Chapter 1
THEA
“Take that dress off.”
The command is low. Filthy. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask.
It slides through my headphones and straight into my bloodstream.
For one deeply embarrassing second, I forget he isn’t real.
Fully forget. Like I’m about to risk it all for a man who exists as a sound file.
Which is bold of me, considering I’m currently gripping a mop like it’s emotional support.
But there is no man.
Just me.
A mop. A bucket. And a stain that looks like evidence from a crime scene.
Girls like me don’t get paid to wonder what happens in penthouse suites with private elevators and locked doors.
Nope. Girls like me get paid to clean up after it.
My book boyfriend of the day has power, obscene money, and a voice that could ruin me without ever laying a hand on me.
I, on the other hand, have aching feet. A stiff gray uniform. And the creeping certainty that room 1806 has seen things I would need therapy and a strong drink to process.
The glamorous life, truly.
“Say it,” he murmurs, softer now. Rougher. Like he already owns space in my head. “Tell me how badly you need me.”
My breath catches.
My grip tightens on the handle.
I should pause it.
I really should.
Any reasonable, stable person would pause it.
I don’t.
The woman in the audiobook whimpers.
I scrub harder at the stain.
My name is Thea Andrin.
I’m twenty-five.
Night-shift maid.
Blonde hair twisted into a bun.
Name tag always crooked. Body that does not know the meaning of “blend in.”
Which would be less of a problem if rich men didn’t look at maids like we were part of the room service menu.
The lingering glance when I bend to tuck a sheet.
The slow smile from a man old enough to have a cardiologist on speed dial.
The wedding ring twisted absentmindedly while his eyes drag over my hips like he’s pricing a mistake he can afford.
The “accidental” hand at my lower back when I’m squeezing past a room-service cart.
I know how to spot the bastards from a mile away.
I also know how to angle a housekeeping cart directly over a man’s Italian loafers when his hand wanders too far south.
Oops.
They always think they’re subtle.
They are never subtle.
And they always think women like me are too polite, too broke, or too scared to do anything about it.
They’re usually right about the broke part.
The rest depends on how badly they want to test me.
I scrub harder at the stain.
It continues looking guilty.
This was not supposed to be my life.
Not the audiobook smut part. That, I stand by.
The hotel part.
Once, I wanted old books, ruined cities, and a degree that would let me spend my life digging up buried things.
Then life got expensive.
And some things are better left buried.
My radio crackles at my hip.
“Thea, you still on eighteen?” Marco’s voice, dry and precise.
I tap the button. “Still here. Currently scrubbing a stain that might be a crime scene. If anyone asks, I saw nothing.”
“Please don’t say that on the staff radio.”
“Relax. If this place had a conscience, it would’ve called the cops before I got here.”
“Thea.”
“Fine. Alleged crime scene. Better?”
He sighs, but I hear the smile. “Three rooms left.”
I stop. “Three? I had two rooms left ten minutes ago.”
“Room 1812 requested full turndown. Champagne incident.”
“On the bed?” I ask.
“And the curtains.”
I close my eyes. “How do you get champagne on curtains? Actually, don’t answer that. I want to sleep tonight.”
“I don’t ask questions.”
“Coward.”
“Thea.”
“Finnnnne. I’m going.”
“And be nice to the guests.”
“I’m always nice to the guests.”
“You told Mr. Hargrove his emotional support ferret looked judgmental.”
“It did.”
That ferret had opinions. None of them kind.
Marco Vitale runs the Belvedere night staff like a very elegant dictator in Tom Ford glasses. He cares about folded corners, polished silver, and whether the lobby orchids are "projecting the right energy."
He also sneaks me leftover tiramisu, so I forgive him most things.
There is very little I won’t excuse in the name of free dessert.
By the time I finish eighteen, my back hurts, my bun is listing to the left, and my audiobook billionaire has moved on to things that would make me blush if I weren’t currently elbow-deep in someone’s trash.
He is having a transformative evening. I am holding a used floss pick.
There are levels to life. I am on the wrong one.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I almost ignore it.
Then I see the name.
SYLVIE.
My chest tightens.
We haven’t really talked in months. We were once “share everything, even fries” close. Before she kept orbiting bars and bright people and I sank into rent–work–sleep–repeat.
Before her life got louder and mine got real.
Her text glows up at me.
SYLVIE: Hey stranger. You working tonight?
I thumb back.
ME: Unfortunately, capitalism insists.
Her reply is instant.
SYLVIE: Come have a drink with me after. I’m at the Belvedere bar.
I look down at my uniform.
At my cart.
At the streak of detergent on my sleeve.
At the faint smell of industrial lemon that has permanently fused with my soul.
