The smell of lemon-scented floor polish lingered in the sunlit kitchen as Raine tied her hair into a loose bun. Another morning. Another quiet routine. The Vaughn estate was so eerily perfect it made her nervous—each polished surface, each symmetrical cushion, like a showroom nobody really lived in.
She wiped the counters, humming faintly to fill the silence. It was always like this—no footsteps, no voices. Just her and the luxury, and the schedule that made sure she was long gone before the enigmatic Mr. Vaughn ever returned.
She prepped the meal with practiced ease. Herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables with garlic glaze, lemon rice on the side. She took pride in the little details—just enough flavor, just enough heart. Even if no one noticed.
But someone had.
Or maybe not.
She hovered for a second, pen in hand, about to write today's note.
"Paired this with a lighter rice, just in case you're cutting carbs. You seem like the type."
She hesitated, biting her lip. Was that too much? Too playful?
With a tiny laugh, she scribbled it down anyway and placed the note beside the plate. It was silly. Harmless. No one was reading these anyway.
At least, that's what she thought.
Twenty minutes later
She was taking out the trash—one of the last chores before heading out—when she paused, frowning. The bin where she always tossed scraps, wrappers… and where the notes usually ended up? Empty.
Weird.
She knelt beside it, double-checking, pushing some coffee grounds aside with gloved fingers. Nothing. Not a single crumpled pink post-it. Not even from yesterday's meal.
Raine leaned back on her heels, brushing her hands off. "Huh…"
Nick had told her weeks ago—offhandedly, like it was no big deal—that Mr. Vaughn just tossed the notes without even looking at them. "He's not exactly the sentimental type," Nick had said. "Don't get your feelings hurt."
But now?
Raine stood, arms crossed.
"Maybe he's cleaning the garbage bin himself," she murmured sarcastically, then snorted. "Yeah, right."
The idea of Tristan Vaughn in an expensive suit, kneeling beside the bin to neatly pick out her post-it notes? Utterly ridiculous.
"Maybe he burns them," she muttered, kicking the lid closed with her foot. "In some ultra-rich-guy fireplace ritual. Tosses my handwriting into the flames while sipping a five-hundred-dollar whiskey. Because that's not unhinged at all."
But still...
Her gaze drifted toward the window. Toward the hall beyond where she never stepped. Where she never saw him.
Was he keeping them?
Was he… reading them?
No.
That was stupid.
She shook her head, grabbing her bag.
Still, when she stepped out into the sunlit driveway and slipped into the waiting black SUV, Raine couldn't stop the warmth from blooming in her chest—small, reckless, and utterly impossible.