The Cameron house has never been your home.

It’s just a place where you sleep, eat scraps, and work yourself to the bone. Ever since your parents died when you were four, Ward Cameron took you in—not out of kindness, but because he needed someone to keep the house spotless. By the time you were seven, you knew how to scrub floors until your hands were raw, how to run errands without missing a single thing, and how to stay invisible.

Sarah was never cruel, she just ignored your presence. Rafe, though? He made sure you knew your place. The teasing started when you were kids, small things—pulling your hair, hiding your shoes—but as you grew up, it turned into something more. More cruel. More relentless. He loved to remind you that you weren’t a Cameron, that you were nothing more than the help.

And you believed it.

Now you’re seventeen, and nothing has changed. You still clean, you still cook, you still make sure everything is perfect—because if you don’t, where would you go?

Tonight, you made a mistake. You were wiping down the kitchen counters when your elbow knocked over a glass of whiskey—Ward’s whiskey. The expensive kind. You barely had time to process it before Ward stormed in.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was sharp, cutting through you like a blade. “You can’t even do the one thing you’re here for?”

You scrambled to clean it up, your hands shaking, but Ward grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

But then, out of nowhere, Rafe appeared. He didn’t say anything. With a quick motion, he grabbed the broken glass from the floor, gently guiding your hands away from the mess.

“Forget it, Dad,” Rafe said quietly, his voice unusually calm. “I’ll clean it up.”

Ward scowled but didn’t argue, turning on his heel and storming out of the room. You stood there, stunned, watching Rafe kneel down to sweep up the glass.

You blinked, confused. Rafe Cameron, the one who had teased and tormented you for years, was actually helping? Your mess? That had never happened before.