Raine folded the last napkin into the sharp, crisp triangle that matched the others. Her eyes lingered on the plate of roasted lamb and garlic vegetables, paired with a single glass of red wine, uncorked but untouched.
It was her third week preparing meals in Mr. Vaughn's mansion, and she still hadn't seen him—not even a shadow.
She had started leaving little handwritten notes next to his dinner plate. Nothing bold, nothing inappropriate. Just—
"I hope the seasoning was okay today.""Tried your lamb rare, let me know if you prefer medium.""This wine pairs with the rosemary glaze—thought you might enjoy it."
She never got a reply. Of course not.
But something about those quiet notes made her feel… there. Real. Like she wasn't just a hired shadow tiptoeing through someone else's life.
She never signed them.
But today, she hesitated a moment longer before setting the folded card beside the meal. Her pen hovered. Then she scrawled, smaller this time:
"Do you always eat alone?"
She stared at it, heart thumping. Then tucked it under the fork.
The front door clicked behind her at 3:29 PM—just on time.
Elsewhere, 8:47 PM
Tristan Vaughn stepped into his silent house, the low hum of security and luxury washing over him like white noise. He unbuttoned his blazer absently, the scent of garlic and rosemary hitting him like a ghost of something domestic.
He paused.
The plate was waiting for him, as it always was. The wine beside it. The napkin perfectly angled.
But it was the note that made him exhale slowly.
Another one?
He unfolded it, eyes scanning the looping script. His jaw ticked.
"Do you always eat alone?"
Yes. Obviously.
He crumpled the note and tossed it into the sink with a quiet clatter of metal.
The Next Morning
Nick Montgomery entered the sleek corner office with two phones in hand, half a smirk, and that usual air of calm indifference.
"You wanted to see me?"
Tristan didn't look up from his monitor.
"Tell the girl—" he paused, voice flat. "—the house girl. The notes need to stop."
Nick's eyebrow arched slightly behind his glasses. "Notes?"
Tristan finally looked up, the steel-gray of his eyes cold and unreadable. "I don't need chit-chat with someone I'm paying not to be seen."
Nick leaned against the desk, lips twitching. "She's just trying to be polite. Bit sweet, if you ask me."
Tristan stared at him.
Nick straightened. "Alright. I'll tell her."
As he left, Tristan added quietly, almost to himself:
"And tell her she's lucky I haven't used up one of her three strikes yet."
Back at Home, 10:41 PM
Raine pulled off her apron and sank into bed, fingers still smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary. There was something oddly comforting in preparing someone's meal without ever seeing them, like writing anonymous love letters to a man she shouldn't want.
She rolled onto her side, the mattress creaking softly.
What would he look like, anyway?
What kind of man lived in glass and steel, alone, guarded like a secret?
Her fingers drifted unconsciously to her lips.
"Why do I care?"
She didn't know.
But somehow… she couldn't wait for tomorrow.