudging compliment.
Leon scoffed, loud and dismissive. "That? That's Beck. My new maid."
Then he plunged the knife.
"Frank, there's nothing special about him," Leon said flatly. "He's a blackmailer and a liability. He's only here because he can't pay his rent, and I'm paying him to keep quiet."
The words landed like a slap. My cheeks didn't just burn; they felt frozen with humiliation. Frank's interest immediately shifted, and I heard the sound of glasses clinking as they started talking about business—my existence forgotten.
I pushed myself away from the pillar, rage boiling over, silent and concentrated. I adjusted my short skirt with stiff fingers.
You think I'm nothing, Leon? A liability? A charity case?
I marched back toward the main service hallway, my teeth gritted.
"Leon," I whispered to the empty air, clenching my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. "I'll make you regret every single word you just said about me."