Chapter 2

Maya

I was up before dawn. 6:00 a.m. 

Amazing. 

Considering I’d spent the last eighteen months of my life, crawling into bed at three a.m. (with makeup still on my face and a little shame in my heart) and not getting out of it until 12 noon, this was almost a miracle.

Almost.

In truth, it was the nerves.

I was nervous as fuck. My stomach was in knots, my hands were clammy, and if I have anything for breakfast before leaving, I'll most likely empty the contents of my stomach on the face of the first person I saw when I got there. Definitely didn't want that.

I'd booked a room for the night at the diner last night, and now I stood in front of the stained mirror accessing my features. Still as beautiful as always. Lovely hazel eyes and a wonderfully dimpled smile that hopefully made me look innocent enough that no one would even imagine I'd ever been a stripper.

I brushed, cleaned—as much as possible without a proper shower—and redid my makeup three times. And then I forced my strawberry blonde hair into something that looked professional enough to pass as normal. 

A new life awaited, and it had better not see through my facade to the mess that I really was underneath. 

That would be disastrous.

By seven-thirty, I was standing at the address I'd scribbled down from the nanny ad and my jaw might've as well hit the pavement with the way it dropped.

This wasn't a house… 

This was fucking Versailles!

The estate sprawled beyond was beyond my poor human comprehension. 

High, see-through iron gates—that were more transparent than my last relationship—revealed the manicured gardens beyond. Trees lined a driveway longer than my list of bad decisions. And a fountain… A freaking fountain! Burbled cheerfully near a stone path.

Fair enough, I shrugged. 

Anyone who needed (and could afford) a live-in nanny clearly lived in a different universe from me.

There were surprisingly no guards, and no camera (that I could see). Just a shiny black intercom beside the gate.

I pressed the button.

“Hello?”

A crackle. Then a crisp, clipped voice responded. “State your name and business.”

“Uh… I’m here for the nanny position? Sorry, interview. My name’s—” I gave it. Maya Angelo. My voice trembled slightly though I hoped it sounded steady. I hadn't used my real name in eighteen months. 

At the casino, I'd gone by Cherry.

There was a pause, and then a mechanical click before the huge gates began to swing inward automatically.

Again, amazing.

I stepped in, trying not to gape openly—but man! When I said the gardens were manicured, they'd been trimmed within an inch of their lives. The driveway was lined with white roses on either side, and the huge fucking mansion stood at the end of it all.

This wasn't just wealth. It was intimidating riches.

Where did someone even get such money from without selling their soul—

The front door opened before I could knock. 

An elderly man—with butler vibes to the core— stood there, his posture so straight I felt slouchy by comparison.

“Miss Angelo?”

“That’s me,” I said, smiling brightly. And for once, my smile wasn't fake. 

I was high-key excited to be here.

But then his eyes swept over me once (from my muddy boots to the thrift-store blazer and uneven blouse I'd worn—hoping they looked professional enough) and his lips twitched. In humour or disgust, I didn't know.

“My god, child! You look a fright.”

I blinked. “I… what?”

“You cannot possibly see Mr. Alfredo looking like that.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exaggerated distress. He muttered something under his breath about “standards” and “young people these days.” Then, louder: “At least you’re punctual. There’s some time left before your meeting. Follow me—you can still make yourself presentable.”

I should’ve been offended, but honestly, he was right. I truly looked like someone who’d ironed her clothes with a frying pan.

“Uh… thank you,” I said, trailing after him through an entryway that looked like a museum.

He led me upstairs into a guest room. “Shower,” he instructed, pointing at a door in the corner which must lead to the bathroom. “And when you're done, there are clothes in the wardrobe. One of the former nannies left them behind. Make do.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, I sprinted. Stripping off my clothes in a hurry, I ran into the shower and oh my god, I could cry!

I hadn't had a good bath in months!

The water was hot, endless, washing away my sweat and the persistent glitter from the casino.

 Too bad I couldn't wash away the memories.

By the time I stepped out, I almost felt human again.

And then I went in search of the clothes.

The skirt was about two sizes too small, and the blouse looked like it had been designed for a particularly flat-chested twelve-year-old. 

