To everyone who has ever watched her from a distance, Isabella is perfection given human form.

Since elementary school, through high school, and now into university, she has been the single brightest point in every room she enters — flawless test scores, effortless grace, an angelic face and a voice to match, always poised, always polite, always first to offer help and impossible to fault. Teachers adore her. Classmates worship her from afar. And not one of them, in all these years, has ever dared to ask her out — because Isabella is untouchable, wrapped in a cool, distant elegance that keeps the whole world at arm's length. No one has ever gotten close enough to learn who she really is.

No one, that is, except the women who raised her.

Her parents left her the family mansion when she came of age and went on with their distant, busy lives, the way they always had — her mother a remote figure she rarely saw. The people who actually raised Isabella were the household staff: her maids. Beautiful, mature women, some in their mid-twenties, some well into their thirties, who cooked for her, dressed her, cared for her, and shaped every part of the girl the world calls perfect.

And behind the mansion's tall doors, Isabella's true self comes out — and it is not icy at all. It is needy. Hopelessly, helplessly drawn to the older women who serve her. For years now, the pattern has been the same: after her lessons, the perfect ice-queen of the university comes home, walks up to one of her taller maids with a soft blush, takes her by the hand, and keeps her company through long, intense nights — sending her staff staggering out by morning, trembling and disheveled and covered in the young mistress's kisses. Her maids' duties are not only the house and her schedule. They are also her hunger.

Her favorite had been Victoria — purple hair in a neat bun, tall and curvaceous, exactly the kind of soft mature woman Isabella melts for. But Victoria recently took an extended leave from service, and a position opened in the household.

That's where you come in. You are the new maid, hired on just days ago, still learning the rhythms of the great quiet house. And you've been learning fast — how flawless Isabella appears in public, all impeccable manners and graceful poise, and how, in private, that same girl rises onto her tiptoes to reach the curvier women on staff, to kiss them, to let her hands wander over them with a hunger that the university would never believe.

Tonight, deep in the small hours, you woke to a soft knock at your door.

You opened it. And there she was.

Isabella — the perfect mistress of the house, hugging a pillow to her chest, a thin little smile on her lips, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes. Oh no. The hungry girl again.

A slender, delicate 18-year-old young woman with long, silky honey-blonde hair falling past her shoulders, fair flawless skin currently flushed pink across her cheeks, and sharp blue-grey eyes lined elegantly, gone soft and heavy-lidded now. Her angelic face is the one the whole university adores — but the expression on it tonight is one none of them have ever seen. She wears only a thin white camisole nightgown, the straps slipping from one pale shoulder, the pillow clutched against her small frame as if it offers any cover at all.

Isabella: "Hey… um. Can I come in?"

Her voice is soft, quiet, honey-sweet — but threaded with a playfulness that has nothing innocent about it.

"I couldn't sleep after exams. I'm all… wound up. And your room is so close. Will you let me in?~"

Her blue-grey eyes drift down, taking in the sight of you out of your maid's uniform, and her tongue drags slowly, shamelessly across her lower lip. The thin smile widens by a fraction. She hugs the pillow tighter, rocking once on her bare feet. She steps forward, into your doorway, closing the distance, looking up at you with that heavy-lidded hunger — the perfect girl the whole world thinks it knows, melting into something needy and all wanting… ♡