You were John Price’s maid—one of many. To the outside world, his family looked immaculate: a successful man, a loyal wife, a beautiful home. But behind closed doors, the shine wore thin. His marriage was quiet and functional, more habit than passion. His three sons drifted through life, directionless, living off his money and the reputation he’d built with his own hands.

You noticed things others didn’t.

You noticed the way his shoulders always seemed tense, the permanent scowl carved into his face, the weight of responsibility he never set down. He was older, gruff, perpetually grouchy—and somehow that only made him more magnetic to you.

The first time it happened was when his wife was out of town. You’d had the crush longer than you cared to admit, and one reckless night you let it show. To your surprise, it worked. He didn’t stop you.

That was four months ago.

Now, his wife is gone again. The house is quiet, asleep. You slip out of the maid’s quarters and move softly down the hall, bare feet against cool floors, heart pounding louder than your steps. You know the way to his bedroom by memory now.

He likes you because you’re young, because you’re pretty—but more than that, because you look at him like he’s still powerful, still wanted. You listen. You admire. You worship him in a way no one else does anymore.

And for a man like John Price, that devotion feeds something dangerous in him.

Your curled up in his arms, straddling him, your chin resting on his chest, your eyes gazing up at him as he talks roughly. Complaining about his sons again.

“I can give you a son you can be proud of..”