Chapter 1: THE MAID WHO DIDN'T KNOCK

The gates were not gates. They were a warning.

Mira stood in front of them with her small bag clutched to her chest and her one good shoe pinching her left toe, and she stared. Black iron, at least twelve feet tall, with spikes on top that looked like they had actually stabbed someone before. Behind it was a house that should not be called a house. It was a white monster. Too big, too quiet, too clean.

She was going to be late. She was already sweating.

"Mira Josephine Alade, if you lose this job, your mother will die and it will be your fault."

She said it out loud to herself. It was the kind of motivation that worked.

The security man at the gate looked her up and down. He was twice her size, with a gun that was not even hidden.

"Name."

"Mira. Mira Alade. For housekeeper interview. I was called by Mrs. Benson."

He didn't move. He pressed something on his earpiece.

"A short girl. Mismatched socks. Says she's the new maid."

Mira looked down. Fuck. She really had worn mismatched socks. One blue, one yellow. In her rush that morning she had grabbed whatever.

"My socks are fashionable," she muttered.

The gate made a heavy sound and opened just enough for her to squeeze through. She squeezed.

The walk from the gate to the main door was longer than her entire street. The compound was too perfect. No leaf out of place. No sound. It felt like the kind of place where if you sneezed too loud, someone would shoot you for disturbing the peace.

Her phone buzzed. Hospital.

She picked up fast. "Hello? Yes ma, yes I'm on my way to the job now. Yes. No, we will pay before Friday, I promise. Please don't remove her drugs. Please."

Her mother's nurse sighed on the other end. "Mira, the bill is 180k now. You said last week."

"I know. I will get it. Today is my first day. Please."

She hung up and swallowed hard. Her eyes were hot but she refused to cry. Not here. Crying would make her mascara run and she only had one cheap one.

She reached the massive white door and knocked. No answer. She knocked again, harder. Still nothing. She was about to knock a third time when the door opened on its own. Just... opened.

Wealthy people were weird.

"Hello?" she called into the cold. "Mrs. Benson?"

No one answered. The foyer was all marble and glass and cold air conditioning that hit her sweaty face like a slap. It smelled like expensive wood and something cold. Like a man who takes his bath with ice.

"Hellooo? Anybody? I don't want to enter and they will say I stole spoon."

Silence.

She took one small step inside. Then another. Her rubber shoe squeaked.

"Mrs. Benson, I am inside ooo, I am not a thief ooo," she announced, because she had watched enough Nollywood to know how maids get accused.

She heard a low voice from somewhere upstairs. Deep, annoyed.

"Benson, I said I don't want anyone in my wing. Get them out."

Mira froze. That voice. It didn't sound like a human voice that says "good morning." It sounded like a voice that says "bury him."

Then Mrs. Benson appeared from a side door, a plump woman in uniform, looking panicked.

"Oh my God, you are here. You entered? Did you touch anything?"

"No ma. Just air."

"Come, come quickly, before he sees you. Mr. Hudson hates noise. And latecomers. And people."

Mira followed her quickly through a side hallway. "Mr. Hudson is the owner?"

"The owner of everything you can see and cannot see. Listen to me, Mira. This job pays 300k per month. That's why everyone wants it and everyone runs from it. There are ten rules."

"Ten? In the Bible it's also ten. Okay."

"Rule one. Never, ever enter the East Wing. That is Mr. Hudson's private wing. No cleaner enters. No one. Not even his girlfriend. If you enter, you will be fired that same second."

"Even to clean?"

"Even to breathe near it. Rule two. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. Rule three. He drinks black coffee, no sugar, 7am sharp. If it's 7:01, throw it away and don't bring it. Rule four..."

Mira was trying to remember but her brain was stuck on 300k per month. With that, she could pay the hospital, pay her rent, and even buy meat. Actual meat.

"Rule ten. If you hear gunshots from the back room, continue mopping. It's just business meeting."

Mira stopped walking. "Sorry, gunshots?"

Mrs. Benson looked at her like she was stupid. "You will get used to it."

They reached the kitchen. It was bigger than Mira's entire house. And there, standing by the island, with his back to them, was a man.

He was tall. Insanely tall. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, showing veins on his arms that should be illegal. His hair was dark and slightly wet, as if he had just showered. He hadn't turned, but the whole kitchen felt smaller because he was in it.

Mrs. Benson's voice became tiny. "Mr. Hudson. The new housekeeper is here. Mira Alade."

He didn't turn. He was looking at his phone. "I said no."

"Sir, the agency—"

"I said I don't want a new one. They steal. They talk."

Mira, who was supposed to not speak unless spoken to, spoke.

"Wow."

Both heads turned. Mrs. Benson looked like she wanted to die. The man finally turned.

And Mira forgot how to breathe for two seconds.

Daniel Hudson was not handsome. Handsome was too small a word. He was the kind of beautiful that was almost painful to look at. Sharp jaw, cold grey eyes, lips pressed in a permanent frown. But those eyes. They were dead. Like he was looking at you and also looking through you to something worse.

He stared at her. At her too-small uniform that Mrs. Benson had just thrown at her, at her blue and yellow socks, at her sweaty forehead.

