Chapter 13
KATIE
My first day as a maid in Roan’s house is surreal in the worst possible way.
After he leaves me alone on the kitchen counter, I spend several minutes just sitting there, chest heaving as I try to process what the hell just happened.
My tingling lips, painfully hard nipples, and thoroughly soaked panties damning testament to just how catastrophically bad an idea moving into his house really was.
It’s only day one. Day one. And we already came this close to fucking.
Shit, shit, shit.
I clumsily fix my bra and tug my shirt back on, tying my apron with fingers that won’t stop trembling.
You’re mine now, Katina.
Say it.
I shudder, my core clenching as the ghost of his demand washes over me. I would have said it too—my tongue was already rising to obey, to give him what he wanted—if not for the name he called me.
Katina.
Why? Why would he call me that?
Heart still thundering, I slide down from the countertop. My knees immediately buckle, legs shaking so badly I have to grab the edge to keep standing.
What is wrong with me? I’m not some blushing virgin, so why the hell is a makeout session—a very cliché kitchen-counter makeout session, no less—reducing me to this trembling mess?
Once my legs stop their rebellion, I push away from the counter and leave the kitchen without looking back, even though I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, his mouth on my breasts....
How am I ever going to clean in there without getting flashbacks of Roan all over me?
Focus. I need to focus. I rub my temples as I wander aimlessly through the living area, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
The place is spotless, so there isn’t even any actual work to distract me from spiraling.
I make my way to the back of the hallway where the staircase leads upward, my mind still churning with dangerous questions.
Did Roan find something on me? I knew he’d try to investigate me after seeing how I beat Frederik’s ass, but I didn’t think he’d actually find anything.
There’s no way his decision to start calling me Katina is random. Not when it’s so close to my real name.
Is there?
The stairs open onto a spacious lounge area with floor-to-ceiling windows that mirror the ones downstairs, sleek black railings lining the edge, and a stunning black chandelier hanging over a cluster of soft-looking ottomans.
The whole space is gorgeous, and offers a perfect view of everything below—the front door and the living area.
That’s how he saw me come in earlier.
On the other side is another hallway with multiple doors. Bedrooms, probably. And stuck to one of the doors is a note: Katina’s room.
There it is again. That name.
I swallow hard, reminded of my conundrum. Does he know my real identity? My hand trembles as I peel off the note.
No, no way.
If he knew, I wouldn’t be here playing house. I would be in the frigorifer or some basement torture chamber.
That thought makes me relax a bit. It was probably just a lucky guess on his part—he has never hidden his distaste for the name Mia, so he invented an alternative.
Right. That’s all it is.
I nod to myself, trying to believe it. If I continue making a big deal out of him calling me Katina, it might actually lead to him becoming suspicious. Better to just accept it and move on.
I open the door to my assigned bedroom and immediately gasp.
Oh. My. God.
I’m not exactly poor—and Emily’s apartment that I shared with her in Manhattan wasn’t cheap—but this room exists on an entirely different tier. Soft, elegant grey walls wrap around the space, and polished marble glimmers under the light like it’s trying to impress me.
That huge floor-to-ceiling window I’m starting to recognize as a signature feature of this house makes the replica of the late Hana Permeti’s garden feel impossibly close.
For a beat, it’s like the whole scene has stepped forward into the room, more photograph than view, and I’m caught staring straight into it.
A queen-sized bed anchors one wall, dressed with white and black pillows and a white-and-dark-blue comforter, all perfectly arranged below an abstract painting in matching shades.
The shaggy rug at its foot spreads out in a soft, inviting cloud, and my toes actually itch to test it.
Nightstands flank the bed, each crowned with a small art deco lamp that fits the whole clean, intentional vibe of the room.
Directly across, a dark grey ottoman mirrors the frame seamlessly, and near the door, a compact desk with its own lamp completes the space.
As I step inside, I kick off my shoes, not wanting to track dirt across the gorgeous rug.
The second my toes sink into its softness, a quiet sigh escapes me, and I let myself enjoy the feeling for a moment before drifting towards that massive window.
Up close, it’s obvious this room has the first-class view on the garden, the kind of vantage point you only get if someone planned every line of this house with intent.
Roan must have calculated the angles carefully, making sure every bedroom had at least some slice of this place to look out on.
The thought sends a stupid little pinch through my chest. He’s lucky—he has something to remind him of his deceased mom.
I have nothing to remember my parents by. Nothing but Kayla.
The pinch fades as reality settles back in, and I step away from the window, reminded of my purpose here. My attraction to Roan aside, maybe living in his home isn’t the worst thing. I could find the information Kayla’s captor needs faster with unrestricted access twenty–four/seven.
Curiosity nudges me towards the rest of the room, and I spot two doors. One opens into a nice medium-sized bathroom, the other into a small walk-in closet that’s more than enough for the few things I own.
Satisfied, I leave the bedroom and head back downstairs with renewed purpose.
It’s time to start snooping, under the guise of cleaning.
I make my way to the small closet by the front door I noticed earlier, and sure enough, it’s fully stocked with cleaning supplies: vacuum cleaner, broom, mops, bleach, soap, everything a professional maid might need.
Except there’s nothing to clean.
I run a hand down my apron and select the vacuum first. I’m still shoeless and haven’t felt any grit through my socks, so I’m confident the place is clean.
Which is surprising, considering no cleaners have been allowed in here before.
So Roan’s really been handling all of this himself. And hell, that revelation actually throws me.
