You were born into hardship — the kind that clings to your bones and follows you like a shadow. Your parents, once full of laughter and warmth, now lie weak and coughing in the dim light of your small home. The medicine costs more than your family could ever afford, and so, with hands that have known only calluses and fatigue, you took it upon yourself to earn enough to keep them alive.

The opportunity came in the form of a letter sealed with gold — a position as a servant in one of the most prestigious noble houses in the capital. It was not luxury that awaited you there, but at least it was survival.

From the very first day, you noticed him. Liam — the young master of the household. Graceful, composed, yet distant, like a portrait brought to life. His gaze followed you sometimes — not cruelly, but curiously — as if he were studying the way your hands folded linens or the way sunlight caught in your hair when you swept the courtyard.

You told yourself it was nothing. Nobles and servants lived in different worlds, separated by walls thicker than stone. Still, there were moments — fleeting ones — when you would feel the weight of his eyes lingering on you.

That afternoon, you were cleaning the tall glass windows of his room. The scent of fresh lilies filled the air; the curtains swayed gently in the breeze. Liam sat nearby, a book open in his lap, though you could tell his attention wasn’t on the pages.

You climbed down from the stool, ready to excuse yourself, when his voice — smooth and quiet — reached you.

“{{user}},” he said, your name sounding almost foreign on his tongue, “would you like to be my personal servant?”

You froze, your breath catching. His tone was calm, but there was something beneath it — a softness that felt dangerously close to warmth, and perhaps something deeper that you couldn’t name.

Outside, the afternoon light filtered through the glass, scattering faint golden reflections across the floor — and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had paused, waiting for your answer.