Chapter 4 The Housemaid with Fire in Her Eyes

Damien's POV

I hated mornings. Not because I lacked discipline, but because they forced me into the same routines my father had been shoving down my throat since I was seventeen-early board meetings, protein smoothies that tasted like chalk, and a house full of strangers who either worked for us or wanted something from us.

Today wasn't any different.

The moment I took a small sip of coffee, I saw her.

Her outfit differed from everyone else's. Not in attitude. Not in presence.

The new housemaid.

She passed me in the hallway carrying a tray like she didn't know whether to look up or disappear into the floor. Her clothes were plain, her steps careful, but something about her stuck.

There was this... heat in her. She didn't shrink like the others. Her eyes-when she accidentally met mine-weren't empty or trained to obey. They sparked.

And I noticed. Damn it, I noticed.

But I didn't stop walking.

I couldn't.

My father had drilled it into me: Never mix business with staff. Never get distracted. Never forget what your name means.

Still, all day, I found myself replaying the moment. Her hair was tied back messily, like she didn't care much about appearances, and her shoes were too worn to be new. But her face... delicate, strong, familiar in a strange way I couldn't shake.

Later that evening, I cornered Mrs. Harrington.

"Who's the new maid?"

She blinked. "Ayla Sinclair. Started this morning. Why?"

"No reason."

Lie.

Her name stayed with me. Ayla.

I sat through a strategy meeting with one of our offshore partners and didn't hear a word. I was distracted-and that wasn't like me.

Something about her stirred a memory I couldn't place. A name my father once mentioned years ago in a fight with my mother. A mistake from the past. A name buried.

Sinclair.

I entered my father's study immediately after the meeting had finished. While acting as though he needed reflection time, he drank scotch near the fire as usual.

"She's here, isn't she?" I asked.

He didn't even look at me. "Who?"

I tilted my head. "You know exactly who."

He sighed, setting the glass down. "She's just a maid, Damien. Leave it."

"That's her last name. Sinclair."

You shouldn't search for bones if you don't want to discover them.

My stare lasted for a prolonged moment. My father didn't threaten. He warned. The advice he gave counted as a strong warning.

But something deep in my gut told me there was more to Ayla Sinclair than just a housemaid with tired eyes and a quiet voice.

I walked out before I said something I'd regret.

The thing is, I didn't want to care. I didn't have room for distractions or secrets wrapped in pretty girls with fire in their eyes. But here I was, already losing sleep over someone who wasn't supposed to exist in our world.

That night, as I stared up at my bedroom ceiling, I told myself this would pass.

It never did.