Chapter 8 Sit. You're joining us.

By 11:30 a.m., the house was spotless. The scent of lemon polish lingered in the living room, the windows sparkled with clarity, and the table was already set with porcelain china and polished silverware. Molly had worked since dawn, cleaning, organizing, even ironing napkins, just to make sure Dylan's parents would be impressed.

Not that she cared about them.

She cared about him.

There was something about the way he'd looked at her last night. Something about the softness in his voice, the way he said, "You're more than that."

It had kept her awake.

She wore one of the outfits Dylan had bought her-a deep blue blouse tucked into a simple cream skirt that floated just above her knees. Her hair was pulled back, face clean but glowing. She looked like herself, but elevated. Presentable, professional... and nervous as hell.

At exactly 12:01 p.m., the doorbell rang.

Dylan beat her to it. He pulled the door open with a deep breath and was immediately engulfed in the faint cloud of his mother's perfume and the thunderous footsteps of his father's Italian shoes.

"Darling!" His mother beamed, wrapping Dylan in an air-kiss. "You didn't forget about us, did you?"

"I said noon, didn't I?" Dylan replied with a tired smile.

His father stepped in next, tall and imposing in a crisp black suit, silver streaks in his hair, and eyes sharp enough to slice through concrete.

"Dylan," he said coolly, shaking his son's hand like he was making a deal.

"Father."

The man's gaze swept the living room, nose lifting slightly at the sight of the fresh flowers in the vase. "So this is where you've been hiding."

"It's my house," Dylan said. "I wasn't hiding."

The man hummed. "Then why does it smell like lemon and desperation?"

Molly, who had just stepped into view, flushed red and quickly turned to retreat-but Dylan stopped her with a simple wave of his hand.

"Don't leave, Molly."

His father's eyebrows twitched.

His mother smiled, clueless. "Is she the help?"

"She's Molly," Dylan said, walking back inside. "She keeps the place together."

Molly gave a polite nod. "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Scott. Welcome."

His father narrowed his eyes at her, barely acknowledging her greeting. "You let her dress like that?" he said under his breath to Dylan, loud enough for Molly to hear. "You sure she's not one of your... projects?"

Dylan's jaw locked.

"She's wearing clothes I bought her," he said. "And she's not a project."

His mother chuckled, thinking it was a joke. "You always had such a soft spot for the wounded ones."

Molly excused herself to the kitchen, her chest burning. She tried not to let it get to her. She had worked for people like this before. But for some reason, it stung this time.

Maybe because it wasn't just any man she was working for now.

It was Dylan.

And part of her wanted him to see her. Stand for her.

Lunch was served.

Molly carried the trays one by one, placing roasted chicken, grilled vegetables, and seasoned rice on the table with care. She began to retreat again, but Dylan looked up from his seat and motioned toward the empty chair beside him.

"Molly," he said, voice calm but firm. "Sit. You're joining us."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

His mother looked scandalized. "She's joining us? At the table?"

"Yeah," Dylan said, pouring himself water like it was the most normal thing in the world. "She made the food. I don't see why she can't eat it."

"That's not how things are done," his father said sharply.

"Well," Dylan leaned back in his chair, "maybe it's time we do things differently."

Molly stood frozen, caught in the crossfire of tension and disbelief.

"Sit down, Molly," Dylan said again, gently this time. "Please."

Hesitant, she took the seat.

His mother stared like she'd just witnessed someone put ketchup on a $500 steak.

"You're being ridiculous," his father said. "She's the help. You don't dine with the help."

Dylan's hand dropped his fork with a clatter. "She has a name. And if you can't use it, then maybe you should rethink how you talk to people."

Molly bit her lip, eyes focused on her plate. Her heart thundered in her chest.

His mother laughed nervously. "Darling, is this a performance of some sort? Are we supposed to believe this... this maid is someone special now?"

Dylan turned his coldest gaze on her.

"I don't care what you believe."

The room went still.

His father leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. "I didn't come here to be insulted, Dylan."

"No," Dylan snapped. "You came here to inspect my life. Again. To make judgments about every choice I've made and pretend it's for my benefit."

"I gave you everything," his father said. "And I can take it all away."

"I built my own company, Father," Dylan said. "Your name got me in the door. But I stayed because I earned it. So stop acting like you own me."

His mother gasped. "This isn't like you."

Dylan looked at Molly.

"Yes. It is," he said quietly. "It's just the part of me you've never allowed to breathe."

For the first time, Molly met his gaze. And what she saw wasn't anger.

It was... protection.

Loyalty.

Something dangerously close to care.

His father stood abruptly. "You're wasting your potential playing house with a maid."

Dylan stood too. "And you're wasting your life trying to control everyone around you. I'm not a boy anymore, Father. I'll live the way I want to."

There was a beat of silence. Then his father turned to the door.

"Let's go " he said to his wife.

She stood, stunned, but followed.

As they reached the hallway, Dylan added, "Oh, and next time you want to judge someone, look in a mirror. Molly's done more for this house in a week than you've done for me in years."

The door slammed shut behind them.

Molly sat there, stunned. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.

"Dylan..."

He sank into the chair beside her, letting out a slow breath like he'd just dropped the weight of a mountain.

"Sorry about that," he muttered. "They weren't supposed to be... that rude."

Molly stared at him. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes, "I did."

She hesitated. "Why?"

He leaned back, gaze steady.

"Because I see you. And they don't. And I won't let anyone treat you like you're invisible."

Her throat tightened.

A small, almost bashful smile tugged at the corners of her lips. " "Thank you."

He raised a brow. "Is that a compliment?"

"Maybe," she said, picking up her fork again. "Still doesn't make you less bossy."

He chuckled. "Fair."

She shook her head with a small laugh, then looked at him again. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For standing up for me... when no one else ever has."

He didn't reply. Just reached across the table and pushed the rice bowl toward her.

"Eat. You're shaking."

She smiled. And ate.

For the first time in a long time, the food actually tasted like something.

Like comfort.

Like safety.

Like home.