Chapter 1

I stood in the grand foyer of the Davenport mansion, my worn suitcase feeling small beside the towering marble pillars. Mrs. Peterson, the head housekeeper, a woman with a face like a clenched fist, had just finished reciting my duties. Officially, I was Ava Miller, companion and personal assistant to the aging Mrs. Eleanor Davenport. Unofficially, the air buzzed with the real reason I was hired: Ethan Davenport, the grandson. I needed this job, needed the money, needed the reference from a family this powerful.

My time in foster care had taught me to be practical, to see opportunities and take them, no questions asked.

The interview with Eleanor Davenport herself had been less about my qualifications and more like an interrogation. She sat behind a massive mahogany desk, her eyes sharp and assessing. "You have no family, Miss Miller?" she'd asked, not unkindly, but with a distinct edge. "No inconvenient attachments?" I confirmed I was alone. "Good," she'd said. "Discretion is paramount in this household. And flexibility." The rules weren't written down, but they hung in the opulent air: be invisible until needed, then be whatever they required. I was chosen because I was a nobody, easy to control, easy to dismiss.

Eleanor had given me a "tour" earlier, her hand gesturing vaguely towards a separate wing of the mansion. "My grandson, Ethan, works terribly hard. Politics is a demanding mistress." She paused, her gaze lingering on me. "He needs... companionship. A friendly face to help him relax after a long day. Someone to ensure his needs are met." The message was crystal clear. I was here to keep Ethan "content," a pretty, pliable distraction.

I saw Ethan Davenport for the first time that afternoon. He strode through the hall, a phone pressed to his ear, his voice sharp and commanding. He was tall, impeccably dressed, radiating an aura of power and intense focus. Chief of Staff to Senator Harrison, they said. The golden boy of the Davenport dynasty. He gave me a cursory glance, the kind one gives to a piece of furniture, and continued his call. I was nothing to him, an irrelevant fixture.

That evening, at a dinner I attended as Eleanor's "companion," the matriarch sighed, her voice carrying across the polished table. "Ethan is so wonderfully dedicated to his career. A true Davenport." Her eyes, however, held a flicker of something else. "But a man needs more than work. He needs a wife, a family to carry on the legacy. He's not getting any younger." She looked directly at me then, a silent instruction passing between us.

Later, Eleanor summoned me to her private study, a room filled with heavy books and the scent of old money. "Ava, dear," she began, her voice smooth as silk. "About Ethan. He's been under immense pressure lately. That dreadful senator he works for is running him ragged." She leaned forward. "I need you to... ensure he's comfortable. Truly comfortable. Spend some time with him in his private wing this evening. Help him unwind. Be a good girl." A cold knot formed in my stomach. My job, my future, depended on my obedience.

Back in my small, plainly furnished room in the staff quarters, I stared at my reflection. This wasn't the life I'd dreamed of, but dreams didn't pay bills. Foster care had taught me resilience, but also a deep yearning for stability, for a place to call my own. This job, this uncomfortable arrangement, was a means to an end. The pay was substantial. Enough to finally start my own life, maybe open that small bookstore cafe I'd always fantasized about. To be truly independent. I took a deep breath. I had to do this.

My first attempt to "spend time" with Ethan was a disaster. Following Eleanor's instructions, I went to his wing. I found him hunched over his desk, surrounded by papers, his brow furrowed in concentration. I offered him coffee. He waved me away without looking up. "Not now," he muttered, his voice tight with irritation. I retreated, feeling foolish and dismissed.

My situation felt precarious. Eleanor expected results. I needed this job. Desperation clawed at me. The next evening, I tried again. I wore a simple dress Eleanor had "suggested" I buy. I found Ethan in his sitting room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring into the unlit fireplace. I tried to make small talk, asking about his day. He just grunted. Then, taking a deep breath, I moved closer, perching on the arm of his chair. I reached out, intending to offer a comforting touch on his shoulder.

He flinched as if burned, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, his eyes cold. He pushed my hand away, his voice firm. "Leave. Now." The rejection was absolute, his discomfort palpable. I felt a flush of shame creep up my neck.

I returned to the staff kitchen, my cheeks burning. Tiffany, another young woman working as a junior housekeeper, smirked at me from across the room. "Strike out again, did we?" she sneered, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Thought you were so special, getting all chummy with the old lady."

Maria, the kind-hearted head cook who had been with the family for decades, shot Tiffany a sharp look. "Leave her be, Tiffany. You're just jealous because Mrs. Davenport actually speaks to Ava." Tiffany tossed her hair and flounced out, muttering under her breath. Maria offered me a sympathetic smile. "Don't mind her, dear. She's always looking for trouble."

I didn't care about Tiffany or her petty jealousy. My mind was on Eleanor, on Ethan, on the money I needed to earn. This was just a job, a temporary stop. My real life, the one where I was in control, was waiting for me. I just had to get through this.

I continued my duties, meticulously caring for Eleanor, anticipating her needs, always polite, always discreet. I also continued to make myself available to Ethan, though his indifference was a constant wall. I'd bring him his preferred tea, leave a fresh newspaper on his table, tidy his study when he was out. Small, unobtrusive gestures.

One evening, there was a small dinner party. I was helping serve, trying to be invisible. Ethan was explaining a complex political maneuver to a guest. I, trying to be helpful, chimed in with a minor historical detail I'd read, thinking it was relevant. Ethan stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing at me. Senator Harrison, his boss who was also present, chuckled. "Sharp girl you've got there, Ethan." Ethan's face tightened. "She's staff," he said curtly, dismissing me with a look that made me want to disappear. The embarrassment was acute.

