The morning after

The first thing Maya felt was ache. A deep, lingering soreness that reminded her of every moment from the night before. Her body, usually light and quick for chores, felt heavier, tethered by memory.

She lay tangled in silk sheets, the scent of Lucien still clinging to them, dark, masculine, impossible to ignore. Sunlight bled faintly through the heavy curtains, casting a pale glow across his profile. Lucien slept beside her, his arm draped with quiet possession over her waist, his breathing slow and steady.

Her heart leapt. The reality of it crashed over her like cold water. She had let herself be consumed by him, swept into a storm that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Slowly, carefully, she shifted out from under his arm, the weight of it an iron band that she both longed for and feared. He stirred, muttering something unintelligible, his brow furrowing briefly before smoothing again.

Barefoot, she padded across the carpet, gathering the remnants of her dress where it had been discarded. The fabric was torn at the seams, useless now. It felt like evidence, evidence of a mistake that could never be undone.

In the bathroom, she scrubbed quickly, hands trembling as she tried to wash away the traces of him. But no matter how hard she pressed the cloth against her skin, the feel of him lingered. The memory of his voice, the way he had said her name, it clung to her like smoke.

By the time she slipped out of the room, dressed in borrowed clothes from the wardrobe, her pulse was hammering. She didn’t look back.

The mansion was hushed in the early hour, the kind of silence that carried weight. Servants moved softly, instinctively avoiding the master’s wing as though they could sense the storm lingering there.

Maya kept her head down as she returned to her usual post in the kitchen. Her hands, however, betrayed her. They trembled when she set plates on the counter, clattered slightly when she arranged silverware. Every creak of a floorboard made her think Lucien was behind her. Every shifting shadow made her throat dry.

One of the younger maids, a girl with a playful grin, noticed her pallor. “Late night?” she teased softly, voice pitched low so Mrs. Carbone wouldn’t hear.

Maya’s cheeks burned hot. She shook her head quickly, whispering, “No, just tired.”

The girl smirked knowingly, but Mrs. Carbone’s sharp voice cut through the air before the conversation could deepen. “Less talking, more working.”

Still, when Maya dared a glance at the older woman, she caught the flicker of suspicion in her eyes. Mrs. Carbone always noticed things. Too much.

Maya lowered her gaze again, forcing herself to focus on her tasks. But inside, she wasn’t only afraid of discovery. She was afraid of facing Lucien again, of what he might say. Or worse, what he might not say.

Elsewhere in the mansion, Georgia’s heels clicked with sharp impatience across marble. She had arrived before dawn, draped in crimson silk, claiming urgency in matters concerning Lucien’s business. But urgency wasn’t what fueled her. It was the gnawing unease of not finding him where she expected him to be.

The guard outside his quarters shifted uncomfortably as she stopped in front of the door.

“He isn’t in?” she asked, her tone edged with disbelief.

The guard hesitated, his gaze darting to the floor. “He… didn’t return to his room last night.”

Georgia’s eyes narrowed. A smile tugged at her lips, but it wasn’t warm. “Interesting.”

She smoothed the folds of her dress with deliberate grace, masking the calculation whirring in her mind. Where had he been, if not here? And with whom?

Her gaze lingered on the closed door as though it might yield answers if she stared long enough. Her blood simmered with equal parts jealousy and fury.

By the time she turned away, her heels clicking like gunfire against the polished floor, her thoughts had hardened into resolve. Something had shifted, and she intended to dig until she unearthed it.

Back in the kitchen, Maya balanced a tray laden with coffee, bread, and fruit, her hands aching with the effort to keep it steady. Her thoughts tangled, images of Lucien’s touch clashing violently with the knowledge that she was nothing more than a servant in his house.

She froze at the threshold of the dining room. Lucien was already there, seated at the head of the long oak table, his dark suit immaculate, his expression carved in stone.

Her breath faltered. The tray rattled before she managed to steady it, lowering her eyes instantly. “Breakfast, sir,” she murmured, her voice soft but taut.

The silence stretched, sharp and suffocating. His eyes never left her, following each of her movements as if cataloging them. Only when she set the tray down and stepped back did he finally raise his coffee cup.

He sipped slowly, deliberately. Then his voice cut across the quiet, smooth but edged like a blade.

“Late night, Santoro?”

The question landed heavy in the air, casual in phrasing but weighted with dangerous intent.

Maya’s chest tightened. She gripped her apron, fighting to keep her face neutral.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, though her voice betrayed her with the slightest tremor.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened, lingering on her as though he could strip the truth from her skin. The air between them grew taut, humming with unspoken knowledge.

Maya lowered her head further, praying her legs would hold her steady and hurriedly walked away, vowing to avoid him for as long as possible.