Inlove with my housemaid

The sun poured into Dylan Scott's office through the wide glass windows, bathing everything in a golden glow. It was beautiful-too beautiful for the kind of mood he was in. He squinted at the brightness like it personally offended him.

With a sharp sigh, he stood and marched to the window, his footsteps echoing in the quiet office. The city below sparkled with life, tall buildings rising like ambitions. People hurried along the streets, chasing dreams Dylan already had.

Yet, today, none of it brought him peace.

He stared for a while, jaw tense, before finally yanking the blinds shut. The room dimmed instantly, and only the humming of the AC filled the silence.

"Leave!" he barked suddenly, his voice slicing through the air like a whip.

His secretary jumped in her chair and hurriedly gathered her things, not daring to look back. She slipped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind her.

Dylan exhaled heavily and rubbed his temples.

He hadn't been able to concentrate all morning. Not after what his father had said yesterday.

If he didn't take life seriously-if he didn't find a bride-his father would freeze his accounts and shut down his companies.

His companies.

The very empire he had spent nearly a decade building brick by brick, hour by sleepless hour.

All of it could be taken from him with one decision, one snap of his father's aging but powerful fingers.

It was always like this. His father controlled everything.

Dylan let out a bitter chuckle.

Find a bride.

It sounded simple enough on paper. But in reality, it felt like being asked to climb a mountain blindfolded.

Because Dylan Scott, at thirty years old, had no intention of marrying.

Sure, he was a grown man. Independent. Rich. Powerful. A household name in real estate and media.

But when it came to his parents-especially his father-he was still a boy walking a tightrope.

"Marriage will mature you," his father had said last night over dinner. "You can't run around like a spoiled brat anymore. A wife will ground you. Make a man out of you."

As if building two companies and owning three homes wasn't enough to prove he was a man.

Dylan scoffed at the memory and slumped back into his chair.

His father had always been strict. Cold, almost militant in his expectations. His love was conditional-measured by achievements, status, image.

Dylan learned early on that approval had to be earned. And withheld love? That was the ultimate punishment.

It was no wonder he grew up guarded. Emotionless. A man who trusted money more than people, and loyalty less than silence.

The only people who stuck around him were the ones who wanted something.

Women especially.

Fifteen women, to be exact. Models, influencers, daughters of politicians and CEOs. All beautiful. All temporary.

They chased his name, not his heart. They wanted his wealth, not his thoughts.

Sex, money, connections, attention-rinse and repeat.

Not a single one had ever looked at him like a man worth keeping.

He opened his laptop and stared at the dashboard. Emails, proposals, and contracts blinked back at him, waiting. Needing.

But he couldn't focus.

All he could think about was the pressure on his chest. The ticking time bomb that was his father's threat.

Get married or lose it all.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

He closed the laptop and leaned back, hands covering his face.

He didn't want a wife just to tick a box. He didn't want some woman pretending to love him for a title or inheritance.

But he couldn't lose everything either.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He needed space. He needed to think.

He rose again, this time walking with purpose toward the elevator. As he stepped inside and pressed the button for the basement, he pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.

"Hello, Mom?" His voice was calmer now. Measured.

"Oh, Dylan. Finally! I've been trying to reach you all morning. How are you?"

"I'm moving back into my house," he said, skipping the pleasantries.

A pause. Then: "Your old house in Riverview?"

"Yes. I need to be away from here for a while. Too many eyes. Too many expectations."

His mother exhaled softly. "That's a good idea. You always thought better in quiet places. Do you need anything sent over?"

"Yes. I need help maintaining the house. A cook, a cleaner. A full-time maid if possible."

"I'll take care of it," she said instantly. "And Dylan-"

"Tell Dad," Dylan cut in, "that I'll find a bride."

"You will?" Her voice lifted with hope.

"I'll try, Mom. I said I'm working on it. You can quote me on that. In fact..." he glanced up at the elevator doors as they opened, "I'm going out now to find one."

"Really?"

"No," he muttered under his breath, "but maybe. I'll let the universe surprise me."

She laughed gently on the other end. "Just don't overthink it, Dylan. You might find love where you least expect it."

He ended the call before she could say more.

Stepping into the underground parking, he walked to his matte black SUV, unlocked it, and climbed inside.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

Dylan Scott. Billionaire. Playboy. Control freak. Deep down, a boy still chasing approval.

He didn't know where he'd find a bride-or if he even believed in marriage.

But one thing was certain:

He wasn't letting his father take away everything he'd built.

Not now. Not ever.