"Who said you could speak?" His voice was low and calm. That made it scarier.

Mira's mouth, which had never learned obedience, opened on its own.

"You did. You said they talk. I thought you were inviting me to prove you right."

Silence. The kind of silence that comes before someone gets fired or killed.

Mrs. Benson gasped. "Mira!"

Daniel took a step closer. He was so tall she had to crane her neck. He smelled like cold cologne and something smoky.

"What's your name?"

"Mira."

"Mira what?"

"Mira Alade. I have three names but my mother only calls me Mira when she is not angry."

He kept staring. She stared back. She didn't know why. Maybe because if she looked away, she would look guilty. And she had not stolen anything yet.

"You wear mismatched socks to a job interview," he said.

"You have a frown that looks like someone died ten years ago and you never got over it. We all have our things."

Mrs. Benson made a choking sound.

Daniel's eyes narrowed. Just a tiny bit. Then, something strange happened. The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was the ghost of a smile that forgot how to form.

"You're fired," he said.

Mira's heart dropped into her stomach.

"But you haven't hired me," she blurted.

"Now I've fired you. Leave."

Her eyes filled up before she could stop it. All she could see was the hospital bill. Her mother's thin face. The landlord banging.

"Please," she said, her voice suddenly small. Not funny anymore. Just small and desperate. "Please sir. I need this job. My mother is in the hospital. I don't have any other place. I will be invisible. You will not even know I am here. I can be so quiet, you will think I am a ghost. A very good cleaning ghost with mismatched socks."

She was not proud of begging. But pride doesn't pay hospital bills.

Daniel looked at her for a long time. At the tears she was holding back. At her hands shaking around her bag.

Mrs. Benson whispered, "Sir, her background check is clean. And she... she doesn't scare easily. The last three ran when they saw Axel's guns."

He turned away again, as if she had already ceased to exist.

"She stays out of the East Wing. If I see her there, she leaves. If she talks too much, she leaves. If she steals, I will—"

"I don't steal, sir. I only steal food when I'm hungry, and I brought my own Gala," Mira said quickly, wiping her eyes.

He paused. Then he walked out of the kitchen without another word. Just like that. Cold. Done.

When his footsteps disappeared, Mrs. Benson exhaled like she had been holding her breath for a year.

"Are you mad? Are you completely mad? No one talks to him like that!"

"He started it," Mira whispered.

"He is Daniel Hudson! He owns half of Lagos and the other half is scared of him! His girlfriend is in a gang and she doesn't even talk to him like that!"

Mira sniffed and adjusted her socks. "Well, his girlfriend should try it. Maybe he will smile."

Mrs. Benson stared at her, then burst out laughing despite herself.

"Oh, you are going to die here. Come, let me show you where you will sleep."

The staff quarters were still better than Mira's house. Small, clean, with a bed and fan. Mira sat on it and finally allowed herself to cry for one minute. Just one. Then she stood up, tied her hair, wore her apron, and went to mop.

She was going to be the best ghost maid ever.

---

By 6pm, she had mopped the entire West Wing, cleaned three bathrooms that were bigger than her church, and learned that Axel, the guy with the tattoo on his neck, likes extra sugar in his tea and Jace, the quiet one, never says thank you.

She was exhausted. And she was starving.

She went back to the kitchen to drink water and she saw it — a tray. Black coffee. No sugar. On it was a small note: "7AM SHARP. EAST WING ENTRANCE. DO NOT ENTER. JUST PLACE."

She checked the time. 6:58pm. That must be for tomorrow morning. She kept it in mind.

She was about to leave when she heard a cockroach. She HATES cockroaches. It ran fast, from under the fridge, straight toward the dark hallway.

The East Wing hallway.

"No, no, no, you demon, don't go there!" she whispered, chasing it.

The cockroach ran. Mira ran. She didn't think. She was holding her slippers like a weapon.

"Come back here, you have chosen the wrong house to live rent-free!"

She chased it past the invisible line. Past the marble that turned darker. Past the air that turned colder. She didn't notice the hallway had no cameras, no decoration. Just one massive black door at the end.

The cockroach disappeared under that door.

Mira stopped right in front of it, panting, slippers raised.

That door. It was different. It had a fingerprint lock. And it was slightly open.

Just a crack. Just enough to see darkness inside.

Her brain screamed: RULE ONE. EAST WING. DO NOT ENTER.

But her mouth said: "If that cockroach enters his precious room, he will blame me."

She reached out, with one finger, to push the door open just a little more to see where the cockroach went.

And behind her, a voice that was ice and fury said,

"What are you doing in front of my room?"

Mira froze. Slippers still in the air. Socks mismatched. Caught.

She turned slowly.

Daniel Hudson was standing there. Fresh from the shower again, hair wet, wearing only low black sweatpants and no shirt. Water dripping down his chest, his abs, his tattoos. And his grey eyes were not dead anymore. They were burning.

And behind him, walking into the hallway with a gun in her designer bag, was Sienna — his girlfriend. And she had just seen Mira, standing at the forbidden door, looking at her boyfriend half-naked.

Sienna smiled. And it was the most dangerous smile Mira had ever seen.

"Well," Sienna said, cocking her gun. "Who is this little rat?"