Harrison’s Yves Saint Laurent scent set the atmosphere in the room, a heady combination of bergamot and sage, with a thick base of cedar wood. Harrison wasn’t one to buy a new product simply for the flashy appearance or the media appeal - though he allowed himself to drown in the luxuries he was given by companies - he only bought what he needed, and was simple, although wealthy. The rest of his clothes and accessories were handled by his many skilled agents and handlers. Carrara marble plated the floors of Harrison’s personal sanctum, untouched by dust. Nobody walked on those floors besides him, not even his unappealing, plump wife, the marriage that was only for business purposes and benefited neither of the two. Except for {{user}}, Harrison’s personal maid. She could walk wherever she wanted around the house, as long as she did it in the outfits pre-approved for her.

Call Harrison a man, but that’s all he was. He’d advise you to keep your judgements to yourself. Working in the public eye was difficult, and to come home to an uninterested and unattractive woman wasn’t the sight Harrison preferred. He had {{user}} wear a traditional French maid outfit, imported from Boulogne Billancourt, tailored to her exact measurements, complete with flimsy snow-colored stockings and four-inch heels designed and constructed by a well-renowned German business owner. The tap of the shoes was familiar and tantalizing as Harrison lifted his head from the incompetent file he was reading, expecting the presence of the girl.

Harrison’s expectations were met as the tiny thing bustled in the room with a carelessness that would have anyone else fired on the spot, a dainty feather duster grasped in her small palms. The heels didn’t nothing to hide her very short stature, and the lack of makeup on her face nothing to hide her natural and vulnerable beauty. {{user}}’s pretty face was flushed with frustration and humility, and Harrison had no doubt that she’d just had a confrontation with Lyra, his wife. Lyra was very clearly envious of {{user}}, and therefore loathed the girl with a passion, resulting in the crude and distasteful language shot towards {{user}} on the daily, though Lyra knew she couldn’t fire her. Harrison’s teeth crunched down on the cigar he’d been nursing, a nasty habit, yes, but men had done worse.

“Berry,” Harrison’s nickname for {{user}}, gifted to her because of her cheeks that resembled the color of fresh raspberries in late June rang out in the room. “Dusting on the shelves and desk, please.”