Rain lashed against the ornate windows of the Alverez estate, the kind of downpour that made the air heavier, the world quieter. Inside, the mansion's grand chandeliers glowed with a golden light, casting a warm illusion that didn't quite reach Emilia Santos as she stepped carefully down the marbled hallway.
She balanced a silver tray with a cup of dark roast coffee, her fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation. Dante Alverez had returned.
The staff had been buzzing for days about the arrival of the billionaire heir. The reclusive, cold, and devastatingly handsome eldest son of the Alverez family. Emilia had seen him once in a magazine, suited in black, sunglasses on, flanked by security as he left a French gala. He looked untouchable—like a god carved out of arrogance and wealth.
Now he was home. And he had asked for coffee.
Her stomach twisted as she approached the double doors of the study. She wasn't supposed to interact directly with the family, not unless asked. But she'd been the only maid on duty when the call came through. Her supervisor had barked the order without even looking at her.
"Take it to Mr. Alverez. Don't spill it. Don't speak unless spoken to."
The door opened with a soft creak. She stepped in, head bowed. "Your coffee, sir."
There was silence. A long moment stretched between them. Then a voice answered, smooth and deep like aged whiskey.
"Set it down."
Emilia moved to the edge of the massive mahogany desk and placed the tray carefully. She could feel his eyes on her even before she dared glance up. When she finally did, she nearly lost her breath.
Dante Alverez looked nothing like the tabloid images. He looked better.
Tall, sharply dressed in a black shirt with the top button undone, he exuded power and precision. His dark eyes locked on hers—not lazily, not with flirtation, but with the intense focus of a man who didn't waste time.
"You're new."
Her lips parted, surprised. "No, sir."
"I don't remember seeing you before."
"I've worked here eleven months," she answered, her voice soft.
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—lit his eyes. "I see. What's your name?"
"Emilia. Emilia Santos."
He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Emilia. Hmm. I'll remember that."
She swallowed hard and took a step back. "Will that be all?"
"For now."
She turned and left quickly, her pulse thundering in her ears. Once the door shut behind her, she leaned against the wall and exhaled sharply.
What was that?
⸻
The staff quarters buzzed that night.
"He asked her name?" one of the older maids, Rosa, repeated in disbelief.
Emilia nodded, still dazed.
"He's never asked anyone's name," another chimed in. "Not even the chef. And he likes food more than people."
Emilia rolled her eyes. "It was nothing. He was just making conversation."
Rosa gave her a knowing look. "Be careful, mija. Men like that… they don't talk for no reason."
⸻
The next week passed in a blur of whispers and fleeting glances. Dante always seemed to be in the same room she was about to clean, or leaving just as she arrived. Once, she caught him watching her from the balcony as she watered the rose garden. Another time, he held the door open for her when she was carrying fresh linens.
And once—just once—he smiled at her.
It was small. Brief. But it knocked the air out of her lungs.
Emilia tried to shake it off. She didn't have time for fantasies. Not when rent was due. Not when her little sister Sofia needed school supplies. Not when her past still clawed at her heels like a shadow she could never outrun.
She was here to work. To survive.
And Dante Alverez was the kind of man who could destroy both.
⸻
One evening, Emilia was dusting the art gallery on the second floor when she heard the unmistakable click of polished shoes behind her.
"Is there a reason you avoid me?"
She turned. Dante stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked disarmingly casual—and infinitely more dangerous.
"I don't avoid you," she said carefully.
"You do. You never look at me. Never speak unless I speak first. It's… rare."
"I'm just doing my job."
He took a slow step toward her. "Is that all you want to do?"
Emilia's chest tightened. "Yes."
Another step. "Because I get the feeling you're hiding something."
She swallowed. "Why would you think that?"
"Because I watch people, Emilia. And you? You're too careful."
She bristled. "Isn't that what maids are supposed to be?"
He studied her. "Not you."
There was a beat of silence. A storm passed between them, unseen but undeniable.
Then, mercifully, he stepped back.
"Carry on," he said simply.
She stood frozen until he disappeared down the hallway.
And only then did she let herself breathe again.
⸻
The incident haunted her all night.
Why was he paying attention to her? Why now? And why did a part of her—a foolish, reckless part—feel drawn to him?
The next morning, she found a small envelope on her pillow.
No name. No sender. Just a single sheet inside.
Dinner. Tonight. The rooftop terrace. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you feel powerful.
—D
Her breath caught.
She should ignore it. She should pretend it never happened.
But she couldn't.
She stared at the note for a long time, the words burning into her memory.
Something that makes you feel powerful.
What did that even mean?
⸻
By the time eight o'clock rolled around, Emilia was pacing in her room.
She had put on the only dress she owned that wasn't for work—a deep green wrap dress that clung to her curves and made her feel… like someone else. Someone braver. Someone who didn't have scars from her past or responsibilities bigger than her paycheck.
When she finally stepped onto the rooftop terrace, Dante was already there—leaning against the railing, watching the city lights.
He turned when he heard her, and the look in his eyes made her stop short.
"You came."
"You invited me."
He gestured to the table set for two. "I had the chef prepare something special. I didn't think you'd come."
She crossed her arms. "Why me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then, "Because you don't pretend around me. And I find that... refreshing."
She sat, wary but curious. "So what is this? A game?"
"No," he said quietly. "A beginning."
⸻
The dinner was simple—grilled fish, roasted vegetables, red wine—but the conversation wasn't.
He asked about her childhood. Her dreams. Her favorite color. He didn't talk about his businesses or money or fame. He listened.
Emilia found herself laughing. Smiling. Opening up in ways she hadn't in years.
At one point, he leaned in and brushed a stray hair from her cheek.
"You're nothing like I expected."
"And you're everything I expected," she replied, a teasing note in her voice.
He grinned. "Careful. I'm starting to like you."
Her heart stuttered.
And for one night, under the Dubai skyline, surrounded by nothing but candlelight and secrets, Emilia forgot that she was the maid.
She was just a woman. And he was just a man.
But deep down, she knew—this wouldn't stay simple for long.