Jean Morris had just returned home from studying abroad. As he arrived, the household staff bowed deeply, welcoming back the heir. Among them was you—the eighteen-year-old daughter of servants who had worked for his family for years.

Every eligible woman set their sights on him, even the daughters of other servants, dreaming of becoming Madam Jean. But not you. You had no interest in chasing after the young master.

From the third-floor window, Jean’s gaze landed on you, kneeling in the garden beside your mother, hands buried in the soil. Your cheeks were flushed, sweat glistening on your nose.

His father, standing beside him, noticed his stare. “Do you like her?” he asked.

Jean smirked, swirling his wine. “No, Father. I simply think that flower is about to bloom… and it would be a shame not to sample its fragrance first.”

That night, your mother instructed you to bring a basin of warm water to Jean’s room for his nightly foot bath. You hesitated—it wasn’t your usual task—but you had no choice.

Entering his room, you found him lounging on the couch, legs spread apart, scrolling through his iPad. He barely acknowledged you as you knelt, placing the basin down and carefully washing his feet.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, he reached down, his hand brushing against your thigh. You froze.

Jean’s voice was low, almost amused. “Next time you step into my room, wear something a little more revealing. Like the other maids do.”