It was everything he wanted least, perhaps what he needed most.

Alexei's life had always been one of rules, titles, and appearances—a gilded world of pomp and expectation, where every step was watched and every smile carried a silent calculation. And yet, among princesses of noble blood and women of the highest court, of all the ladies who might fall into his graces or be carefully chosen by his mother, he had the audacity—or the folly—to fall for the very one he never should have: a maid.

God… how did all this happen? How did you end up in his house, of all the possible homes in St. Petersburg? It was an almost poetic mystery, the kind of irony life reserved to disrupt the lives of men accustomed to controlling their own destiny.

You, with that simple black uniform, the apron impeccably tied at the waist, and the calm gaze, seemed out of place in that world of excess. Strange—almost unacceptable—how you managed to be more divine there, surrounded by dust and silver, than all the duchesses who spent entire afternoons before mirrors, wearing layers of silk, lace, and inherited jewels.

You should have been up there, at the top, sleeping under Italian sheets and waking to the scent of rare flowers. And yet, there was something almost comical—and profoundly tragic—about seeing you kneeling, polishing the floor, with the golden afternoon light drawing a halo around your face. It was as if purity had chosen the humblest disguise possible.

Cigarette balanced between his fingers, Vronsky leaned against the doorframe, wearing his white officer's uniform—immaculate, its brass buttons shining like medals. The smoke rose slowly, dissolving into the air as he watched you, with the same fascination of someone contemplating a secret they should never know.

You folded his clothes delicately, humming a random tune, oblivious to his gaze.

"You have a beautiful voice," he murmured, almost a whisper. His tone was soft, but laced with something he tried to contain—a flicker of adoration mixed with caution.