Maid In Lace

Sage.

I always imagined the day my mom remarried would feel like a celebration.

It didn’t. It felt like stepping into a world that wasn’t mine, a world too shiny, too perfect, too expensive for a girl who still checks price tags before letting herself buy anything.

The Wolfe mansion was a place built for royalty, not for girls whose boyfriends dumped them in a parking lot because they “weren’t woman enough.”

My chest tightens at the memory, but I push it aside as the front door swings open. A maid takes our bags before I can even protest.

My mom squeezes my hand. “Sage, sweetheart, try to smile. Warren is trying his best to make us feel welcome here, it's our home now.”

Right. Warren Wolfe. My new stepfather. A billionaire, a widower, a man who probably has a personal assistant just to schedule his breaths.

I force a smile as he walks down the marble staircase, all polished shoes and warm, practiced charm.

“There you are,” Warren says with a smile on his face “Welcome home, Sage.”

Before I can respond, my gaze drifts over his shoulder and I freeze.

There is someone standing halfway up the stairs. I met him at the wedding, briefly. 

Andre. My newly acquired stepbrother.

I don’t know what I expected, but definitely not that.

He is leaning against the railing like he owns gravity. He is wearing Dark jeans, a black shirt, with a leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. 

Tattoos crawl up his arm like beautiful vines of sin, disappearing under his sleeves. 

His hair is messy in that effortless way that says he either just woke up or just climbed out of someone’s bed.

But it’s his eyes that do it. They are Cold. Sharp, calculative. 

And for a second, I swear the world stands still.

“That’s my son,” Warren says, oblivious to the fact my soul just left my body. “Andre, come down and meet Sage.”

Andre doesn’t move at first. He just keeps staring at me, like he is dissecting me one layer at a time.

Then slowly, too slowly he pushes off the railing and descends the stairs in what seems like slow motion.

Each step feels like a drumbeat inside my ribs.

When he reaches the bottom, he stands in front of me. Close. Too close. He smells like danger and peppermint and something warm that shouldn’t make my pulse skip.

“Sage,” he says, voice low, deep, rough. “Cute name.”

Cute? No one has ever made that word sound like a threat.

I force myself to speak. “Nice to meet you.”

His eyes drop to my lips. Linger. Then rise again.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You too, little saint.”

Heat floods my face. Does he know? About my ex? About everything? Why would he refer me as little saint? 

No. He couldn’t.

My mom clears her throat, obviously sensing the tension but misreading it completely. “Dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you show Sage her room, Andre so that she can freshen up?”

He lifts a brow, like escorting me anywhere is the last thing he wants to do, or the first.

“Fine,” he mutters.

He turns without waiting for me and starts walking. I hesitate before following him down the long hallway.

“Your dad seems nice,” I say, trying to break the awkward silence between us.

He scoffs. “He is not my dad. He is the guy who signs the checks.”

I swallow hard as we reach a door. He pushes it open.

“This is you,” he says.

I step inside. The room is bigger than our entire old apartment. A chandelier. Balcony. A bed that looks like it could swallow me whole.

“This is too much,” I whisper.

“Get used to it,” Andre replies. “This house is a monster. It eats people like you.”

People like me?

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his tattoos flexing.

“You are soft,” he says. “Too soft for this world. For this house.”

“Soft isn’t bad,” I mutter.

“No,” he says, eyes dragging over me slowly. “It’s not.”

I turn away, pretending to admire the view just to escape the weight of his gaze. I’m not sure why he affects me this way. Why his presence feels like touching a flame I know will burn me.

His voice breaks the silence.

“You got a boyfriend sis?” he asks casually, but the undertone is anything but casual, and the way he said the word sis was just pure sarcasm and mockery. 

My whole body tenses up, “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

Because he said I wasn’t ready to sleep with him. Because he wanted my body before he wanted my heart. Because he chose convenience over me.

But I can’t say that. Not to this boy who looks like he’s lived a thousand lives and broken hearts in each one.

“He just wasn’t” I sigh. “Right.”

Andre hums in a way that feels like he knows the real reason.

He steps closer. Too close. His hand brushes mine by accident or on purpose. I can’t tell. His jaw tightens, his eyes sharpening into something dark, dangerous. And then he is gone, leaving me standing there confused on everything that just happened.