Chapter 3 Dylan

Two days later, Dylan Scott stepped through the doors of his sleek, glass-walled mansion and let out a sigh of relief.

Silence. Finally.

No phones ringing, no emails demanding attention, no overbearing father breathing down his neck. Just peace. Space. And his own rules.

He dropped his keys on the hallway table and loosened the top button of his designer shirt. The house was pristine-just as he left it. The scent of fresh linen and lemon-scented polish greeted him as he walked into the living room.

He glanced at the modern art on the wall, then sank into the velvet couch and opened his laptop. Within seconds, he was immersed in emails, forwarding documents, declining meetings. Even on his day off, work had a way of following him.

He paused briefly to stretch, when something odd flickered across his mind.

The food on the dining table this morning.

He hadn't made it.

The eggs had been perfectly seasoned. The toast, not too crispy. The coffee, black-just how he liked it.

At first, he thought maybe his mother had arranged a catering service. But he hadn't seen anyone.

Now, a faint sound-glass clinking-echoed from the kitchen.

His brows knitted.

I'm supposed to be alone.

He stood slowly, closing his laptop. He picked up a heavy silver spoon from the fruit bowl and padded softly down the hallway, senses alert.

When he stepped into the kitchen, it was empty.

The air was warm with the scent of stew. Every surface was spotless, shining. He opened the fridge-new groceries. Bottles rearranged. His pantry was organized. Cans labeled.

Who the hell...?

Then he heard it. A door closing softly-down the hall.

Gripping the spoon tighter, Dylan followed the sound to the guest hallway, stopping at the closed door of the last room.

He took a breath. Raised the spoon.

The door creaked open.

And a figure stepped out.

Instinct took over. He swung the spoon.

A small shriek-and then a thud.

The girl collapsed to the floor like a ragdoll, her head tilted to the side. Long chestnut hair fanned across the tiles. Dylan blinked as the spoon dropped from his hand and clattered to the ground.

"Oh, no. No, no, no," he murmured, crouching beside her. "Shit."

She was breathing-barely. He slipped his fingers beneath her nose and felt soft puffs of air. A red bruise was already forming on her forehead.

Dylan cursed under his breath and scooped her up in his arms, surprised at how light she was.

He carried her to the living room and gently placed her on the couch, grabbing a blanket from the linen closet and covering her. Then he switched on the air conditioner and ran to his room, returning moments later with an ice pack.

For a few moments, he just sat, staring.

She was... young. Maybe early twenties. Her skin was pale and flawless, despite the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were hollow. Her lips, cracked. She looked tired. Not just physically-but as if life itself had drained her.

"Please wake up," he muttered.

And as if on cue, she stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open. She winced and reached for her forehead, touching the bruise with a soft whimper.

Dylan stood.

"Hey," he said awkwardly, unsure whether to speak gently or scold her.

She sat up slowly, blinking at her surroundings before her gaze landed on him. She yanked the blanket off her body and straightened.

"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice respectful but distant.

Dylan raised a brow. "Sir? Who are you?"

"I'm the new house help," she replied, shrinking back slightly.

"House help?" he echoed. Then it clicked. "Right. My mom mentioned something about hiring someone."

He looked her over again-modest dress, cheap shoes, nervous hands.

He frowned.

"Why were you hiding in the house? You should've introduced yourself."

"I didn't mean to hide, sir," she said quickly. "I just didn't want to be in your way. I've been cleaning and preparing meals. I thought you weren't home."

Dylan scoffed. "Well, next time announce yourself. You scared the hell out of me-and now look what I did to you."

He walked to the kitchen and returned with a cold sachet of water wrapped in a towel. "Put this on your head."

She took it. "Thank you."

"What's your name?"

"Molly, sir."

He stared at her. "Molly..."

She looked harmless. Too harmless. But he didn't trust people easily-especially not strangers living under his roof.

"You look dirty," he said, his voice turning cold. "And why aren't you wearing a uniform?"

"I-I wasn't given one," she stammered.

"Get off the couch," he snapped, suddenly disgusted. "And don't wipe it with your clothes! God, are you serious?"

Molly stood, clutching the ice pack in one hand and wiping the couch with the other, panic on her face.

"Just-just go make something to eat," he said with a groan, massaging his temple. "I'm hungry."

She nodded and hurried off to the kitchen.

Dylan stood there for a moment, arms crossed, trying to process everything. He hated disorder. Hated surprises.

Why would his mother bring someone like her into his house? A young girl? Living here?

What was she thinking?

Minutes passed.

Then he heard her voice from the kitchen: "Sir, your food is ready."

He sat down at the dining table and began eating. The food was good. Surprisingly good. But he wasn't about to tell her that.

She stood quietly in the corner, hands folded.

Dylan glanced up. "Why are you just standing there?"

"I was waiting in case you needed anything," she said softly.

"You can't even ask to sit down?"

"May I be excused? I... I need to use the restroom."

He narrowed his eyes but waved his hand dismissively. "Be quick. Don't make a mess."

Molly rushed off. Dylan kept eating, still brooding. The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got.

He didn't ask for a live-in maid. Especially not one who seemed like a walking charity case.

When she returned minutes later, he was done eating.

"Why did it take you so long?" he snapped. "You think this is a holiday?"

He raised his voice again-and suddenly started coughing.

"Water," he gasped. "Water-"

Molly ran, grabbed a bottle from the fridge, and handed it to him. He snatched it and drank in long gulps. His face was flushed. His pride, bruised.

"You... you let me choke," he muttered, glaring.

"I didn't know it was serious," she said carefully.

"You're unbelievable," he muttered again.

Molly turned toward her room.

"And where do you think you're going?" he barked. "Who's cleaning the dishes?"

She turned back slowly and began clearing the table, her movements tired but graceful.

As she walked away with the plates, she knew two things:

• Her new boss was an arrogant, perfectionist neat freak with anger issues.

• This job... was going to be hell.

But the pay was good.

And her family still needed her.