The Billionaire's Contract Maid

AMBER HART POV

My bank account balance was $4.12.

I stared at the glowing screen of the ATM, hoping that if I blinked hard enough, a few extra zeros would magically appear. They didn’t. Instead, the machine spat my card back out with a mechanical beep that felt like a mockery.

"Come on," I whispered, rubbing my temples. "Just my luck."

As if on cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Mark. Well, my ex-fiancé Mark.

Mark: I packed your things. They’re by the curb. Don’t come back to the apartment. Chloe and I need our space.

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Two years. I had spent two years working double shifts to help him pay off his car loan, believing we were building a future together. And how did he repay me? By sleeping with my landlord’s daughter and kicking me out of the place I technically paid half the rent for. Since my name wasn't on the lease, the police told me there was nothing they could do when I called them an hour ago.

I pulled my threadbare jacket tighter around my shoulders to block the biting wind. I had no money, no place to stay, and by tomorrow morning, I wouldn't even have a job. The diner where I worked was shutting down permanently.

I was officially homeless, penniless, and completely screwed.

Think, Amber. Think. I couldn't call my parents; they were barely scraping by in Ohio, and sending money home was the whole reason I moved to the city in the first place. I refused to be another burden to them.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Mark. It was Mrs. Gable, an elderly regular from the diner who had always been kind to me.

Mrs. Gable: Amber, dear. I heard about the diner closing. Are you still looking for emergency work? A close friend of mine desperately needs a stay-in housekeeper for her grandson. The pay is ten thousand dollars a month, but the turnover rate is high. Are you interested?

Ten thousand dollars.

My heart hammered against my ribs. That kind of money could clear my remaining debts and get me a decent apartment in three months. I didn't care if the boss was a tyrant or if the job was grueling. I needed a roof over my head tonight.

Amber: Yes, Mrs. Gable. Please. I’ll take it.

An hour later, an address was sent to my phone, along with a note saying the employer was expecting me immediately. I dragged my two heavy suitcases from the curb of my old apartment, hailed a cab with the last few dollars of cash I had left, and gave the driver the destination.

When the cab finally pulled up to the gates, my jaw dropped.

It wasn't just a house. It was a massive, sprawling estate hidden behind high stone walls and wrought-iron gates. The mansion looked cold, towering darkly against the night sky. The security guard at the gate checked my name against a tablet, nodded grimly, and pointed me toward the service entrance.

An older woman in a neat grey uniform met me at the door. Her face was lined with exhaustion. "Amber Hart?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I’m Martha, the head house manager," she said, waving me inside. "You’re lucky you arrived tonight. The last girl quit three hours ago after throwing a vase at the wall. Follow me. I’ll show you where to put your things, and then you need to prep the master suite."

"The previous girl threw a vase?" I asked, struggling to keep up with her brisk pace down the long, polished hallway.

"Mr. Smith has zero tolerance for incompetence, clutter, or noise," Martha explained, not looking back. "He’s a businessman. He works eighteen hours a day, and when he is home, he expects absolute perfection. Do your job, keep your head down, and never speak to him unless spoken to."

"Understood," I murmured.

After dropping my bags in a small but clean staff room on the first floor, Martha handed me a basket of fresh linens and a checklist. "The master suite is on the third floor. He’ll be home in thirty minutes. Make sure the bed is turned down, the temperature is set to exactly sixty-eight degrees, and his espresso machine is pre-heated."

I took a deep breath and headed upstairs. The third floor was even quieter than the rest of the house. The floors were dark hardwood, the walls a minimalist slate grey. It felt less like a home and more like a high-end luxury hotel.

I walked into the master bedroom. It was massive, dominated by a king-sized bed with a leather headboard. I immediately went to work, stripping the old sheets and smoothing out the new ones, making sure there wasn't a single wrinkle. I checked the thermostat. Sixty-eight degrees. Perfect.

Then, I walked into the adjacent private study to check the espresso machine. It was a sleek, complicated piece of Italian machinery. I pressed the power button, watching the digital screen light up as it started heating.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the bedroom clicked open.

My muscles locked. A heavy, commanding aura instantly filled the space. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.

I peeked through the frosted glass door of the study.

A tall man stepped into the bedroom, unbuttoning his dark suit jacket. He tossed it onto a nearby chair with a practiced, fluid motion. He was incredibly handsome, with a sharp, angular jawline, dark hair styled back, and eyes that looked like cold glass. But there was a harshness to his features, a permanent scowl that warned everyone to stay away.

This was Kalix Jace Smith. The billionaire CEO of Smith Industries, and my new boss.

He loosened his tie, his movements tense and impatient. He looked exhausted, but his posture remained rigid. He walked over to his desk, picking up a stack of documents, and began flipping through them.

I realized I was holding my breath. I needed to slip out quietly without bothering him, just like Martha said.

Carefully, I stepped out of the study, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor. I gripped the empty laundry basket tightly against my chest, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. I took one step, then another, moving toward the main exit.

Then, my foot caught the edge of a thick plush rug.

I stumbled forward. The laundry basket slipped from my grip, clattering loudly against a modern metal floor lamp. The lamp wobbled violently before crashing down onto the hardwood floor with a deafening bang.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. Slowly, I raised my eyes.

Kalix Jace Smith was staring directly at me. His dark eyes narrowed into slits, his expression twisting into pure, icy annoyance. He put the documents down on the desk, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Who the hell are you?" Kalix asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut right through me.