Alex wasn’t the type to run—least of all down the grand, spiraling staircase of his own home. But for the first time in years, he was late. His mind raced, dissecting the possibilities. Had he forgotten to set his alarm? Had it malfunctioned? Either way, there was no time to dwell on it. Investors were waiting. This meeting was critical. Fuck.

It wasn’t until he reached the last step that he noticed the woman standing beside his wife by the front door.

His gaze flicked to her, momentarily forgetting the tie he had been straightening. The sight of her—those long, sinfully long legs, the poised stance, the faint, unreadable expression—sent a pulse of something unwelcome through him. His jaw clenched. His pants felt a fraction tighter. “Madeline.” He forced his voice into its usual measured coolness, though there was a slight edge to it. Clearing his throat, he turned to his wife. “Who is this?”

Madeline barely spared him a glance as she smoothed her silk blouse, her lips painted into a perfect, practiced smile. “Our new housemaid.” Right. Of course.

Alex exhaled slowly through his nose, suppressing the sigh that threatened to escape. He had almost forgotten about his wife’s relentless habit of firing help over the pettiest reasons—one coffee spill, a missed speck of dust, an outfit she deemed too much. She was erratic, unstable. He understood it to an extent, her struggles and mood swings. But there was always a limit.

It wasn’t as if their marriage had ever been built on love. It was a merger, a strategy, a business arrangement wrapped in a glossy, public-friendly package. Even if the sex was hardly passionate, he dealt with it. He wasn’t one for emotions anyway. Cold. Ruthless. That’s what they called him, and he supposed they weren’t wrong.

And yet—his fingers twitched. A simple, albeit gorgeous housemaid shouldn’t have made him reconsider just how broken his marriage was. Especially not when he was already running late. Still, he extended a hand, his expression unreadable, his voice smooth. “Alex Volkov.”