Chapter 4 You look dirty

Molly scrubbed the kitchen counter in silence, her fingers going numb from how hard she gripped the sponge. She'd cleaned this same spot at least five times now, but her hands wouldn't stop. Her thoughts kept spinning, and this was the only thing keeping her from crying.

She could still hear Dylan's voice in her head-every cold word, every insult, every angry glance.

"You look dirty."

"Why aren't you in uniform?"

"I never knew you were this stupid."

She blinked fast. Don't cry, she told herself. Not here. Not now.

The moment he'd shouted at her after choking-after she had helped him-was the moment she realized this job might be worse than the last. And yet, she couldn't leave. She had nowhere else to go.

She paused, leaning against the counter for a second. The scar on her forehead throbbed, still sore from where he hit her. Not that he seemed to care.

Just then, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Dylan.

She straightened instantly, pressing her lips together. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

He entered the kitchen with an empty glass in hand and set it in the sink. Then he just stood there, staring at her.

Molly kept her gaze lowered, unsure if he was about to scold her again.

Then he spoke.

"I didn't mean to hit you that hard," he muttered, voice stiff and forced.

Molly froze. Was that... an apology?

He rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. "I thought you were an intruder. You should've said something."

"I... I tried," she said quietly. "But I was scared."

Dylan exhaled, long and slow. He didn't reply right away. Instead, he turned toward the doorway.

"You should wear the uniform," he said flatly. "So I know who you are next time."

"Yes, sir," she replied softly.

He turned back sharply. "Don't call me 'sir.' I'm not your teacher."

"Sorry... "

He walked a few steps toward the hallway, then paused again.

"I don't like noise," he said. "Or mess. I work from home most days. If I'm in my study, don't come knocking."

"I understand," she said quickly.

"And don't burn the food. I hate burnt food."

"Yes."

He left without another word.

Molly let out a shaky breath once he was gone. She didn't realize she'd been holding it. Her knees felt weak beneath her. She sank into the kitchen stool and rested her elbows on the table. Her fingers trembled as she touched the scar on her forehead.

So this was her new life.

Different house, same kind of pain.

But the money was better. And she was doing this for her family. For Mom. For Dad.

As long as she got paid, she could endure it.

She stood up and started unpacking the groceries she'd bought earlier that day with the emergency cash Dylan's mother had given her. She opened the fridge and began rearranging everything the way she liked it-clean, labeled, neat.

Behind her, Dylan stood silently in the hallway watching.

He noticed the way her fingers moved precisely. The way she folded the bags, wiped the shelf edges, then softly hummed to herself-a tune so quiet he couldn't place it.

She wasn't slow. She wasn't lazy.

But she was... strange.

Too quiet. Too reserved. Too soft.

It unsettled him.

He hated people who were unpredictable. He preferred bold, shallow women who laughed too loud and left before morning. But this girl? She looked like someone who'd seen things. Someone who held back tears with a smile.

He hated it.

"What are you humming?" he asked suddenly.

Molly spun around, startled. "Oh-nothing. Just something my mom used to sing when I was a kid."

Dylan raised a brow. "You live with your parents?"

She hesitated, unsure why he was asking. "Yes. But they can't work. I... help out."

He nodded slowly, then turned again. "Don't get too comfortable here," he said over his shoulder.

Molly's throat tightened.

"I'm only keeping you around because my mom begged me to. When I find a wife, you'll have to leave."

She said nothing.

Of course she'd leave. She never stayed anywhere for long anyway.

Later that night, Molly stood by the guestroom window, staring out at the city lights. The mansion was enormous-too clean, too quiet, too cold. She didn't feel like she belonged here. Everything felt borrowed. Temporary.

She placed a hand on her stomach and sighed. She hadn't even had dinner.

But she wasn't hungry. Her chest ached with the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Was it so wrong to want a peaceful life?

A home where no one shouted.

Where no one raised a hand to her.

Where someone, anyone, would say, "You've done well, Molly."

She touched the scar on her forehead again, then turned away from the window. Tomorrow, she would wake up early. Clean the entire house. Make breakfast.

Do her job.

And stay out of Dylan Scott's way.

Even if he was the most frustrating, arrogant, cold man she'd ever met... he was still her boss. And she couldn't afford to get kicked out. She just couldn't afford to be kicked out. Not while her parents depended on her.