I was already dressed in my dark clothes when I left the staff room, my skin still clammy from the nightmare. The memory of the gunshots and the useless phone call felt more real than the polished hallways of the Grant house. I needed to move, to be occupied, to stop being Chimamanda.
The pool area was quiet, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the underwater lights. It was still 4:00 AM.
Ethan was there, but he wasn't stressed or focused. He was sitting on the tiled edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water, wearing a thick gray hooded sweater. He looked utterly, surprisingly bored.
"You came," he said, turning his head toward me. He didn't stand up, didn't move to hide his expression.
"You asked me to," I replied, my voice rough.
I kept my distance, sitting on one of the cushioned loungers, maintaining the space between master and maid, co-conspirator and handler.
He sighed, a long, weary sound that broke the silence. "I know. It's ridiculous. I just... I couldn't sleep.
The silence here is deafening, and there's never anyone to just talk to." He ran a hand through his damp hair. "I needed to see a face that wasn't already judging me, I guess."
I didn't answer. I just watched the reflected light dance across the ceiling.
"It wasn't always like this, you know," he continued, his voice quiet, stripped of the usual arrogance. He pulled his feet out of the water.
"Before I was the 'Golden Boy Heir.' I lived with my parents in the city until I was sixten. Normal house, normal school, normal arguments about homework."
He paused, looking into the water as if searching for a reflection of that past life.
"They were killed in a car crash. Just... gone. And then Grandfather brought me here. Suddenly, I was living in a mausoleum, surrounded by people who only talked about percentages and political favors."
The vulnerability was disarming, a real, human wound that mirrored my own. I saw the connection: we had both been forcibly exiled into this cold, wealthy prison by sudden, brutal loss.
"I'm sorry," I murmured, the simple words feeling inadequate.
"Don't be," he said, lifting his shoulders in a dismissive shrug that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"It's history. But it means I never learned how to be this," he gestured vaguely at the house, "without feeling like I'm performing."
The conversation drifted then, soft and slow, covering everything and nothing. He asked me about my life outside of the mansion, asking me what I liked questions no one in this town had ever bothered with.
"What do you do for fun, Sasha?"
I almost laughed. "I clean," I said simply. "And I read. Used to."
He smiled, a genuine, warm light. "What do you read?"
"Stories about places far away," I admitted. "Places where the police are not owned by the rich."
He laughed outright at that, and the sound felt good, real. For a few fragile minutes, we weren't a spy and her handler, not an heir and his maid. We were just two people, sharing the quiet of the night, separated by a thin, shimmering barrier of water and wealth.
He stood up and walked the few steps over to my lounger. He didn't speak. He simply reached out and took my hand, pulling me to my feet.
The casual, simple warmth of his skin against mine was more overwhelming than any calculated kiss. He looked at me, his eyes gentle, no longer calculating the angle of his coup, but simply seeing me the person who had been called Chimamanda in her nightmare.
"Thank you for talking to me," he whispered, his voice low, his sincerity a dangerous, intoxicating perfume.
He lowered his head and kissed me a slow, deliberate press of lips that stole every thought I'd been holding together. This wasn't the fierce, claiming heat he'd unleashed in the pool. This was careful… almost reverent. Like he was afraid I'd break.
Like he knew he already had.
His mouth moved against mine in soft, lingering strokes patient at first, learning me, memorizing the tremble in my breath. And when I parted my lips for him, it felt less like an invitation and more like confession. Our pain, our secrets, our grief everything we never said bled into the space between us.
The kiss deepened. His hand slipped to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as if he was trying to soothe something he couldn't name. Heat pooled low in my stomach, slow and sinfully warm, spreading through me like a forbidden truth. His breath mingled with mine, unsteady, and I realized he needed this just as badly as I did.
And for one reckless, blinding moment, nothing else existed.
Not Mrs. Grant.
Not the arrest warrant waiting with my name on it.
Just him. Just this.
A fragile pocket of warmth in a world that had never been gentle to either of us.
His body pressed closer, and my back hit the wall with a soft thud. He swallowed the gasp that escaped me. His hands, no longer hesitant, roamed down my spine, over my waist, drawing me against him like he couldn't stand the distance we hadn't even left between us.
Then lower.
His fingers slid beneath the hem of my shirt, exploring the warm skin of my hips before gliding upward, tracing the curve of my ribs. My breath hitched. His touch was possessive, tender, almost hungry. And when his hand finally reached my chest cupping me through the thin fabric, thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles
That was when we heard it.
From the dark hallway near the service entrance, a pointed, unimpressed sound:
"Hmm hmm."
The deliberate, dry sound of someone clearing their throat.
I broke away from Ethan instantly, my body flashing with cold terror. My mind snapped back to the truth: we were in the Mayor's house, and I was being watched.
Ethan cursed under his breath, spinning around instantly to face the hall.
Mr. Harrison stood framed in the doorway. The estate manager's face was utterly blank, emotionless, but his presence was heavy with accusation. He was dressed in his usual crisp uniform, and he held a clipboard in his hand.
"Mr. Grant," Harrison said, his voice flat. "Mrs. Grant asked me to locate you. There is a delivery that requires immediate authorization."
He didn't acknowledge me, didn't look at me, but his gaze was a chilling confirmation that the entire exchange had been witnessed. The fragile moment was broken. The safety was gone.
"I'll be right there, Harrison," Ethan snapped, his jaw tight, his hand flexing with cold fury. The warmth was instantly replaced by the ruthless mask of the heir.
He didn't look back at me. I didn't wait for him to dismiss me. I fled, sprinting back toward the service stairs, leaving the humid warmth of the pool for the cold, hard walls of my room. Harrison had seen us. Which means Mrs. Grant must have known. The price of that quiet moment was now immeasurable.