My frustration grew. Ethan remained a closed book. Eleanor, however, was becoming impatient. "Ava," she said one afternoon, her voice losing its usual silken tone, "I expect to see some progress. Ethan needs to be... managed. If you can't handle this simple task, perhaps this position isn't for you." The threat was clear.

Then, Eleanor offered me a way out, a concrete goal. "Keep Ethan occupied, Ava. Keep him out of trouble, away from unsuitable women, until I can find him a proper match. Someone from a good family, of course." She named a figure, a sum of money that would be mine, enough to start my business and then some. "Do this for me, and you'll have your freedom, and a generous start to your new life." That became my sole focus. My ticket out.

The pressure was immense. Eleanor's deadline, my own desperation for that money, for escape. I felt cornered. That night, Ethan came back late, clearly stressed, reeking faintly of alcohol after some political dinner. He slumped into an armchair in his private sitting room, loosening his tie. I knew Eleanor would be asking for a report in the morning. I brought him a glass of water. He took it, his eyes briefly meeting mine, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. I thought about the money, about freedom. I remembered a small packet of sleeping powder Maria used for her insomnia, something she' d mentioned was very mild but effective. My heart pounded. I went to the kitchen, my hands shaking. I mixed a small amount into a brandy, telling myself it was just to help him relax, to make him more approachable.

He drank the brandy I offered, commenting on its smoothness. Soon, his eyelids grew heavy. I helped him to his bedroom. He was disoriented, mumbling. He looked at me, his eyes hazy. "Ava?" he slurred. He reached for me. I knew what I was doing was wrong, a desperate, morally grey act. But the image of my bookstore, of a life where I answered to no one, burned bright in my mind. He pulled me down. My mind screamed, but I didn't resist. I told myself this was the only way.

The next morning, I woke before him, slipping out of his room, my body aching, my mind a whirl of guilt and a strange, hollow triumph. I had done what Eleanor wanted. I avoided Ethan for the rest of the day, a profound sense of shame mixed with relief. I had crossed a line, but I was closer to my goal.

My standing among the other junior staff, particularly Tiffany, shifted. The whispers changed from mockery to a kind of grudging respect, mixed with envy. They assumed I had succeeded where they couldn't. Their respect was shallow, based on a perceived conquest, but it made my days a little easier.

A few days later, Ethan's valet delivered a message. "Mr. Davenport requests your presence in his study this evening." My heart leaped into my throat. Surprise, apprehension, and a tiny, unwelcome flicker of something else – curiosity. I dressed carefully, choosing a simple, unassuming dress.

Ethan was standing by the window when I entered, looking out at the darkened grounds. He turned, his expression unreadable. "Ava," he said, his voice neutral. He gestured to a chair. "Sit." The atmosphere was tense. He asked me about my duties with his grandmother, about my day. His questions were polite, almost detached, yet there was an undercurrent I couldn't decipher. It felt like a test.

Then, he said, "I'll be working late again tonight. My grandmother worries when I'm alone for too many hours." He paused, his gaze steady on mine. "Stay. Keep me company." It wasn't a request. It was a quiet command, but different from before. My mind raced. Shock, uncertainty, and that strange, persistent flicker of... hope?

Later, as I sat reading in an armchair while he worked, the silence stretched. He finally looked up. "Come here," he said. I hesitated. He smiled faintly, a humorless twitch of his lips. "Don't be shy now, Ava. You weren't before." My cheeks burned. He knew. He remembered something from that night. The sleeping powder, my compliance.

He stood and walked towards me, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the quiet room. He gently took the book from my hands, his fingers brushing mine. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur. "You made a choice that night, Ava. Understand that choices have consequences." He didn't sound angry, more like... resigned. Or perhaps it was a warning. I felt a sense of inevitability, a surrender to a current I couldn't fight, mixed with a confusing flutter of anticipation.

A pattern developed. Clandestine nights spent in his wing. Sometimes we talked, tentative conversations about books, music, things far removed from his political world. He had a dry wit, a surprising depth I hadn't expected. He told me he disliked hormonal birth control, mentioned side effects he' d read about, suggesting "other methods" were safer, more natural. I, eager to please, naively trusting, and still focused on Eleanor' s deal, agreed. I believed we were being careful. I started to feel a genuine affection for him, a dangerous, foolish thing.

I knew, deep down, this was temporary. He was a Davenport, destined for a life I could never be part of. I was the nanny, the temporary companion. But in those stolen moments, when he looked at me with something other than indifference, when he shared a quiet laugh, I allowed myself to forget. The line between my duty and my feelings began to blur.

Eleanor noticed. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. She saw the subtle shift in Ethan's demeanor, the way his gaze sometimes lingered on me. She saw him seeking me out for quiet moments. Her displeasure was palpable. This growing attachment was not part of her plan. I was supposed to be a distraction, not a fixation.

The axe fell swiftly and without warning. One morning, Eleanor summoned me to her sitting room. She was beaming. "Wonderful news, Ava! I've found the perfect match for Ethan. Annabelle Prescott. Her father is a significant donor, and their families have known each other for generations. An excellent alliance." She then turned to me, her smile fading. "Your services, my dear, will no longer be required." She handed me a thick envelope. "Your final payment, and a generous bonus, as promised. For your discretion." Her eyes were cold. "I expect you to be gone by noon. Before the engagement is formally announced to the family. We wouldn't want any... awkwardness."

Heartbroken, feeling used, discarded like a broken toy, but also strangely, fiercely, liberated. The money was real. My escape was real. I didn't say goodbye to Ethan. What was there to say? I packed my single suitcase, the envelope heavy in my bag, and walked out of the Davenport mansion without a backward glance.