Aria's POV
The house was too quiet, too large, and too unfamiliar. Every sound of my footsteps echoed like I didn't belong here. Why was I the only one being placed in a guest room while the other maids stayed in the staff quarters? The question burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it. I wasn't brave enough to confront Mr. Sinclair—not yet.
With the coffee cup still in my hand, I made my way back to the kitchen where Bianca was wiping down the counters.
"Hey, Bianca," I greeted softly, hoping to sound casual.
She turned sharply, her face tightening with annoyance. "What?" she snapped.
I shifted uneasily. "Mr. Sinclair instructed that a guest room be prepared for me downstairs."
The mop in her hand clattered against the bucket. Martha, who had been polishing silverware, paused mid-motion, both of them staring at me in disbelief.
"Mr. Sinclair is having you sleep in a guest room?" Bianca asked, her voice laced with something between shock and envy.
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.
Bianca's eyes flicked toward Martha, but before either of them could speak further, Mr. Sinclair himself walked in, his presence commanding the entire kitchen.
"Bianca, prepare the guest room for Aria," he ordered, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.
Without hesitation, Bianca motioned for me to follow. We walked past the lavish living room, the grand dining hall, a glass-walled room that held a glittering pool, and another chamber that was entirely white—so pristine it almost looked untouched. Finally, we stopped at one of the guest rooms, tucked away at the far end of the corridor.
Inside, we set to work. The bed was stripped and remade, shelves dusted, windows wiped until they gleamed. Bianca returned with sprays and scrubbing cloths, and I silently helped her, my hands aching by the time we carried the cleaning supplies back to the storage room.
"How long have you been seeing him?" she asked suddenly, her tone sharp.
My brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
She smirked. "Mr. Sinclair never lets the maids stay in his mansion unless she's… special to him."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "I'm not—" I stammered, then steadied myself. "I'm not sleeping with him, Bianca. I don't even know why he's letting me stay here."
She only shook her head, lips curling in disbelief. Her stare felt like daggers, and I'd had enough of her hostility.
"Thanks for the help," I muttered, forcing a polite smile.
Bianca spun on her heel and left without another word.
I was just reaching for the air conditioner remote when a knock rattled the door. My stomach tightened. I opened it, and there he was—Mr. Sinclair. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"Has Martha told you what you'll need to do starting tomorrow? My coffee must be ready by 6:30 a.m. sharp."
"Yes, sir," I murmured, hardly able to meet his eyes.
He left as quickly as he came, leaving the faint trail of his cologne behind.
I turned back to the room, taking in its grandeur. The guest room was easily twice the size of my old apartment. A plush queen-sized bed dominated the center, flanked by an ornate wardrobe and a writing desk. A private bathroom gleamed in marble and chrome. It was the kind of space I'd only ever seen in magazines. And yet… when I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw was a girl who still carried the shadows of her old life.
Later, when I stepped back into the kitchen, Bianca was at the sink sorting dishes. Her voice was low but laced with malice. "There has to be more to it," she muttered, not realizing I was near.
Martha was too busy with the oven to respond.
"Is there anything I can help with?" I asked, trying to keep the peace.
"Aria, go enjoy your room," Bianca mocked, her tone syrupy and cruel.
"Bianca!" Martha scolded.
Bianca ignored her, instead snatching the receiver from the wall. "Yes, Mr. Sinclair?... Yes." She hung up, her eyes glinting. "He's expecting company for dinner. We've got less than two hours."
Martha moved into action like lightning. She chopped, sliced, and seasoned with breathtaking speed. The air filled with the aroma of roasted herbs and garlic. I offered to help, but she waved me off, claiming it was quicker if she worked alone. Still, I hovered close, memorizing her movements, secretly learning.
"Girls, help me set the dining table," she ordered after a while.
Bianca and I obeyed, carefully laying out the fine china and polished cutlery.
The door suddenly opened, and Mr. Sinclair strode in wearing a dark designer suit. His hair was damp from a shower, the sheen of it catching the light, and for one reckless moment, I thought he looked too good to be real.
"Aria, what the hell are you thinking?" I scolded myself silently.
"Martha, is the food ready?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Serve it in the dining hall. My fiancée has already arrived."
The word cut through me sharper than a knife. Fiancée.
Of course he was engaged. A man like him couldn't possibly be unattached. Who wouldn't want to marry him? I swallowed the sting in my chest, forcing myself to keep my face neutral.
"Yes, sir," Martha said, balancing the dishes on a large tray. She disappeared through the door, and he followed.
Bianca's eyes lingered on me, her smirk returning. "You didn't know he was getting married, did you?"
I forced a smile, though something inside me ached. "It doesn't matter," I whispered, mostly to myself.
But it did matter.
The kitchen clock chimed, signaling the end of our shift. Bianca hurried off to the staff quarters, while I made my way to my new room.
I lay on the soft bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts circling like vultures. Why did it hurt so much to know he was engaged? Why did I feel like something precious had been snatched from me before it even belonged to me?
I didn't have the answers. All I knew was that sleep came slowly that night, heavy with confusion, longing, and a sting of jealousy I couldn't admit to anyone—not even myself.