A drink. With Sylvie?
Like normal women. Women who have group chats and inside jokes, not industrial-strength cleaners and audiobook smut.
Women who own more than one going-out outfit and don’t consider dry shampoo a personality trait.
Women who don’t keep an emergency dress next to spare trash liners.
ME: I’m working, babe.
SYLVIE: Meet me at midnight. One drink. Please? I miss you.
That word hooks me.
Please.
Sylvie doesn’t say please unless she means it.
I should say no. I’m tired. I’m broke. The only makeup in my bag is a half-dead lip gloss and a mascara that smells like mold and bad decisions.
Instead, I type:
ME: One drink.
ME: But if this turns into one of your “fun spontaneous adventures,” I’m haunting you first.
SYLVIE: Worth it.
ME: Not comforting.
ME: Also, I’m wearing my emergency black dress.
SYLVIE: A hot one?
ME: Hot and wrinkled. Your lucky night.
By midnight, my shift is done, my cart is parked, and I'm under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the employee bathroom, trying to look less like a cautionary workplace poster and more like a woman who leaves her apartment sometimes.
I take the fastest shower of my life and change into the black dress I keep folded in my locker for emergencies.
The fabric clings everywhere. Hips, thighs, chest—all the places this hotel's usual clientele have surgically removed or personally trained into submission.
I smooth it down. It doesn't help.
The neckline dips lower than I remember. Or maybe my boobs have opinions about being compressed into a work bra for eight hours and have decided to stage a rebellion.
In a building full of female guests who look like they survive on sparkling water and pilates, I look like I've discovered carbs.
And enjoyed them. Repeatedly.
The hotel can keep its spa memberships and sad salads.
I'm bringing assets to this bar whether I'm ready or not.
Most days, I'm fine with it. Proud, even.
Today is not most days.
I swipe on mascara that may or may not be expired, and my lashes actually cooperate for once. My eyes look bigger. Bluer. Like I've had eight hours of sleep instead of a shower that lasted ninety seconds.
The door swings open.
Sylvie bursts in like she just got announced by a trumpet.
Emerald green dress, dangerously short. Strappy heels that could double as weapons. Lipstick. A grin that could probably start a small cult.
"Thea!"
She barrels into me. I grunt, then hug her back.
She smells like vanilla, wine, and trouble. So, Sylvie.
"You came," she says.
"Please keep your expectations low. I’m exhausted."
"You look pretty!"
I snort. "Yah. Right!"
"No really." She pulls back and actually looks at me. Her gaze drags down, then back up. Slow. Assessing. "You look like you forgot you're hot."
"I've never known that."
"Well, you are. That dress is—" She stops. Tilts her head. "Wait. Is that the one you wore to my birthday? Two years ago?"
"Maybe."
"Babe. It fits completely different now."
I glance down. "It shrunk in my locker."
"Your locker didn't do that to your ass."
"Then blame the hotel stairs. I've been climbing eighteen floors for months."
She grins. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
"Liar." She grabs my hand. "Come on. The bar is insane tonight."
"Insane with what?"
"People with money."
"That is everyone in this hotel."
"Exactly."
She drags me out before I can change my mind.
I follow because I miss her. Because I'm lonely. Because sometimes, when your world gets too small, even a bad idea looks like a door you're willing to kick open.
The Belvedere bar glows gold and warm, all velvet chairs, low lighting, and crystal glasses. Men in suits sprawl like they own the skyline.
"This is very not my scene," I murmur.
"That's because your scene is sad soup and romance audiobooks," Sylvie says.
"Romance is not sad."
"Your soup is."
"Wow," I say. "Roasting me in public. Bold choice for someone who still owes me fifty bucks."
She snorts and steers me toward a table in the back. Two concierge girls, Mia and Janie, are already there. Polished, glossy, the kind of women who can wear white pants and trust the universe.
A man stands beside them.
Tall. Dark hair slicked back. Expensive watch. Easy smile.
Mick.
I've seen him at private events. Always near VIPs. Always chatting with security. Always smiling like he knows where the bodies are buried and exactly how much the shovels cost.
"Thea, right?" he says smoothly.
I blink. "That's either impressive memory or a red flag."
"Everyone knows the prettiest maid at the Belvedere."
Sylvie nudges me. "See? Told you."
My skin prickles.
Compliments from men like Mick aren't compliments. They're the opening line on a contract you shouldn't sign.
"I'm not on shift," I say.
His smile sharpens. "No. Tonight you're off the clock."
He says it like that should make me relax.
It doesn't.
I give him my sweetest customer-service smile. The one I save for guests who leave wet towels on antique chairs.
“Then I’m also off the clock for being polite.”
For one second, his smile glitches.
Good.