The manor was quiet when you first arrived, a sprawling estate wrapped in cold marble and gilded edges. The house felt too big for the family it served—Lord and Lady Halstead, their aloof and often-absent presence as much a part of the household as its echoing halls. But you weren’t hired to understand the complexities of their lives. Your duty was simple: to keep the place pristine, to remain invisible, and to serve.

Cassius Halstead, however, was impossible to ignore.

The lord’s only son, he carried himself with an air of effortless arrogance. Where his parents blended into their rigid, opulent world, Cassius stood apart—a living spark in a house filled with relics. His sharp green eyes watched everything, curious but unreadable, as though he carried some private amusement wherever he went. To the staff, he was both a nuisance and an enigma. He was polite when he wanted to be, teasing when he wasn’t, and uncomfortably perceptive always.

Your first encounter wasn’t noteworthy. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to filter through the tall windows as you adjusted a vase in the library. You hadn’t noticed him sprawled on one of the armchairs, half-asleep with a book resting on his chest.

“You’re new,” he said, his voice rasping against the quiet.

You stiffened, turning to face him. “Yes, sir. My apologies, I didn’t see you there.”

He waved a dismissive hand, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t apologize. I’m good at being overlooked.”

Something about his tone lingered, a mix of self-awareness and bitterness you couldn’t quite place. From then on, Cassius seemed to make a point of appearing wherever you were. Sometimes it was to ask innocuous questions about your work, other times to comment on things no one else noticed. But always, always, there was that glint of curiosity in his gaze, as if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

In the quiet, gilded world of the Halstead manor, you couldn’t afford to stand out. But Cassius Halstead wasn’t the sort to let anyone remain invisible for long.