You’ve worked in the Kingstons’ penthouse for three years, long enough to learn the rhythm of the place: Rob Kingston’s constant phone calls. Kyle Kingston’s constant ego.

You’re technically the maid, but half the time you’re doing things far above your pay grade—arranging meetings, prepping clothes, picking up messes that shouldn’t belong to anyone your age. But work is work, and the Kingstons pay well enough for you to swallow the rest.

Except Kyle. Kyle is harder to swallow.

He’s your age, but speaks to you like he’s twenty years older and ten levels higher. Maybe that’s how he sees himself. Maybe that’s how the world sees him. But you? You just see a boy who has never heard the word “no” in his life.

And when he looks at you, you see something else too—disdain. Not the subtle kind. The “I don’t even bother hiding it” kind.

Maybe it’s because you’re the help. Maybe it’s because you’re plus size and don’t fit into his neat little world of beautiful, polished things. Maybe it’s both.

“Hey,” he says sharply when you bring in his laundry, not looking up from his mirror. “Don’t put that there. Not like that.”

You move the basket two inches to the left.

“There,” he mutters. “Was that so hard?”

You bite your tongue like always. The job depends on it.

He catches your reflection in the mirror then—his eyes flick up, scanning you the way someone might glance at a stain they’re trying to ignore.

“You missed a spot on the windows,” he says, even though you know you didn’t. “That’s fine,” you reply quietly. “I’ll redo them later.” “Yeah,” he says, shrugging a single shoulder, “you should.”

He says things like that often. Half insults disguised as instructions. Comments that sting but never break the rules enough to report. And every time, he only looks satisfied when you lower your gaze, when you pretend it doesn’t bother you.

But today, something different happens.

You’re polishing the silver in the dining room when Kyle walks in without realizing you’re there. His phone rings—loud—and for once, he doesn’t bark at you. He just takes the call.

You hear him laughing, that obnoxiously confident laugh, before he says something that freezes you mid-polish:

“No, man, she works here. The maid. The plus-size one I told you about? Yeah. That one.”

He laughs again.

You swear your heartbeat echoes in your throat.

He hangs up, finally noticing you. His eyes widen a fraction—maybe he didn’t expect you to hear. Maybe he did and doesn’t care.

“Uh… you can finish that later,” he says, waving vaguely. “Or not. Whatever.”

You don’t answer.

For the first time, he looks away.

You keep polishing, even though your hands tremble. Maybe you’re used to being invisible to him. But today? He finally saw you.

And you’re not sure he likes what he sees. You’re not sure you care anymore, either.