18. Wait, I’m Supposed To Be His Maid?
WAIT, I'M SUPPOSED TO BE HIS MAID?
Kayleigh
Trevor drives like a man who’s already somewhere else.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even drum his fingers on the wheel.
It’s all perfect, practiced stillness, the kind you only get after years of deciding exactly who you want to be and then never letting anyone see the work.
My dress is hiked up mid-thigh from sitting, my ivory thighs trembling a little, despite my best efforts to stay calm.
I keep expecting him to say something—anything—about what just happened, or maybe about how I almost flubbed everything in a single, million-dollar bid, but he offers nothing.
Outside, Minneapolis flickers past, a mesh of sodium lights and grey darkness, every street sign a little blue ghost in the window.
I watch Trevor’s profile as we cross the bridge over the Mississippi, his jaw locked, the muscle there jumping every so often like he’s chewing on words that never make it out.
He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-down on the gearshift, and every few blocks his thumb taps once, very softly, as if he’s Morse-coding himself instructions.
I’m not brave enough to ask what he’s thinking.
When we get to his building, he pulls into the private garage and cuts the engine.
There’s a moment, before he kills the headlights, where the whole car is just us—me in the passenger seat, knees pressed together, perfume and sweat fusing in the tight air, and Trevor turned toward the wheel, his face in perfect profile, hands relaxed, eyes fixed on nothing.
The engine clicks itself cool. The silence is vast, cathedral-like.
I expect him to look at me, to say some final thing that will make sense of everything that’s happened, but he just gets out of the car and shuts his door before coming around to open mine.
“Come on,” he says, extending a hand. His grip is warm and reassuring, even though it takes me a few seconds to orient myself. When I do, my heels echo like gunshots in the empty garage. I have to jog to keep up with him, the thin straps biting into my feet with every step.
We reach the elevator. The lobby is deserted, the floor waxed to a sheen that throws our reflections up at us, like ghosts trapped under glass.
Trevor presses the penthouse button and leans against the mirrored wall, arms folded, jaw set.
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I stand as still as I can, hands clasped at my waist, like a kid at the principal’s office waiting for the verdict.
The elevator ride takes forever. The numbers tick upward, and with each floor I become more and more aware of the way my dress clings to my hips, the heat radiating off my skin, the fact that my lipstick is probably smudged.
I look up and see myself in the mirrored ceiling: blonde hair wild from the night, face flushed, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and uncertain.
The reflection catches Trevor behind me, looming over me, his shoulders broad, suit perfect and his arms folded, totally calm.
Damn him. Why is he always so collected when I’m falling apart at the edges?
For a moment, I imagine that this is the last elevator ride of my life, that we’re both being hauled up to some kind of execution, and the part of my brain that’s seen too many movies wonders whether Trevor will even let me out once the doors open.
Maybe he’ll just take me apart, floor by floor, and I’ll never get to see the sun again.
But then the doors ding, and we’re there.
He steps out first, no hesitation. I follow, careful not to catch my heel in the gap. The penthouse is silent, except for the gentle hum of the climate control. It smells like cedar and whiskey and a little like the ocean—whatever Trevor uses for aftershave, it makes the air feel electric.
He doesn’t wait for me. He walks straight into the living room, which is a fever dream of luxury: floor-to-ceiling glass throwing the Minneapolis skyline into the room at every angle, deep sofas that moan when you sit, a bar cart loaded with bottles I can’t pronounce, every surface glossy and hard and cold.
The lights are low, amber and gold, and they make the entire place look like it’s underwater, slow and warm and just a little bit dangerous.
I hang back by the door, almost afraid to enter.
Trevor stands in the center of the room, staring out at the city, his back to me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets the silence spool out until I start to think maybe I should leave, or at least say something.
Finally, when I can’t take it any more, I walk toward the nearest sofa and reach out to touch the fabric. I’m about to sink down, just to have something under me besides nerves and air, when Trevor’s voice stops me.
“Don’t sit. You’re not a guest here, Kayleigh.”
It’s soft, but the kind of soft that slices straight through your ribs. I freeze, my hand inches above the cushion, heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break through my chest.
He turns, and there’s nothing gentle in his face. His eyes are blue and bright, and his mouth is curved in a smile that isn’t a smile at all—it’s more like the slow opening of a knife.
“You have a debt to pay off,” he says idly, perfectly relaxed.
I stare at him, uncomprehending, my fingers still hovering above the sofa. “What are you talking about?”
He laughs once, low in his throat. “I didn’t just spend a million dollars for a rerun, sweetheart. You know what happens next.”
My brain tries to make sense of this, and for a second I wonder if he’s joking, or if this is some twisted new way of reminding me that he owns every situation. But the look on his face says he means it, every word.
He walks toward me, unhurried, every step measured. When he reaches me, he lifts my chin with two fingers and looks down, his gaze hot and careful.
“You owe me, Kayleigh. You knew that when you bid.”
I want to say something clever, or at least defiant, but all that comes out is a thin, high “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he slips his hand down to my elbow, holds it in a grip that’s gentle but absolute, and steers me away from the living room.
We walk past the bar, past the kitchen—polished stone, all chrome and blue under the lights—into a hallway I’ve never noticed before.
I glance back over my shoulder and see the city through the glass, all lights and motion, but it looks like a different planet now.
He stops at a door at the end of the hallway. It’s plain, unmarked, nothing like the rest of the apartment.
He lets go of my arm and looks at me for a second, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Then he opens the door and stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first.
I hesitate, just for a second, then step inside.
The room is nothing like what I expect.
It’s small—barely the size of my childhood bedroom—and almost entirely white.
There is a single narrow bed, made up with a crisp white coverlet.
There’s a wooden desk, plain and old-fashioned, and a lamp with a small, severe shade.
