Aria's POV
I woke up with a headache the next morning. My nerves were a mess after everything that had happened yesterday. Still, I forced myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, and did all the necessary things before heading to the kitchen to prepare Mr. Sinclair's coffee.
The clock struck six. Right on cue, the telephone rang, and his voice came through, calm but commanding.
"Bring it up to my bedroom."
My stomach dropped. His bedroom? I hesitated but forced myself to answer, "Yes, sir."
Balancing the tray carefully, I walked as if the cup were made of gold, terrified the coffee might spill. The stairs seemed endless, each step an exhausting test of balance. When I reached his door, I saw it was slightly ajar. I knocked lightly, but it creaked open with the touch of my knuckle.
"Mr. Sinclair?" I called, peeking inside.
Silence.
I stepped in slowly, the room dim with soft morning light slipping through tall curtains. Just as I began to doubt myself, the bathroom door opened, and he stepped out.
My heart slammed against my chest.
He wore only a white bath towel around his waist, another draped over his shoulders as he dried his damp hair. His chest was sculpted, water still glistening across the ridges of his abs, and his V-line cut sharp against his hips. I froze, my face burning as everything seemed to move in slow motion.
And then—disaster struck.
The tray tilted. The coffee cup slipped.
It hit the floor and shattered.
"What the hell, Aria!" His voice thundered, snapping me out of my trance.
"I—I'm so sorry!" I dropped to my knees, trying to gather the broken pieces with trembling hands. Tears pricked my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Sinclair—"
"Are you crazy?" he barked. "Get a broom. Don't use your hands."
I froze, humiliated, then scrambled to obey. My vision blurred as hot tears spilled over. Why was I crying over spilled coffee? Maybe because I wanted so badly to prove myself, and instead, I'd made a fool of myself in front of him.
Suddenly, another voice cut into the tension.
"Why do you hire incompetent servants? She can't even manage a simple cup of coffee."
I looked up. A tall, slender woman had emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel just like him. She walked toward him with effortless confidence, her arm snaking around his waist.
My heart dropped. His fiancée.
"Clean up the mess you made, Aria," he ordered sharply, not sparing me a second glance.
I grabbed the broom from the storage room, wiping my face quickly before hurrying back. Still, the tears wouldn't stop. I forced myself to stay professional, kneeling on the cold floor as I swept up the broken pieces.
"Oh, and when you finish, change the bedsheets and lay a fresh one," his fiancée added with a smug smile, as if I were invisible.
"Yes, ma'am," I whispered.
She leaned up and pressed her lips against his in a slow, deliberate kiss, right in front of me. My chest tightened painfully, and I had to turn away to keep from breaking. I shouldn't be feeling this way. He's my boss. He's engaged. And I'm… just the maid.
Later, in the kitchen, I tried to steady my emotions. Martha was already there, cheerful as always, while Bianca leaned lazily against the counter, her smirk firmly in place.
"Good morning, Aria," Martha greeted warmly as she began preparing breakfast. "Today you officially start your duties. Mr. Sinclair instructed me to show you how things are done."
I nodded quickly, relieved to focus on something else.
"Every maid has her own room and must keep it tidy," she explained. "Mr. Sinclair doesn't tolerate dirt, but he doesn't invade our personal space. I oversee the kitchen and general welfare. Bianca handles cleaning, and you'll assist her. You're also responsible for Mr. Sinclair's coffee every morning. You work the 6:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift, weekends off. And one last thing—never go into his study unless he instructs you. Understood?"
"Yes, Martha," I said, trying to sound confident.
"Have you given him his coffee today?" she asked.
Heat crept into my cheeks. "No. I… spilled it."
Bianca let out a sharp laugh. "Of course you did."
"Bianca!" Martha scolded, but she only smirked harder.
"Then make another cup," Martha told me kindly.
I moved quickly to the counter and began again, my hands steadier this time. The smell of coffee filled the air, comforting me slightly. By the time I poured it into the cup, I felt a flicker of redemption.
But before I could even take the tray upstairs, Mr. Sinclair strode into the kitchen.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. He wore a crisp charcoal suit, his hair slicked neatly back, his presence commanding the room. My pulse jumped.
"Good morning, sir," Martha greeted.
"Morning," he replied curtly, already glancing at his watch.
"Sir, your breakfast is ready," she offered.
"Sorry, I have an urgent meeting," he said, brushing past us. He didn't so much as glance at the fresh cup of coffee waiting for him.
My chest tightened, but I kept my face blank. He hadn't even noticed.
Bianca caught my eye and smirked, victory written all over her face.
I lowered my gaze. It was just coffee.
Just a job. So why did it feel like I had been dismissed, as if I didn't matter at all?