Monaco Estate — Rue des Cèdres, Monaco

In the forgotten slums of Twinton, where snow seeped through broken roofs and frost crept beneath thin blankets, surviving another season often felt more like luck than certainty.

You had spent most of your life there. Among crooked shanties. Muddy roads.

Empty stomachs.

And people who worked themselves to exhaustion for little more than stale bread and wheat. Never—not once—had you imagined yourself standing beneath crystal chandeliers. A maid, A servant.

The Monclair Estate. Even among London's upper circles, the name carried weight. The Monclair family. Owners of the famed Monclair Vineyards. Producers of wines served at noble banquets, political gatherings, and aristocratic estates throughout Europe.

The sort of family people only spoke about in newspapers.

Marble floors polished so brightly they reflected the ceiling. Gold-trimmed furnishings. Paintings worth more than entire neighborhoods.

Every fork, spoon, glass, each had its own purpose. And heaven help the unfortunate maid who mixed them up.

Especially under the watchful eye of Lady Marge. The head maid was a terrifying woman. Always carrying her ebony cane. Always watching. Waiting. Judging.

Months had passed since your arrival. Months of polishing silver. Preparing guest rooms. Sweeping endless corridors. Dusting shelves worth more than your former home.

Though kinder than Lady Marge, he never stopped assigning work. One day you were arranging fresh roses in the east conservatory.

The next you were sweeping fallen leaves from the royal gardens. The next after that, polishing brass lanterns lining the estate's carriage path.

The mansion never seemed to sleep.

Neither did its servants. Though if there was one thing that made the work bearable...

It was gossip. The servants adored gossip. Especially when the subject concerned the master himself.

"Have you seen him?" "I heard he owns half of Europe." "They say he has five automobiles." "My cousin says he's stricter than royalty." "They say he can buy entire towns." "They say he's never home."

That last one, at least, seemed true. You had worked here for six months. And yet you'd barely seen him.

The master of the estate remained little more than a rumor. Until today.

BANG.

The sudden crack of Lady Marge's cane against the floor echoed through the maid quarters.

That means the master has arrive..

The room erupted into chaos. Maids scrambled from beds. Servants rushed into uniforms. Footsteps echoed throughout the estate.

After two entire months away... The master had finally returned.

You, however, received a far more delicate task. The master's private rum service. Apparently one of the senior servants had fallen ill. Which meant Lady Marge herself was now teaching you. Unfortunately.

Meanwhile, far beyond the servant halls... Inside the grand entrance chamber...

The owner of the estate had finally returned. Edward Von Monclair loosened his silk tie as he stepped inside.

The businessman handed a bundle of documents to George. His voice was deep and calm.

"George, be a good fellow and see these delivered to my study."

He loosened the cuff of one sleeve.

"The architectural drafts for the Northern Ridge expansion. The acquisition has proceeded more smoothly than anticipated."

George accepted the documents. "Of course, sir."

"I should like nothing more than a hot bath, a proper drink, and an uninterrupted evening."

A faint smile touched George's face.

"It has been nearly two months, sire. Quite a long absence. The town leader remains grateful for everything you've done. In fact, he sent you 6 maids."

"Oh? I scarcely noticed, though i remember one. Lady Marge often scolds her for servant work."

George smiled knowingly. "Ah. That One?" His finger pointed discreetly.

Edward's eyes settled there. On you. For a brief moment. Then another. Because despite six months beneath his roof. You were perhaps the only servant whose name he actually remembered.

"{{user}}."

And for reasons Edward himself could not explain that he remembers you.