TOO YOUNG TO BE HIS

Being 17 and working is not easy, but that’s my reality.

I finish making the bed, carefully pressing the pillows against the mattress to align them perfectly. I step back and look at the scene, trying to find any imperfection. There is none. Everything here seems untouched.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt and take a deep breath. The room is huge, much larger than any room in my house. The shiny wooden floor reflects the soft light coming through the huge windows, covered by expensive fabric curtains. The walls are a neutral tone, but the finish is so perfect that even the shadows seem organized.

Luxurious. Cold. Impeccable.

It’s as if this room is more of a set than a space for someone to live in. Even the smell isn’t welcoming. Everything feels freshly cleaned, exhaling that artificial perfume of polished wood and flowers that probably cost more than an entire month’s worth of my wages.

I don’t even know who owns this house.

I only know that he is a very rich, mysterious man who recently moved to the city. And, of course, like any self-respecting millionaire, he hired a huge team to take care of his mansion.

My mom was one of the first to get a job here, always quick when it comes to opportunities that involve money. And, as usual, she dragged me along. “You have to help, it’s the least you can do for everything I’ve done for you,” she told me, as if I had no choice.

And that’s how I ended up here.

I hold the towels against my chest, the soft fabric contrasting with the rough tips of my fingers, worn from work. I take a deep breath and take a step toward the bathroom. The mansion is silent, so silent that even my own breathing seems too loud.

I’m about to take another step when I hear the sound of the bedroom door opening behind me. The click of the doorknob echoes, followed by a soft creak.

For a moment, logic tries to convince me it’s my mom, probably coming in to check if I did the job right – like she always does, ready to criticize or redo anything she deems "poorly done." But there’s something strange. The step I hear crossing the threshold is too heavy, too sure, different from her hurried walk.

Slowly, I turn my head, feeling every muscle in my body scream at me not to move. My peripheral vision first catches a shadow. Tall, imposing.

It’s not my mom.

I sneak into the bathroom, hiding behind the door like a shadow, my heart pounding in my chest. I press the towels against me, as if the fabric could protect me from being noticed.

Through the crack, I see the man enter the room, walking with a confidence that seems to make the floor beneath his feet bow in respect.

He holds the phone close to his ear, but even so, his presence dominates the entire space. Tall, with broad shoulders that fill the perfectly tailored suit, he moves with a calculated elegance. The afternoon light that pours through the windows caresses the line of his strong, defined jaw, highlighting his sparse beard.

My breath nearly stops when he slightly turns his face, revealing deep, attentive eyes, although fixed on the quiet conversation he's having. There's something almost… dangerous about him, an aura of power that doesn’t seem to come just from his impeccable appearance but from the way he occupies the space, as if everything in it – the furniture, the air, and maybe even me – belonged to him.

I should look away, I should move, but I’m stuck, hypnotized.

When he raises his hand to loosen his tie, the movement is slow, deliberate, and it makes my face burn. He seems unaware of my presence, but even so, the feeling of intruding on something deeply intimate is impossible to ignore.

My God.

The owner of the house.

How could it not be?

My heart races; after all, I’m just the girl who makes his bed. He doesn’t even know I exist.

With the phone pressed against his ear, he speaks in a deep, controlled voice. “My business in the city will be brief. I don’t plan to stay more than two months.”

I shrink further behind the door, pressing my body against the wall. My instinct tells me not to look, to remain invisible, but my curiosity is stronger. My heart beats so loudly I fear he might hear it, yet my eyes find a perfect crack.

Through it, I watch as he begins to remove his jacket. The gesture is slow, almost calculated, as if every movement carries the weight of the authority he exudes. His broad shoulders stand out even more as the fabric slides off, revealing the impeccably aligned white shirt beneath.

“I don’t need to worry about him. He’s out of the game, damn it.” His voice fills the room, thick and laden with a threatening tone.

The sound reverberates in my ears, deep, almost cutting, and an involuntary shiver runs down my spine. It’s as if he’s not just talking to someone on the phone but making a declaration to the universe – one that no one would dare question.

Who is “he”?

What is he talking about?

My mind starts to race, but the fear and tension make it hard to organize my thoughts. I can only keep watching, hypnotized, as he carefully places the jacket over a chair, his long, firm fingers adjusting the fabric.

Something about him is both intimidating and… fascinating.

“Meet me in the capital before lunch. We’ll talk about this in person,” he says, his voice firm and without room for argument.

Then, with a decisive motion, he hangs up the phone, and the silence that follows is almost deafening.

My breath becomes shallow, and I force myself not to move, not to make a sound.

But then he stops.