Fabricated Shame

Classic Eggs Benedict, English scrambled eggs with spinach and bacon, toast, almond milk cappuccino, waffles served with maple syrup and honey, and chilled apple juice.

When Richard walked into the dining room, his sharp eyes quickly scanned the spread. For a moment, the ever-composed billionaire paused. Everything—each item he'd listed earlier—was already perfectly prepared and plated. It was exactly to his taste. He wouldn't say it aloud, of course. Compliments weren't his thing. In his world, doing your job wasn't praise-worthy—it was expected.

Still, he couldn't ignore the fact that the new girl, Annabelle Hamilton, had pulled it off.

But where the hell was she?

His brow furrowed. Being his personal maid meant being present at the table when he ate, anticipating his every move. Was she already slacking?

Just as he prepared a punishment in his mind for her absence, she walked in.

And the moment Richard Barton saw her, his steps faltered.

Annabelle was dressed in the maid's uniform—technically. But this version clung to her like a second skin, hugging every inch of her body. The black miniskirt barely brushed her thighs, and the white blouse was nearly sheer. Her ponytail was neat, but a few strands of hair had rebelliously escaped and curled around her flushed cheeks.

His jaw clenched. He dragged his eyes up and down her body once, twice. The air in the room turned heavier.

Annabelle noticed. The way he looked at her sent a shiver racing down her spine, as though invisible fingers were crawling across her skin.

For a second—just a second—Richard forgot everything. His rules, his hatred, his intentions.

And then reality hit him like a cold slap.

She's just trying to seduce you. Like all of them. She's no different. No matter how innocent those eyes look.

He balled his fists, slammed them down on the table with a deafening thud, then stormed out of the dining room without touching a single dish.

Marc shot Annabelle a look of pity before following his boss.

Annabelle stood frozen, her lips parted, baffled and insulted.

"What the hell just happened?" she whispered to herself.

Meanwhile, in the car, Richard was stewing. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.

"Boss, we're here," Marc said quietly, pulling up outside an old building on the outskirts.

Richard blinked, looked around, and snapped, "Why the hell are we here? I told you to drive me to the hotel."

"Boss, it's Friday," Marc reminded him gently.

Richard cursed under his breath and slammed the car door as he got out.

Marc, walking behind him, dared to speak. "Maybe Miss Hamilton didn't mean to wear such a tight uniform. Could've been a mistake."

Richard halted for a second, gave Marc a sidelong glare, then walked away.

Marc sighed as he leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded.

What's with the boss today? he wondered. Didn't even glance at me—let alone scold me—and I was clearly defending Miss Hamilton. That's not like him.

Richard Barton was infamous for his razor-sharp judgments, especially toward women he believed used their looks to bait wealthy men. Yet, today? Silence.

Meanwhile, Annabelle stood stiffly by the dining table, stunned.

He hadn't touched a single dish.

Her hands ached from hours of chopping, stirring, and carrying heavy trays. Her legs felt like lead from running around the kitchen nonstop—and it had all been ignored.

"He wanted a grand feast gave me barely enough time to breathe, and now he didn't even glance at it," she muttered under her breath, biting back the sting of humiliation. Her jaw tightened. "What a waste... people out there starve for a single meal, and this man doesn't even bother to taste what he asked for."

Swallowing her frustration, she began collecting the untouched dishes, one after the other, trying to calm herself. But the whispers around her only added fuel to the fire. The servants were eyeing her—whispering, smirking, and not even attempting to hide it.She was already feeling vulnerable in this ridiculous, vulgar uniform that barely covered her thighs—and their stares were slicing into her skin like razors.  

Gritting her teeth, she stormed back into the kitchen. Lily followed, noticing the tremble in her hands as she set down the trays. 

 "Lily," Annabelle said through clenched teeth. "Why the hell is Mr. Barton like this? He didn't eat, he didn't speak, and yet he glares at people like he owns their soul." 

 Lily gave her a gentle look but didn't respond immediately. 

Annabelle wasn't done. "And what's with the judgemental attitude, huh? I heard he can't stand women in short or revealing clothes. Thinks they all dress up to get into some rich man's bed. That's outrageously weird!"The venom in her tone was impossible to miss.

Her voice cracked slightly, but she steadied herself.

"I took this job because I had no choice. That doesn't give anyone the right to look down on me. And this stupid outfit? His staff gave it to me—probably on his orders."

Lily finally spoke, her voice soft. "He has his reasons, child. Every coin has two sides. He's not an easy man to understand, but life has made him the way he is."

Annabelle blinked.

"I've worked here fifteen years," Lily continued. "There's pain behind that pride. A past behind that prejudice."

In just a few words, Lily gave her a glimpse into the man Richard Barton used to be—the boy who had been wronged, betrayed, and shaped by cruelty.  

Annabelle's shoulders loosened. The anger hadn't vanished, but something in her shifted.

Still, she told herself firmly, Whatever demons he carries, they're his burden. I'm here to work—not to pity, and I definitely won't be judged for things I didn't choose."

Just then, Lily's eyes dropped to Annabelle's uniform again—and she frowned.

"But I'm surprised you got that version of the uniform. Miss Julia usually handles the distribution, and she wouldn't dare mess up with the boss's personal maid. Unless..."

The implication hit Annabelle like a freight train. Of course. Julia.

That conniving little witch.

Julia was the one who'd set her up to be humiliated. First the fall, now the revealing outfit. It was too perfect.

Anger simmered in Annabelle's veins. But she wasn't going to take this lying down.

Back at the office, Richard had settled behind his massive mahogany desk.

"Marc, call Julia in," he ordered, his voice like frost.

Marc nodded, instantly catching the change in his boss's mood.

Julia, meanwhile, was preening in her office. She'd been assuming Richard was running late as always. When she heard he was in, she booted out her colleague, fixed her lipstick, and adjusted her blouse before sauntering confidently toward Richard's suite.

"Richard, are you looking for me?"

She walked to his chair and asked in a soft, submissive voice.

Richard was well aware—like many other female staff, Julia too harbored feelings for him. But she'd never crossed the line, which is why he'd kept her around.

Julia, however, had built an entire fantasy around him. She truly believed he had feelings for her and that one day, he'd confess.

Everything had been perfect in her little world—until Richard asked her to plot against Annabelle.

And she had obeyed. Tripping Annabelle, making her fall on him—every bit of it was Julia's doing.