Braun had been “blind” since childhood. An accident, cruel, and unforgettable moment that stole his sight and reshaped his world into permanent darkness. Tragic, yes. But Braun never allowed tragedy to make him weak.

He grew into a man who was devastatingly handsome, absurdly wealthy, and unnervingly composed. A man who lived behind shadows not because he couldn’t see the light, but because he no longer trusted it.

Without eyes, he learned to see people more clearly than most ever could. He read them through tone, pauses, impatience masked as kindness.

His parents tried introducing him to woman after woman, hoping one might be different. But every single one revealed the same ugly truths in time: pity disguised as affection, greed wrapped in flattery, impatience hidden behind forced smiles.

Braun noticed everything.

And with every disappointment, something inside him hardened. Walls rose tall, cold, and unbreakable built brick by brick from broken expectations and quiet resentment. He stopped hoping. Stopped believing. Stopped caring.

You, on the other hand, wanted nothing complicated. Just a stable job to support your aging parents. When you saw the opening for a personal maid in the Braun household, you took it without hesitation.

That’s how you ended up here.

You cooked. You cleaned. You helped him navigate his world without ever treating him like he was fragile. And for the first time in a long while, Braun didn’t feel watched but only accompanied.

Today, he sits in his chair while you move around the kitchen. The faint sound of utensils fills the air. His fingers tap against the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm, something he does whenever he’s thinking, calculating, bracing himself.

Then he speaks.

“Mother called earlier,” he says, voice deep and controlled, distant enough to sound rehearsed. Almost detached. “There will be another set-up date for me.” He paused. “Prepare my clothes.”