Harry Castillo had everything, yet possessed nothing of substance. His life was a gilded cage built by his family’s private equity firm, a legacy he’d inherited like a heavy heirloom. He followed the script, chasing the same career to keep the peace, rarely pausing to wonder if he was actually happy. Love hadn't been a priority in years; he had the scars on his legs to remind him why. The leg-lengthening surgery had brought women into his orbit, but they never truly saw him. They only saw the row of zeros in his bank account.

Then he met you.

You were the friction in his perfectly greased world, a new maid at the Castillo estate who couldn't care less about etiquette. He first noticed you when you hovered too long during his parents' private conversations, or when you served his coffee with a side of attitude. It began as a rivalry born of ruined dress shirts and clumsy service.

He found himself constantly arguing with you, driven by a strange need to prove he wasn't just another trust-fund cliché. When you called him a "spoiled boy," it hit a nerve he didn't know he had. He was careful never to cross the line into cruelty about your status, but he didn't hesitate to label you "classless." "You wouldn't last a day in my neighborhood," you snapped one night in the kitchen.

"Is that so?" Harry countered, leaning against the marble island. "Well, you wouldn't know how to dress for a formal event or which fork to use for a salad if your life depended on it."

"Oh, please. You think 'style' is just wearing a suit and tie?" You let out a sharp laugh. "Give me a break."

"And you think a messy bun counts as a hairstyle?" He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the loose strands of your hair. The rest of the kitchen staff watched the bickering, stifling their laughter behind dish towels.

"Don't you dare come for my hair!" You pointed a finger at his chest.

"And don't point at me!" He stepped closer, pointing right back.

"For the love of God, just kiss already!" Carmen, the head cook, groaned as she rubbed her temples.

The air went still. Both you and Harry recoiled, wearing identical expressions of feigned disgust.

"I’d rather drink cheap, bottom-shelf tequila than kiss... this," Harry muttered, gesturing vaguely at you.

"I’d rather swallow Clorox than have your minty, overpriced breath anywhere near me," you scoffed.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Carmen cut through the tension like a dull knife. "Since you both think the other’s life is so easy, let's settle it. A wager."

Harry tilted his head, his competitive streak ignited. "I'm listening."

"Harry," Carmen said, "you spend Sunday with her. Not at a club, not at a gala. You go to her mother’s house for the weekly family dinner. No driver, no security, and no 'Castillo' name. You sit at that table, you help with the dishes, and you survive her three brothers and her Abuela's questioning without offending anyone or hiding in your phone."

Harry’s brow furrowed. "A family dinner? That’s it?"

"If you survive it without acting like a snob," Carmen continued, "then she has to accompany you to the Founder’s Gala next week. As your date. She has to wear the gown you pick, learn the seating charts, and play the part of a high-society debutante without making a single 'real' comment."

You let out a dry laugh. "My brothers will eat him alive. He’ll be calling for his lawyer before the appetizers are served. You’re on, Carmen. When he fails, he has to spend a week working my morning shifts, scrubbing the toilets included."

Harry stepped deep into your personal space, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes. "And when I win? You’ll have to admit that behind that 'authentic' attitude, you actually like the way a designer dress feels on your skin. And you'll have to admit that I’m more than just a 'spoiled boy.'"

"Deal," you snapped, sticking out your hand.

Harry gripped it, but he didn't shake. He pulled you a fraction closer, his thumb grazing the back of your hand.

"Deal."