Terms of Submission

Late at Night

Annabelle lay wide awake, glaring at the ceiling like it had all the answers. She sighed deeply, the weight of the day sitting on her chest like a pile of bricks. Starting tomorrow, she wouldn't be heading to the Grand Hayat. Nope. Instead, she'd be stepping into some monster-sized mansion to work for none other than Richard freaking Barton—as his personal maid.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?

She'd let her temper do the talking back at the hotel. The guy had poked her sore spot, and instead of staying calm, she'd blown a fuse and agreed to his ridiculous terms. Now here she was, mentally banging her head against a wall. What really rattled her cage was—how in God's name did Richard Barton know about her past? Her roots in Vegas, her family, her real identity? She hadn't breathed a word to a soul.

Too late now. What was done was done. No use crying over spilled milk.

But sleep? Forget about it.

Every time she shut her eyes, Richard's smug face flashed before her. That damn smirk when she gave in—like he'd just won a bloody jackpot. She rolled over, cursed him under her breath, and called him every name under the sun: arrogant jerk, cold-hearted psycho, overgrown man-child with control issues... Alas, the walls weren't listening.

She heard his voice echo in her mind—

"Alright then, a car will pick you and drive you to my mansion. Be ready at 7 a.m. sharp. Don't forget—I hate being late."

"Seven a.m.?!" she'd practically squeaked. That was an ungodly hour for someone like her, who thought mornings started at ten.

Richard had only arched a brow and growled, "Any problem?"

"No, no problem," she'd muttered like a scared little bunny.

That conversation replayed like a broken record as she jolted upright in bed, eyes flying to the clock on her nightstand.

7:35 a.m.

"Shit!"

She jumped out of bed like it was on fire, her heart doing somersaults. She dashed into the bathroom, brushed her teeth like a maniac, tossed on whatever semi-decent outfit she could grab, and flew out the door. Her hair was still damp when she reached the front gate, only to realize—she was a full 45 minutes late.

She skidded into the sleek black car, panting.

"Miss Hamilton..." Marc greeted, seated inside with an expression that screamed you're in deep trouble.

"Mr. Marc!" Annabelle flashed him her brightest smile, trying to smooth things over. He'd been kind at the hotel—one of the rare angels in a nest of devils.

Marc gave her a long look. "You were supposed to be ready by 7."

Annabelle glanced at her watch, then at him. "It's only 8:10. That's barely... forty-ish minutes late."

Marc sighed like she was a lost cause. "Miss Hamilton, in case you forgot, from today onward, your job is to serve Mr. Barton. As his personal maid."

"I know that!" she chirped.

"Then you should also know your work starts at 7:30 sharp."

"What? Seven-thirty? Who in their right mind wakes up that early?"

"Our boss."

Oh. Right. Our boss.

And just like that, reality hit her like a freight train. She now worked for a man who probably drank stress for breakfast and snacked on other people's misery.

Marc led her into the mansion and introduced her to a few of the staff. The place was massive—grand chandeliers, polished marble floors, and more rooms than she could count.

"Miss Hamilton, this is Lily—our housekeeper. Lily, meet Miss Annabelle Hamilton. Boss's new personal maid," Marc said.

Annabelle caught on the word "new" a little too fast. Did this guy change maids like socks? Or was he just obsessed with punishing people until they snapped?

Before she could dwell on it, a distressed young maid walked in carrying a tray with broken cutlery.

"Aunty Lily, Master Richard didn't like this coffee either..."

Annabelle blinked at the broken porcelain. Who the hell drinks coffee in a shattered cup anyway?

Lily sighed, taking the tray. "I have to make something else. Again."

"What's going on?" Marc asked.

"He's been acting odd since morning. Snapped at everyone, broke two sets of cutlery. It's scary."

Marc nodded knowingly. "Lily, didn't I tell you? He's got a new personal maid now. Miss Hamilton's job is to deal with him. From now on, no one else is allowed to serve him."

What in the actual hell? Annabelle was gobsmacked. Why is this man so extra? Was he just pulling this crap to mess with her head?

But she didn't have time to figure it out. She had a job to keep.

Taking a deep breath, she marched into the kitchen, whipped up a fresh cup of coffee—dark, strong, no sugar, just how the devil liked it—and walked up to his room.

She knocked politely and waited, her heart doing a nervous tango.

"Come in."

She opened the door... and froze.

Richard stood in front of the mirror, towel wrapped low around his hips, hair damp, muscles on full display. The man was built like a Greek god—and unfortunately, he knew it.

He caught her gawking in the mirror and raised a brow. "Something wrong?"

Snapping out of it, she quickly placed the cup on the table. "It's your drink, Mr. Barton."

He turned, looked at the cup, then at her.

"You're late. And where's your uniform?"

Annabelle blinked. Uniform?

She glanced down at her floral dress and then remembered—every other servant wore a black and white outfit. She swallowed hard, nodded, and turned to leave with the tray in hand, grateful he didn't shatter it in her face.

"Wait, Miss Hamilton."

Her feet froze. Her heart skipped.

"I told you—I hate being late. That calls for punishment."

She inhaled sharply, but stood her ground. "I know I was wrong, and I apologized."

He smirked like the devil himself. "Get my breakfast ready by 8:30."

She looked at her watch. 8:15. Crap!

She bolted downstairs like a bat out of hell.

In the kitchen, she was a tornado of motion. Annabelle was no amateur—she was a damn good cook. But when Lily handed her a list of Richard's preferred breakfast items, her jaw dropped. It was like feeding a king and his entire court.

Thankfully, Lily had prepped a few things already.

But the rest? All on her.

She hustled hard, flipped omelets, plated dishes, and set the table with military precision. When she glanced at the wall clock—8:28. Boom. Done.

Two minutes to spare.

She snatched the uniform Lily had left for her and sprinted off to change. The outfit was a tight little number—a black miniskirt, white blouse almost sheer, and fitted like a glove. She grimaced in the mirror. What was she, a maid or a centerfold?

Still, no time to fuss.

She strutted into the dining room just as Richard entered—and his eyes immediately locked on her.

For a second, just a split second, Richard Barton looked like he forgot how to breathe.

Annabelle, meanwhile, was ready to kill someone with her heels.