On the desk is an alarm clock and nothing else.
The floor is bare concrete, waxed to a shine, and the air smells faintly of lemon and something else—maybe soap, maybe bleach.
There’s a bathroom attached, visible through an open door: pedestal sink, a toilet, and a shower with a glass door so thin it could shatter if you looked at it too hard.
I turn back to Trevor, my pulse so loud I can barely hear myself think.
He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that isn’t relaxed at all.
“I don’t understand,” I say, and my voice comes out breathy, almost girlish. “What is this place?”
He smiles again, slow and precise. “Your room. You’re going to stay here until your debt is paid.”
He watches my face as I process this unbelievable statement. “What, like a prisoner?”
“Not a prisoner,” he says, and the word is softer than I expect. “More like an indentured servant. I figured you’d appreciate the irony, seeing that you’ve done jail time in the past.”
I sputter a little.
“That was just one night!”
Trevor shrugs, uncrosses his arms and walks into the room, crowding me back until my knees hit the side of the bed.
“And if I remember, I paid your bail too. So you owe me twice. But I’ll let you acclimate to your new environment.
Give you some time to settle in. For tonight, you can get comfortable, and adjust to the fact that this is your new life.
” He pauses, then leans down so his handsome features are level with mine.
“Tomorrow, you’ll start earning your keep. ”
I flush, a hot rush from my toes to my scalp. I want to say something—object, refuse, bargain—but all I can do is open my mouth and then close it again, like a gaping fish.
Trevor smirks, straightens up, takes one last look at me, and walks out of the room. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Then, he strides to the door before pausing.
“Oh yes. I forgot.”
Instead of leaving, Trevor heads back to the desk and fishes out a pair of steel handcuffs from the drawer.
“Hold out a wrist,” he says.
“What?” I whisper, eyes wide. “Are you joking?”
But he doesn’t wait. With a kind of calm efficiency, he snaps the cuff around my wrist before forcing me to sit on the mattress and attaching it to the bedframe’s steel bar, like this is a perfectly normal thing for a man to do to a woman in a cocktail dress.
He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just takes a step back to look at me, one eyebrow arched.
The cuff is cold, heavier than I expect, and the metal bites into my skin just enough that I can’t forget about it, not for a second.
I’m still in my dress—black, too tight, too short, clinging to my body like a bad decision—and the absurdity of the situation is almost enough to make me laugh out loud.
I don’t, though. I just look up at him, eyes wide, lips pressed together to keep from saying the first stupid thing that comes to mind.
I’m expecting him to gloat, or to smirk, or to lecture me about responsibility and consequences, but instead, he crouches down so we’re face-to-face.
The lamp on the desk throws a ring of yellow light between us, casting his features in strange, shifting planes.
He’s silent for a long time, just watching me, the blue of his eyes even brighter in this little box of a room.
“You understand what’s happening here, don’t you?” he says finally, his voice silky.
I nod, but I don’t. Not really.
He lifts my chin with one knuckle, careful but not gentle, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes—pride, maybe, or hunger, or just the satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. “Like I said, you get one night to adjust,” he says. “Tomorrow, you’ll start paying down your debt.”
“But what does that mean?” My voice sounds small, not even mine.
He stands, lets his gaze drift over me—every inch of exposed skin, every rumple of the ruined dress, the way my legs are pressed together. I don’t know whether to be angry, ashamed, or downright fearing for my life.
“It means you’ll serve me. In every way I see fit.” He says it simply, like he’s talking about the weather.
I shiver, and it’s not just from the AC.
He’s at the door when I work up the nerve to ask: “But for how long?”
Trevor looks back over his shoulder, blue eyes glinting.
“Until I’m satisfied,” he says, and the way he says it makes me feel like I might never leave this room again.
Then he closes the door, and I hear the lock snick into place.
I pull at the cuff, just to see if it’s a joke, but it’s not.
The metal is snug, the chain just long enough to let me sit on the edge of the bed or lay down, but not enough to reach the bathroom or the desk.
How is that going to work? I take in the rest of the room, trying to memorize every blank inch: the cracked white paint on the ceiling, the neat seam where the baseboards meet the floor, the faint, yellowed outline on the wall where maybe a picture once hung.
The only thing that isn’t white or wood is the lamp on the desk, which burns without hesitation, making the shadows on the walls swim and flicker like something alive.
The minutes crawl. I try to sleep, but my brain is on fire, running every possible scenario in fast-forward.
Maybe Trevor is just fucking with me, and in the morning he’ll bring me a coffee and say it was all a lesson, a test, some billionaire’s version of tough love.
Maybe this is just a kink thing, some power trip he’s on, and by lunch tomorrow I’ll be laughing about it with Stella over mimosas.
Or maybe—and this one makes my pulse stutter—maybe I’ll never get out, and this will just be my life now, forever at Trevor’s mercy.
His doll.
His toy.
His plaything.
Why does the thought make my heart flutter?
But there are too many emotions swirling through my head at once, and at some point, I’m overcome with everything that’s happened. I start to cry, but it’s not the good kind of crying. It’s silent, slow, the tears seeping sideways into the pillow so I can pretend it isn’t happening at all.
When the crying stops, something else takes its place.
A warmth, spreading from the base of my throat down through my chest and into my belly.
I can’t name it, but it’s bigger than anything else I feel.
It’s hot and embarrassing, and it makes me want to hide under the covers, but the cuff rattles when I try and I end up just laying there, totally exposed.
Eventually, I fall asleep, the city a white noise machine humming forty floors below. When I wake, it’s still dark—just the lamp, just me, just the cool weight of the cuff reminding me where I am and what I’ve become.
I’m his.
And I am, impossibly, exactly where I’m supposed to be.