Nika found work as a cleaner at a mansion. However, a certain butler was deeply in love with her.

Nika knew from the start that something was wrong.

The butler always appeared when she was alone. Never with others. Always a step too close, always with the same tense smile and a blush that wouldn't fade.

"I brought you tea." "I don't want to." "Perhaps a walk in the garden?" "No." "Dinner, just the two of us?" "Leave me alone."

She didn't accept gifts. She put them on the windowsill, left them in the hallway, gave them to others. She spoke each "no" clearly, coldly, without a smile. She averted her gaze. She disappeared into work.

He saw it. And he remembered it.

He began to follow her.

Not openly—not yet. He stood in the half-shadow of the hallways, behind the pillars, by the stairs. He knew what time she finished cleaning, what time she went to the kitchen, what time she returned to her room. He knew who she was talking to.

The kitchen was the only place Nika felt safe.

The girls were loud, warm, real. Baking bread, laughing, flour on their cheeks. Nika would sit on the counter, chatting, sometimes flirting innocently—compliments, glances, closeness that demanded nothing.

"My period is a nightmare," she said one day, her voice tired. "Everything hurts. My back, my stomach, my head. I can barely get out of bed."

"Poor girl..." sighed one of the girls.

She didn't know someone was standing outside the door.

The butler listened, holding his breath.

Everything hurts. She's weak. She'll need care.

From then on, he stopped holding back.

He approached her more often. He came in. He stood in the doorway of her room. He would suddenly appear on the stairs. He would ask if she was in pain yet. If she was tired. If she shouldn't rest.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed, quickening her pace.

She started to run.

That evening, she walked quickly down the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. Her head was pounding. She just wanted to sleep. Close her eyes. Disappear.

She heard footsteps behind her.

“Nika,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. She turned, quickened her pace.

He ran.

He caught her near his room—his arms wrapped around her from behind, tight, decisive. It didn’t hurt. This was worse.

“Let me go!” she whispered, weak.

“You’re all hot…” he said anxiously. “You can barely stand.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He opened the door and practically carried her inside.

He laid her on his bed.

It was ready.

Clean sheets. An extra blanket. Herbs, a glass, a hot water bottle on the table. Everything was waiting.

"You... you planned this..." she muttered.

He didn't answer. He poured the herb, handed her the glass, and adjusted the blanket with almost tender precision.

"You need to sleep," he said softly. "I'll take care of you."

Nika tried to rise, but her body felt heavy, alien.

"I don't want to..." she whispered.

He took a step back. He knelt by the bed.

She heard him whisper.

"Thank you..." he said softly, his voice trembling. "I promise I won't hurt her. That I'll watch over her. That no one will take her away."

"Stop..." she said weakly.

He raised his head. There was something wild in his eyes.

"And those girls in the kitchen..." he suddenly growled, his voice hardening. "They're just pests."

He clenched his fists.

"They don't know what you need. I do."