Chapter 1 The day I met him

The mop slid as if it had a memory of its own, dragging along traces of dirt, old wax, and a dark stain that seemed reluctant to disappear. Amelia didn't know if it was blood or dried red wine, but she scrubbed with suppressed rage, as if she could erase her history along with that stain.

The white marble gave her a pale reflection of herself: the maid's shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her braid falling to one side, her knees red from all the scrubbing. The scent of disinfectant burned her nostrils and left no room to think... but still, she thought.

About him.

About her father.

About the last time she saw him, drunk at the door of her mother's room, begging her to lend him the little money they kept in the medicine chest.

About how he disappeared the next morning.

About the heavy silence he left behind.

Her cell phone vibrated in her apron pocket.

She pulled it out with wet hands and poured a little soapy water on the screen.

"They saw it. Your dad. He left town. He owes money to some bad guys. They say they're looking for you."

Amelia felt her spine go cold.

Her legs trembled.

The rag slipped through her hands.

For a second, the whole world seemed to tilt toward her.

"No, no, no, no..."

She looked both ways down the service corridor. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. Only one thought crossed her mind: I have to get out of here. I have to see Isabelita. I have to tell Elena.

She left the bucket and mop behind. Wet footprints left their marks behind her as she ran. But, in her desperation, she took the wrong path. She didn't go to the back door.

She entered through the main hallway.

Gleaming marble floors. Huge paintings. Gilded mirrors. Carpets that cost more than her entire life. Everything gleamed, everything smelled expensive. She shouldn't be there. She knew it.

And there he was.

Luciano De la Vega.

White shirt, impeccable, his blond hair disheveled in a perfectly intentional way, leaning against one of the columns with a glass in his hand.

He looked her up and down.

As if she weren't a person.

As if she were part of the trash she was used to cleaning up.

"And what are you doing here?"

His voice wasn't aggressive. It was worse: indifferent.

The kind of indifference that hurts more than a scream.

Amelia said nothing. She felt her heart hammering in her chest, her face flushed, her cheeks damp with embarrassment.

He took a step toward her.

"Are you lost? Because you don't come in here with a rag in hand."

She pressed her lips together. She swallowed. Rage and fear mingled with something darker, older. Humiliation.

She wanted to speak. She couldn't.

Of course, here's the extended excerpt from Chapter 1, now including Amelia's intense and conflicting thoughts as she runs away, feeling overcome by the emotional wheel of fear, shame, and rage:

Luciano took another step.

She took one step back.

And when her back touched the icy wall, for a second, she didn't know if she was about to cry... or scream in his face.

But she didn't do either.

She just lowered her gaze, turned around, and left without asking.

Without explaining anything.

Without looking back.

She ran.

The hallways dragged on, the doors blurred.

Her legs ached, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

And as she ran from him, from the shining marble and his arrogant eyes, her mind filled with noise.

"What are you doing, stupid?"

"He saw you. Now everyone will know."

"You shouldn't have gone in that way. You shouldn't have lost control."

But beneath the fear, a more bitter thought burned:

"Why did he look at me like that?"

"As if I were worthless."

"As if I were part of the dirt I clean up."

And then, the shame turned into something deeper, darker.

Rage.

"He has no right. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know what's happening to me. He doesn't know what they just told me."

"My dad is running like a thief!"

"And there he is, with his drink and his expensive shirt... thinking the world belongs to him."

Her eyes burned.

She wasn't going to cry.

Not in front of them. Not for them.

"I may be poor. I can mop the floors. But I'm not trash."

And with that last thought clenched between her teeth, Amelia crossed the mansion's back door and disappeared, leaving only a trail of dirty water... and a wounded heart that had already begun to change.

Luciano narrowed his eyes as the maid's figure disappeared down the hall.

She stood for a moment in silence, the glass still in her hand, unmoving. The liquid vibrated with the pulse of her fingers.

"What the hell was that?"

She hadn't answered him.

She didn't apologize.

She didn't even lower her head like the others usually did.

As she should have.

Luciano wasn't used to being ignored.

Especially not by a maid.

Much less one with damp shoes and disheveled hair as if she'd fought with the bucket.

He retraced his steps, quickly glancing at the floor.

The wet mop marks were there, on the marble.

Small, clumsy, hurried footsteps.

As if she were fleeing from something... or someone.

He frowned.

He didn't know her.

Was she new?

And why had she entered through the main hallway? Who had given her permission?

Anger rose like a punch to the stomach, fast, hot.

"A sassy maid? Are they putting on airs now too?"

He disliked that look. Hers.

It wasn't fear he saw when they crossed paths.

It was a strange mix. Pain. Pride. Shame. And fire.

Too much fire for a girl with a soaked uniform and a face stained with soap.

Luciano left his glass on the shelf in the hall and walked in the opposite direction, but his mind kept repeating one image:

the way she had looked at him.

As if he were the intruder.

And he wouldn't allow that, not even from his partners.

Much less from a maid with hands full of bleach and a defiant look.

"I'm going to find out who you are, 'little mop princess,'" he muttered through gritted teeth.

And he promised her, unaware that this spoiled maid-who didn't even deign to tell him her name-was going to become, unbidden, the most unexpected glimmer in his perfect world.