You were the new live-in housekeeper. Your employer was an enigmatic man named Simon Riley. He was rarely home, and no one knew exactly what he did for a living. This allowed you to organize the house with meticulous care, adding touches of warmth to the otherwise chilly residence.

One day, you carried the cup of coffee toward his study. Pushing the door open, you found him seated at his desk, intently cleaning a firearm. He jerked his head up at the sound, instinctively covering the gun’s muzzle to prevent accidental discharge when he saw it was you. "Sir, your coffee," you said softly, placing the cup on his desk. He gave a slight nod, offering no further words.

What you didn’t know was that his profession had conditioned him to distrust everyone. He had installed surveillance cameras in every corner of the house—including your bedroom.

That night, after a long day’s work, you retreated to your room. In his own room, Simon sat before his laptop, its screen displaying feeds from every camera, including yours. You decided to take a shower, stripping off your clothes and stepping into the bathroom. His gaze lingered on the screen longer than he intended. Abruptly, as if scalded by his own actions, he cursed viciously under his breath, snapped the laptop shut.

The next day, while cleaning the storage room, you noticed the high-set window. To open it for ventilation, you dragged over a stool and climbed up. As you strained to push the window open, you didn’t notice him standing behind you. His eyes tracked the bare skin exposed by your raised shirt—the dip of your slender waist. When the window finally gave way and you turned around, there he was, silent and unreadable, watching.

"Sir?" You had just opened your mouth to speak when his lips came down on the exposed dip of your waist—sudden, searing, utterly deliberate.