All Chapters of Forever Always: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The ammonia was suddenly just ammonia again , biting, sterile, and entirely unhelpful. I was kneeling on the marble floor of the conservatory, my hands steady, clearing the last shards of glass from the broken bottle of lemon polish. I felt nauseous, not from the chemical scent, but from the recent, sickening proximity of Ethan Grant. He hadn’t been angry about the mess, which was worse than if he had yelled. Anger would have made him predictable, just like his grandmother. Instead, he had been concerned. He had seen the tremble in my hands and spoken to me like a human being, which was the most dangerous, destabilizing thing a Grant could do. You're shaking. Take a breath. I’d spent weeks building an invisible wall around myself, brick by boring brick , the kind of wall that protected me from the violence outside and the violence inside. With one casual look and one unexpected collision, he’d simply walked right through it. He left soon after, receiving a whispered, urgent phone

The tiny, folded slip of paper , Ethan Grant’s phone number , had become my personal religion. For fourteen agonizing days, it had lived tucked deep inside the stitching of my uniform apron, a burning coal against my skin. Two weeks. I had survived two weeks of perfect silence, two weeks of scrubbing floors and polishing secrets, pretending the warm pressure of his lips on my cheek had been nothing but a fever dream. My rational mind, the part that was still focused on survival, screamed at me to forget the number, to discard the hope. But the part of me that was nineteen, lonely, and desperate to be seen, kept the number safe. Every time I heard an engine on the gravel drive, every time a shadow fell across the hall, I felt the terrifying, electric jolt of anticipation. I hadn’t dared to text him. He was the Grant; he made the moves. I was wiping down the chrome in the enormous, sterile pantry, focusing on the rhythmic friction of the cloth against the metal, when my phone vibrated

I didn't hear from Ethan for three days. Three days of scrubbing surfaces and trying to look invisible while the memory of my crime , the security logs, the fear, his cold "Good" , burned in my mind. The ache from the push was gone, replaced by a constant, nervous tension. I was his accessory now. I waited. The text came not late at night, but in the middle of the Tuesday afternoon, when the household was settled into its rhythm of quiet power. [3:45 PM] Ethan: Indoor pool. Midnight. No clothes. I dropped the dust cloth. The last two words , « No clothes » were a punch to the gut. This wasn't a request for logistics. This was a demand for me, leveraging the fear and the loyalty I had shown him in the Maintenance Room. He was testing the boundaries, seeing just how far my terrified compliance would take me. I sent a single reply [3:47 PM] Sasha: I’ll be there. With clothes. His reply was instantaneous: Wouldn’t dream of you wearing a uniform. See you soon. The indoor pool was a

The sound of the lock clicking in the door of Mrs. Grant's dressing room didn't signal freedom; it signaled the tightening of a noose. I didn't move for several minutes, my back pressed against the wardrobe, the word Chimamanda still ringing in my ears like a death knell. They knew. They hadn't just looked at a file; they had bought the identity I had buried with such agonizing care. The threat wasn't a warning; it was a certainty: I was a fugitive, and Mrs. Grant held the arrest warrant. My hands were still shaking, but I forced myself to retrieve my phone. I had to complete Ethan's mission, even if the intelligence was now tainted by my capture. His blind, arrogant faith in me was my only temporary shield. With stiff, mechanical movements, I sent the photos of the personal ledger keys to him. [10:45 AM] Sasha: [3 photos attached] His reply was instantaneous, celebratory, and devastating in its oblivion. [10:46 AM] Ethan: Perfect. You did it. That's a huge win. You're incredi

I was already dressed in my dark clothes when I left the staff room, my skin still clammy from the nightmare. The memory of the gunshots and the useless phone call felt more real than the polished hallways of the Grant house. I needed to move, to be occupied, to stop being Chimamanda. The pool area was quiet, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the underwater lights. It was still 4:00 AM. Ethan was there, but he wasn't stressed or focused. He was sitting on the tiled edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water, wearing a thick gray hooded sweater. He looked utterly, surprisingly bored. "You came," he said, turning his head toward me. He didn't stand up, didn't move to hide his expression. "You asked me to," I replied, my voice rough. I kept my distance, sitting on one of the cushioned loungers, maintaining the space between master and maid, co-conspirator and handler. He sighed, a long, weary sound that broke the silence. "I know. It's ridiculous. I just... I couldn't slee