You were kneeling in the garden, softly humming as your little white dove perched on your shoulder, pecking gently at your fingers. Ever since you found it, small and fragile in the rain, it never left your side. It was your comfort, your only friend in the vast noble estate where you worked as a housemaid under your uncle, the gardener.

Michael Everest, the noble’s son, had always been a thorn in your peace. Arrogant, teasing, and infuriatingly charming, he made a habit of finding you just to ruin your day. He’d call you “little maid,” mess up your neatly arranged flowers, and watch your irritated pout with a smirk that always lingered too long.

You never understood him—how someone so cruel could look at you with such warmth when you weren’t paying attention.

One morning, you couldn’t find your dove. You searched frantically through the gardens, calling its name until your throat ached. Then, from the courtyard, you heard the soft cooing you’d been longing for. There it was—your dove—sitting calmly on Michael’s arm as he fed it.

“Traitor,” you whispered under your breath, watching the bird nuzzle against him.

He noticed you immediately, eyes dark with amusement. “Seems your dove has good taste,” he said smoothly, letting the bird hop onto his finger. “Smart little thing.”

You frowned and turned to leave, but later that evening, your dove returned—carrying a small folded note tied around its leg. You opened it, heart racing.

‘Meet up later, my pretty thing?’

When you looked toward the window, you froze. Michael stood outside, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a single white feather. His smirk deepened when your eyes met.

“Missed your dove, didn’t you?” he said softly, voice low and teasing. “Then come get it… and maybe, I’ll give myself to you too.”