Aria's POV
Five o'clock. He had said I should be at his place by five in the morning.
Who even wakes up that early unless they're a farmer—or insane?
That meant a 4:30 a.m. alarm. Out of bed by 5:00. Out of the house by 5:30. My brain was already crying. Still, I couldn't complain. It was a job. A paycheck. My one shot.
I had planned to take the evening slow—eat something simple, finish the last few pages of my cheap romance novel, and sleep early. After all, I didn't own much to pack; a handful of clothes, a toothbrush, and my dignity. Moving out wouldn't be hard at all.
But just as I was drifting into that calm, the kind you only get before an anxiety storm, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. My heart lurched. I shouldn't answer strange calls, but something told me this wasn't spam.
I pressed it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Miss Aria, resume now."
I sat up, my pulse shooting into overdrive. "I—excuse me? Mr. Sinclair?"
"Yes." His tone was firm. Impatient. As if he had better things to do than confirm who he was.
"But you said I should start in the morning—"
"Do you want the job, Miss Aria, or shall I find someone else?"
My soul flew out of my body. "No! I'll be there. Right away."
The line went dead.
I jumped to my feet. "I can't afford to lose this job," I muttered, rushing into the shower, splashing cold water over myself like it could calm me down. It didn't.
By six p.m., I was out of my tiny apartment, breathless, nerves jangling. His instructions had been clear: meet him at his private parking lot at Sinclair Global Holdings.
I spotted him immediately—because, well, who wouldn't notice a man leaning casually against a black Lamborghini Aventador as if it were just an ordinary car? My jaw almost hit the pavement.
"That's his car? A Lam…bor…ghi..ni," I whispered like an idiot.
He slid into the driver's seat without looking at me twice. I scrambled in, clutching my bag as if it were a lifeboat. The car purred alive, smooth, controlled, just like him. He didn't speak, and I didn't dare fill the silence. My brain tried to come up with small talk, but all it produced was "Nice car, boss?"—which was a fast track to unemployment.
When we pulled up to silver gates that opened automatically, I nearly forgot how to breathe. The mansion loomed ahead like something from a dream—sprawling lawns, glittering windows, perfect symmetry. It wasn't a house; it was an empire built in stone and glass.
Inside, I froze again. Marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystals, expensive paintings that probably cost more than my entire life. Every corner screamed luxury.
"Bianca!" His voice thundered as he disappeared into another room.
My stomach flipped. Married? Kids? A secret wife? What did I even know about him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet here I was, blushing like a teenager. Stop it, Aria. You pent-up virginity, behave.
Then she appeared—Bianca. A woman around my age with flawless hair and a face that looked like it had been carved to sneer.
"This is Aria Hart. She's a new maid. My personal coffee maker," Mr. Sinclair said bluntly before walking away, leaving me alone with her dagger eyes.
I gave my best friendly smile. "Hello, I'm Aria."
"I know. He said it." Cold. Flat. Dismissive.
Oh. Okay. That was fine. Totally fine.
"Could you, um, show me where I can make his coffee?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
"Follow me," she said with the enthusiasm of someone heading to her own funeral.
In the kitchen, an older woman with long blonde hair streaked with silver was kneading dough. Her light brown eyes flicked up, warm and curious.
"Ah, new help?" she asked, wiping her hands.
"Aria. Maid. Coffee maker," Bianca deadpanned.
The older woman chuckled, ignoring Bianca's frost. "Hello, Aria. I'm Martha. I've been here for years. Cooking, cleaning, keeping this household alive."
Finally, someone with manners. "It's nice to meet you, Martha."
"Just Martha, dear." She winked kindly.
Bianca waved at the coffee machine like it offended her. "Over there."
Grateful for Kane's Café experience, I got to work. In minutes, I had a fresh cup ready. But then—panic. Do I bring it upstairs? Leave it here? Ring a bell? Nothing seemed right.
Before I could melt into the floor, the door opened and Mr. Sinclair strode in. Without a word, he took the mug and left.
I blinked. "How did he even know it was ready?"
Martha pointed upward. Cameras. Everywhere. A red light rotated slowly.
"Oh. Wow."
Before I could process, the house phone rang sharply. Martha, hands still covered in flour, lunged for it—but the call ended before she could answer. She darted out, apron still tied.
I frowned. "She's…fast."
Bianca smirked. "Mr. Sinclair doesn't repeat himself. Slackers don't last here. Remember that."
I swallowed. "How long have you been here?"
"Ten months."
"And Martha?"
"Fifteen years. She worked for his parents."
Fifteen years. She'd know everything about him, every secret. A shiver ran down my spine, but I bit my tongue. It was my first day—I didn't want to seem nosy.
A minute later, Bianca reappeared. "Mr. Sinclair wants you. His office."
My stomach lurched. "Where—?"
"Second floor. Left hall. Big door. Don't get lost."
I climbed the stairs, nerves buzzing. My knuckles brushed the door once.
"Come in." His voice cut through the wood.
Inside, he sat at a massive desk, glasses perched low as he typed on his laptop. He didn't even look up at first. Calm, controlled, commanding.
"Yes, sir?" My voice was embarrassingly small.
"Aria, you'll prepare coffee only when I tell you to. You'll bring it where I ask. Clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair."
"Good. You'll be staying here now."
My heart stopped. "Staying…here?"
"Tell Bianca to prepare a guest room for you. Downstairs."
That was it. No explanation. No softness. Just a command.
And my life, once simple and quiet, tilted into a world I had no idea how to survive.