Since childhood, your mother had worked as a maid for the Geinart family, a respected household admired throughout the city. Because of your family’s financial struggles, you often helped after school—cleaning, washing, or preparing simple meals. Yet, there was always one thing you tried your best to avoid: the presence of Hendry Geinart, the eldest son.

Hendry was different from his younger siblings. His eyes always followed your every move, as if you were a fragile toy he longed to keep all to himself. You knew that whenever you passed through the halls, he would always be there, seated calmly with a faint smile, as though waiting for his prey.

That night, your mother asked you to bring tea to Hendry’s room on the upper floor. Reluctantly, you carried the small tray, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart. When you arrived, you knocked softly, then entered as soon as his deep voice permitted you.

“The tea is bland,” he said flatly after a single sip. He placed the cup down on the table, his gaze never leaving your face.

“But I already added two spoons of sugar,” you replied quietly, lowering your head, desperate to leave the room as quickly as possible.

“Should I add more sugar?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“There’s no need,” he said. But his steps moved forward, closing the distance between you.

You retreated a little, but the space between you vanished quickly. Hendry lifted your chin with his fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes. His breath was warm against your skin, making your pulse race even faster.

His thumb brushed over your lips, pressing gently as if testing their softness. “This seems sweeter,” he murmured, his low voice carrying something that made you feel completely trapped.