The marble floors echoed with the click of
leather shoes as Xander Volkov strolled into the towering mansion that bore his name. Sleek, minimalist, and modern in every detail, the house was a physical extension of his personality—cold, calculated, and expensive. Not that he was particularly interested in aesthetics. As long as it served its purpose and offered privacy from the tabloids, he didn't care.
The late evening sun cast long shadows across the hallway as he shrugged off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the back of a velvet chair. His shirt clung to his frame—thanks to the humidity outside—and his dark hair was a touch disheveled from the wind that had whipped through his sports car's open window. He didn't mind the mess. It made him look rugged in a way that magazine covers couldn't resist.
He barely noticed the silent house, assuming the help was long gone for the day. But something… something felt off.
His instincts flared as soon as he stepped into his bedroom.
There was someone standing by his window.
Female. Young. Slim but poised. Her dark brown hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, catching the amber light from the window like silk. She wasn't in a uniform—at least not the kind he was used to. No, she wore something simple, unassuming. A fitted white blouse and black slacks. Casual, yet intentional.
She turned when she heard him, and their eyes locked.
Green.
Striking, defiant, intelligent.
He stiffened. "Who the hell are you?"
She didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, folding her arms. "Your maid."
He blinked once. Then twice. A beat passed, and then he barked out a disbelieving laugh.
"My what?"
"Your personal maid," she said, voice cool and bored, like this whole encounter was an inconvenience. "Appointed to you by your parents."
He was already turning on his heel.
---
"I specifically told you I didn't want anyone in my space," Xander snapped, storming down the staircase. The living room sprawled open like a five-star hotel lobby, but his parents sat with the ease of monarchs in a palace—his father in a tailored gray suit, his mother dressed in sharp heels and pearls that whispered power.
"Good evening, son," his mother greeted without looking up from her tablet.
Xander didn't bother with pleasantries. "There's a stranger in my bedroom."
His father raised a brow. "That would be Miss Lane."
"I don't care what her name is. Why is she in my house?"
"To supervise you," his mother said mildly. "You've become… problematic."
Xander laughed again, this time colder. "This is about the bar incident."
"It made international news," his father said flatly. "You embarrassed the Volkov name. Again."
"I didn't ask for this legacy."
"But you inherited it," his mother replied sharply. "And with it comes responsibility."
"I'm twenty. I'm running one of your companies."
"And dragging our reputation through the mud," she finished.
Xander clenched his jaw. "So you planted a spy in my house?"
"She's not a spy. She's your personal maid and shadow," his father said. "She's trained in combat. If you try to escape again, she will drag you back."
Xander stared at him. "You're not serious."
"She's also here to report if you continue seeing women who sell stories to the media."
"This is insane."
"What's insane," his mother said quietly, "is that we gave you advance notice of our visit, and when we arrived, you were nowhere to be found."
"I was working."
"You were drinking," his father corrected.
Xander exhaled sharply. "So that's it? You just dump some random girl in my room?"
"She's not random," his mother said.
That caught his attention, but before he could question it, his father stood.
"You'll treat her with respect. She is your equal in discipline, and your superior in resolve. Try to fire her, and you'll answer to us."
Xander glared, but his parents were already making their way toward the door.
"We'll check in next week," his mother called without looking back.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
---
Back upstairs, she was still there. Still calm. Still infuriating.
"I don't need a babysitter," he muttered, walking past her and straight into the bathroom.
"Good," she said dryly. "Because I'm not your babysitter. I'm your leash."
His hands froze on the sink. He looked up at the mirror.
There was a smug little smile on her lips when he returned to the room.
"You think this is funny?" he asked, stepping close.
She didn't step back. "A little."
"I will make this hell for you."
"Likewise."
Their eyes locked again.
And for a split second—just one—he wondered why a stranger's gaze made him feel like he was the one being hunted.
As soon as he confirmed that his parent's car has left the mansion, the tension in the room snapped back into place like a rubber band stretched too far.
He turned toward her, his expression sharp and unapologetically annoyed. "Alright. Now that the royal guards have marched off, you can leave."
She crossed her arms. "That's not happening."
His brow arched. "You're not seriously planning on sharing a room."
Her tone didn't falter. "I am. Your parents made it clear—they want someone to keep an eye on you, and that someone is me."
He snorted. "Oh, great. So what? You're going to sleep in my bed now? Watch me while I snore?"
She blinked at him like he was dense. "Of course not. There's a couch."
He stared at her like she'd grown another head. "This is my house. My room. My couch. And you think you're crashing here like it's a hotel?"
"I'm not here to be comfortable," she snapped. "I'm here to make sure you don't sneak out and drag your name—and theirs—through another tabloid headline."
His jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to argue, but she was already setting her small overnight bag down beside the couch. With a resigned groan, he dragged his hand down his face and turned away.
"Do what you want," he muttered. "But don't expect me to start making you tea."
Later that night, the room was dark and silent, save for the occasional creak of the mansion settling. He lay in bed on his side, facing away from her. She curled uncomfortably on the couch, trying to find a decent angle on the stiff cushions. Both were wide awake.
He huffed into the darkness. "This is ridiculous."
She rolled onto her back. "You think I like this? I'd rather be anywhere else."
"Then go."
"I can't."
Another long pause.
"This is going to be a nightmare," he mumbled.
She almost smiled. "Sweet dreams to you too, prince charming."
Neither of them slept much that night. But something had shifted—in the friction, in the silence, in the way his presence felt too loud even in the stillness.