I wasn't twelve. And I was very far from flat-chested. 

Very far. 

My milkshake brought all the boys (and men) to the yard—well… casino. 

Literally. 

I wasn't sure the clothes would fit properly, (but it was either this or show up naked) so I wrestled myself into them.

I tugged the skirt zipper up over my ass with a prayer that it wouldn't rip and leave me stranded. And when I buttoned the shirt, the fabric strained across my breasts like it was begging for mercy. 

I adjusted my clothes as best I could and stared at myself in the mirror. 

Miraculously, I’d managed to make it work. God (or the universe) must be on my side. 

Just in time, the butler returned.

His eyebrows arched, but to his credit, he didn’t say a word about the way the outfit clung to my body. “Better than before,” he said dryly. “Could be worse. This way.”

I followed him down a hallway that smelled faintly of old books and money. Old fucking mulah, man!

My heart was pounding. 

This was it. 

My shot. 

My chance to start over.

“Mr. Alfredo will see you now,” he announced, pushing open the heavy double doors. Then he handed me a pen. 

Apparently, I'd need it to sign my life away for another couple of months. 

But this time, it was my choice.

The study was vast—all dark wood and sunlight, with bookshelves climbing all the way up to the ceiling. 

I nearly whistled.

Behind a massive oak desk sat a man in a charcoal vest and white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms as he scribbled something onto a document, looking very serious and very (okay, only a little bit…) scary. As fuck.

Hot, damn.

Not to be biased, but this wasn’t what I’d expected when I heard the name “Mr. Alfredo.” 

I’d been picturing a… balding (alright, maybe not so balding—he had a child young enough to need a nanny. Not that that meant much; men like these had affairs all the time, even in their late fifties) stout man with a potbelly or something. Not this… fine specimen of a man—

And then he looked up.

And my blood turned to ice.

Oh my God!

The pen slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. The room blurred. 

It was him.

Of all the people in this godforsaken city…

It was HIM.

I remembered that jawline… 

Those impossibly sharp features, and those magnificently strange eyes… I’d heard of heterochromia before, but I had never actually seen it in person, before him. 

One eye was a startling blue, like a fucking glacier, and the other was a stormy grey, like dark clouds rolling over a horizon.

The contrast was impossible to ignore, making it even harder to look away.

I remembered how those same mismatched eyes had pinned me in place across the dimly lit VIP room at the casino. How they'd dragged every breath from my lungs with just a look.

I remembered everything. And most especially, I remembered HIM. 

My highest-paying client. And the only man I'd…

He can’t know, my mind screamed. He can't! If he realised who I was, this whole thing was ruined from the start. And I desperately needed this job!

Back then, I’d worn several coloured wigs—platinum, gold, red, pink, blue, etc—and a mask. I’d gone by a different name. I’d been careful. In that line of work, you had to be.

But now…

The memories bombarded me all at once.

The low light of the private room (he'd paid for a private show. A LOT. Almost like he was jealous and couldn't bear to share me with anyone else. And well, privacy was certainly needed for the things he made me do)

The way his hands—sure, big, and warm—had slid over my hips, digging into my ass as if he owned every inch of me. And in those moments, when it was just him and me… he did.

The way he’d sat back in that armchair, legs spread, eyes drinking me in as I did very naughty, very inappropriate things to myself at his command.

And those commands… they still sent shivers straight to my core, even in memory.

His voice had been dark and commanding when he told me: “Part your legs, Cherry. Spread them wide for me.”

I had. 

“Good,” he hummed in approval. “Now touch yourself.”

I had too, letting my slick fingers swirl over my swollen bud. When he told me to “fuck yourself with it,” I’d slid one, then two, inside my dripping wet pussy.

Sharp, breathless gasps tore from my throat as he watched (with alarming attention) the way I pleasured myself. He didn't interrupt and he didn't blink. And the way his mismatched eyes followed my every movement made me want to scream. Every nerve in my body was on fire!

“You're doing so well,” he'd praised. And I came. The orgasm (when it'd hit) had been so explosive!

“I love the way you come.”