MY VIRGIN MAID

I thought you said the housekeeper to replace-Karla is on the way?!"

Bryce's voice thundered through the speaker, bouncing off the high ceilings of his study. It was cold, sharp - a voice that could crack glass if pushed hard enough. On the other end of the call, a woman flinched audibly, pulling the phone from her ear before timidly placing it back.

"I-I was told she left the convent last night, Mr. Callahan," she said, her voice fragile. "You requested someone obedient. Unblemished. Quiet. She is all of that. The nuns said-"

"I don't care what the nuns said." Bryce's voice dropped dangerously low. "You should've waited for my final approval. I didn't ask for a child in a dress who flinches when I look at her."

"Mr. Callahan, she's nineteen-"

"I said wait."

The call ended with a hard swipe of his finger, and silence took over the room - or so he thought.

But just beyond the half-open door, hidden behind the shadows of an ornate column, stood Christina.

---

She hadn't meant to listen. She'd gotten lost on the way to the kitchen, still trying to memorize the unfamiliar layout of the mansion. But the moment she heard his voice - deeper, angrier than earlier - she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

She knew eavesdropping was wrong.

But what hurt more than guilt... was what she'd heard.

A child in a dress.

Didn't ask for her.

Should've waited.

Was she not enough?

Her fingers tightened on the tray she held. She had been trained for humility - taught that service was its own reward. But no amount of whispered prayers prepared her for the sting of being unwanted. Not even one day in, and already, she was considered a mistake.

She turned to retreat quietly - but the door creaked.

His voice followed immediately. "Come in."

She froze.

The creak had betrayed her. She stepped into the doorway like a child about to be punished. Her eyes remained on the floor. "I'm sorry. I wasn't-"

"I didn't ask for an apology," he said. "I asked you to come in."

Her feet moved before she gave them permission. She stood in the middle of his study now, feeling the heavy gaze on her body like heat. The tray in her hand shook slightly, the tea cups rattling against the porcelain.

"Did you hear the whole call?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"...No, Bryce."

He raised an eyebrow. "But enough to know I wasn't pleased with your arrival?"

"...Yes."

He stood from behind the desk and walked around it - slowly, silently, like a predator circling prey. When he stopped in front of her, he didn't touch her. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to make her heartbeat sound like thunder in her ears.

"Do you want to leave?" he asked.

She looked up. Finally.

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the mansion melted away. There were no rules, no tea tray, no whispered doubts.

"No," she said softly.

Something flickered in his gaze.

"Why?"

Her lips parted, but she didn't have a good answer. Because I need the money wasn't the truth. Because I want to prove I'm worthy wasn't, either. Somewhere between the heat of his stare and the memory of his voice over the phone... something deeper had stirred.

"I want to stay," she repeated.

He watched her for another second. Then, he reached for the tea on the tray - his fingers brushed hers just barely - and took a long sip.

"Good," he murmured. "Then don't ever listen at my doors again."

---

Later that afternoon, Christina returned to her room to find the first of many unofficial rules waiting for her.

A black box sat neatly on her bed. Inside: a uniform.

But not the one she wore earlier.

This one was new. Darker. Shorter.

The material was silk, lined in thin lace. It fit too tightly across her chest and hips. It clung to her every curve and made her legs look longer than she'd ever allowed herself to imagine. The stockings were sheer. The heels inside the box added inches to her height - and stripped away her balance.

There was a note tucked inside:

Wear this for evening service. I want to see how well you follow orders.

- B.

Her cheeks burned.

Good evening service?

Did he mean dinner?

Or something else?

---

By seven, she was dressed and standing outside the dining room, arms folded tightly in front of her to hide what the dress refused to conceal.

Bryce was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of dark wine in his hand. His eyes lifted as she entered - slowly, from her shoes to the blush rising on her chest.

"You read the note," he said.

"Yes, Bryce."

"Spin."

Her breath caught. "What?"

His expression didn't change.

"Turn. I want to see all of it."

Humiliation and heat twisted in her stomach. But she obeyed. Slowly. One full turn in silence.

When she faced him again, his expression hadn't changed - but the way his fingers curled around the wine glass... tighter... that told her everything.

"Sit," he said, pointing to the chair at his right.

Not across the table.

Beside him.

---

Dinner was silent. At least, it was supposed to be.

But his hand brushed hers once, then again, then lingered just a little too long when he reached for the bread. Her breath hitched. She sipped water to hide it. His knee bumped hers beneath the table, and he didn't pull away.

Neither did she.

When dessert came - something sweet and red and sticky - he dipped his spoon in it and held it out to her lips without a word.

She paused. Then, I leaned forward.

Her lips parted. The cold dessert touched her tongue, then melted.

Bryce stared.

A slow, unreadable smile crept across his lips.

"I think you'll do just fine here, Christina."