A flicker of intrigue winds through me as I try to figure out what kind of man does that. I don’t know anyone in his position who would bother cleaning when he has maids at his disposal—unless he’s hiding something he doesn’t want others to discover.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
My heart rate picks up with anticipation as I start the vacuum and begin methodically working through the living area. I turn off the chandelier—the natural light coming in from those massive windows more than enough—and that’s when a glint of white catches my eye.
What the—
My lips part in shock when I spot the tiny camera tucked right beside the chandelier. The clever placement means no one would ever notice it with the light on. I go still, a cold ripple sliding through me as I wonder where else there might be cameras.
I force myself to keep vacuuming casually, but now I’m hyperaware, cataloging every corner, every angle.
I drift into the kitchen like nothing’s wrong—studiously avoiding even glancing at the counter where I fell apart in his arms—and immediately spot two cameras positioned at different angles.
Back in the living room, two more cover nearly every inch of the space.
And upstairs it’s the same story: several cameras, careful placements, overlapping views.
What the hell? Even the main mansion doesn’t have this level of monitoring. Did he install all these before moving in, or did he add them specifically because I’d be living here?
Either way, this changes everything.
My heart pounds, every emotion I have tripping over itself. There’s absolutely no way I can snoop around without being caught on camera. Which also means I can no longer sneak out at night without him knowing.
Fuck.
The walls start closing in on me as I start to hyperventilate. I can’t do this. Can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.
Shaking, I switch off the vacuum and bolt upstairs to my room, slipping on my sneakers before racing back down and out the door, slamming it behind me.
I jog along the path without looking back, making a beeline straight for the main mansion. Just as I burst inside, Afrim steps out from the hallway leading to his office.
He takes in my disheveled appearance with a small frown. “Mia, what are you doing here?”
Desperation takes over, and my hand shoots out to grab his. “Can I come back here? Roan’s house is spotless—there’s literally nothing for me to do. I want to move back.”
Please. Please let me come back.
Afrim turns my hand in his, patting the back of it in that paternal way of his. “That’s our Roan. Did you know I never had to nag him to clean his room when he was a young boy? He likes his things in place and clean. You’ll enjoy working there.”
No. No, that’s not the answer I need.
I gulp, realizing he’s not going to let me come back here. Quick, switch tactics. “Then I can go from the maids’ quarters. I don’t need to actually live in his house. I can clean it perfectly well from my old room.”
“Mia,” Afrim’s frown deepens. “Did something happen?”
My cheeks burn when I think about what actually happened—the thing I should be worried about but my body definitely isn’t complaining. I slip my hand out of Afrim’s and take a step back. “No, nothing happened. I–I just don’t like sudden changes like this.”
“You’ll get used to it in no time, you’ll see.” He smiles at me, warm and reassuring and completely unhelpful.
That’s the thing—I don’t want to get used to it. I can’t.
A feeling of crushing helplessness weighs on my shoulders like physical chains. When Kayla’s captor reaches out demanding results, what will I have to show? Still nothing. Still no new leads on her location either.
And what do I have? Just footage of me vacuuming… and making out with my target.
Frustrated tears sting behind my eyelids, and the same old question claws its way up my throat. Why can’t I get anything right?
“You know,” Afrim says thoughtfully, “if there’s really nothing for you to clean, you could try cooking. That’s the one thing Roan doesn’t do himself. He just comes here to eat my food.” He winks before walking away, clearly considering the matter settled.
Cooking… right. Because that’s totally what I should be focused on.
I drag myself back to my prison where I lock myself in my assigned room for the rest of the day, defeated and utterly convinced that Roan has somehow found out I’m not who I claim to be. That this is his way of punishing me, of trying to squeeze information out of me.
If so, he couldn’t have designed a more effective torture—constant surveillance, forced proximity, and that damn attraction that makes me forget every rule I’ve ever learned about undercover work.
You’re so screwed, Katie. In every possible way.
Time crawls, my room gradually darkening as the sun sets beyond that beautiful window. At some point, I must doze off because the sound of the front door opening startles me awake.
I blink through the darkness, disoriented, before everything crashes back into focus. I can’t believe I was even able to fall asleep in the first place. It must be the exhaustion of the past two nights mixed with the weight of my helpless frustration finally catching up with me.
I swallow hard, my ears pricking at footsteps climbing the stairs and turning into the hallway. Footsteps that shouldn’t be familiar to me but somehow are, imprinted on my consciousness in just one day.
Roan.
My breath catches when his footsteps pause outside my door, and my heart trips, hammering as I wonder what he wants.
Is he going to knock?
Maybe he’ll ask what work I did today. Or worse—maybe he wants to talk about the kiss. About what almost happened on that counter.
I lick my lips nervously as I wait, every nerve on edge.
The footsteps continue down the hallway. A door opens and closes, and then—silence. Complete, oppressive silence.
Relief and disappointment twist together in my chest as I stare up at the dark ceiling.
He didn’t knock.
He didn’t try to see me.
He just… went to his room.
I should be grateful. This is exactly what I need—distance between us.
But the disappointment sits heavier in my chest than the relief, and that scares me more than anything else that’s happened today.
I’m getting too close. To this place. To the fantasy of being someone other than who I really am.
I need to stop.
I roll onto my side, pulling the pillow over my head like I can physically block out my own thoughts.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to navigate this minefield. How to gather intel without getting caught on camera. How to resist the pull I feel towards the man.
Tomorrow I’ll be smarter. Stronger.