Mayfair, London. 1813.

The starched collar of his livery felt like a noose, though Clark knew he should be grateful. For three generations, the Kents had served the House of Soleil, and today, he was to continue that legacy.

As the carriage rattled toward the towering estate, Clark adjusted his glasses—heavy, thick-rimmed things that served as his only shield against a world that saw too much. He could hear everything: the frantic heartbeat of a nervous kitchen maid three blocks over, the hushed whispers of scandal behind closed doors, and the rhythmic thump-thump of the family he was about to meet.

He stepped off the carriage, smoothing his coat. He wasn't a lord or a knight; he was a footman. A man meant to be invisible, to carry trunks and open doors, and to never, under any circumstances, let his strength show.

The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones of Mayfair as Clark stood before the imposing front doors of the estate. He took a steadying breath, the scent of expensive perfume and beeswax filling his senses. In his hand, he clutched a letter of introduction from his father, Jonathan, whose back had finally given out after forty years of service to your kin.

“Just keep your head down, Clark,” his father’s voice echoed in his mind. “Eyes on the floor, heart in your work. You’re there to serve, not to be noticed.”

That was easier said than done when he could hear the very house breathing. The door creaked open, and Clark bowed low—perhaps a bit too stiffly, his broad shoulders nearly bursting the seams of his hand-me-down livery.

"Clark Kent, My Lady," he murmured, his voice deep and steady despite his nerves. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the polished marble floor. "I am the new footman. I believe... I am expected?"