The Paris sun had just peeked out from behind the Eiffel Tower, but for Elara, this morning felt like a death sentence. She was already wearing her stiff hotel maid uniform—a black dress with a crisp white apron—and had her brown hair neatly pinned up so that not a single strand escaped.
She had to be a different woman. No longer the provocative "Cinderella" on the dance floor, but Elara the submissive, quiet, and invisible one.
"Elara! Hurry to the lobby!" shouted Madame Vivienne, the iron-fisted hotel manager. "There's a VIP guest who has closed off the entire top floor. Royal security is everywhere. If you make a single mistake, you'll end up on the streets!"
Elara's heart raced. Royal security? Here?
She felt the secret pocket behind her apron. The microchip was still there, wrapped in a small piece of cloth. She hadn't had time to move it because the hotel had been surrounded since dawn.
On the top floor, Prince Alistair stood in front of a large window overlooking the streets of Paris. He was not wearing his royal robes. Only a white shirt with the top two buttons undone and black trousers that fit perfectly on his legs. Even so, his aura of power remained deadly.
On the marble table beside him, the blue silk shoes were placed inside a glass box, as if they were ancient artifacts of great value.
"Your Excellency," General Marc entered and bowed. "The shoemakers at Place Vendôme confirmed that they delivered six pairs of shoes of this model to this hotel two days ago. All of them were for administrative staff and special guests. However, one pair was reported 'missing' from the staff storage room yesterday afternoon."
Alistair swirled the crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. His gray eyes never left the entrance. "Summon all the female servants who were on duty last night and this morning. Have them line up in the corridor."
"Do you want to interrogate them one by one?"
"No," Alistair smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I want to see their feet. And I want to smell them."
Elara stood at the back of the line in the fifth-floor corridor. Her hands trembled, but she hid them behind the folds of her apron. One by one, her colleagues were called into the Penthouse Suite. Some came out with pale faces, and some even cried because of the pressure from the royal guards.
"Next! Elara!"
General Marc's voice boomed. Elara took a deep breath, trying to suppress her heartbeat, which felt like it was about to explode. She stepped into the spacious and luxurious room.
The scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco immediately assaulted her senses. It was the same scent as the man who had embraced her the night before.
Alistair sat in his throne, his legs crossed arrogantly. He did not look at Elara's face at first. His gaze fell downward, toward Elara's feet, encased in dull black work boots.
"Come closer, Servant," Alistair commanded. His voice was low, trembling in the air like a thunderclap held back.
Elara stepped forward, her head bowed low. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Raise your face."
Elara hesitated for a moment, then slowly raised her head. She made sure her eyes looked innocent and frightened—a perfect performance. However, when Alistair's gray eyes met hers, Elara felt as if all her clothes had been stripped away. This man was dissecting every inch of her secrets.
Alistair stood up, walking slowly around Elara like a predator circling its wounded prey. He stopped directly behind Elara.
"You smell like jasmine," Alistair whispered right next to Elara's ear.
Elara's blood seemed to freeze. It was standard hotel soap, but she knew Alistair was comparing this scent to the woman from last night.
"All the servants here use the same soap, Your Highness," Elara replied, her voice deliberately trembling slightly.
Alistair returned to Elara's front. He grabbed Elara's chin with his strong fingers, forcing the girl to look at him more closely. Alistair narrowed his eyes, staring at Elara's lips, then shifting to her empty ear.
"Your hands," Alistair said suddenly.
"Pardon?"
"Show me your hands."
Elara slowly held out her hand. Alistair took Elara's fingers, examining her fingertips very carefully—looking for the signs of a nimble thief's fingers.
Suddenly, Alistair pulled Elara's hand closer to his face. His eyes were fixed on a small scratch on Elara's wrist—a wound she had gotten when she hurriedly took off her tight dress last night.
"An interesting wound," Alistair murmured. His eyes now gleamed with a deadly understanding. "It seems you were in a hurry to do something last night, didn't you... Elara?"
Elara's chin felt hot under Alistair's grip. She could feel her own pulse racing wildly in her neck. One wrong word, and it would all be over.
"This wound..." Elara began hoarsely, deliberately allowing fake tears to well up in her eyes. "I... I bumped into a wooden shelf in the laundry room last night, Your Highness. Madame Vivienne will punish me if she finds out I was working carelessly."
Alistair did not release his grip. His thumb gently rubbed the graze on Elara's wrist. His movements were gentle, but felt like a knife ready to cut.
"Is that so?" Alistair leaned closer. "Or perhaps you got this while trying to remove a dress that was too tight for you?"
Elara's heart stopped for a moment. She knew. He must know.
"I don't understand what you mean," Elara whispered.
Alistair finally released Elara's chin, but he didn't move away. Instead, he walked toward the glass case where the blue shoes were kept. "From this moment on, you are relieved of your duties on the lower floor."
Elara furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
"You will be my personal servant while I am here," Alistair said, turning away, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "You will prepare my clothes, prepare my bath, and ensure all my needs are met. Personally."
"But Your Highness, I'm only a lowly servant—"
"And I am your future King," Alistair cut in with an unquestionable final tone. "Marc, move his belongings to the assistant's room in this suite. I want him within my sight twenty-four hours a day."
***
Two hours later, Elara found herself locked inside suffocating luxury. The assistant's room was small but extremely luxurious, located right next to Alistair's master bedroom.
Elara sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand touched the microchip she now hid in the seam of her uniform skirt's waistband.
He suspects me, but he has no physical evidence, Elara thought. He's keeping me locked up here to provoke me into making a mistake.
Suddenly, the connecting door between his room and Alistair's room opened without a knock. Alistair stood there, wearing only black trousers and no shirt. His athletic, sturdy body was clearly visible—his hard abs and thin scar on his shoulder showed that this man was not just a spoiled prince, but a warrior.
Elara quickly stood up and bowed. "Your Highness, do you need anything?"
"My bathwater. It's too cold," Alistair said coldly. "Fix it."
Elara stepped into Alistair's bathroom, which was almost as large as her old apartment. Hot steam filled the room. With trembling hands, she knelt beside the marble bathtub, trying to adjust the water temperature.
Alistair leaned against the door, folding his arms across his chest, watching every movement of Elara's back.
"You're very skilled with your hands, Elara," Alistair's voice echoed in the damp room. "Very dexterous. Very... trained."
"It's just a habit from working, Your Majesty," Elara replied without turning her head.
"Then help me take off my watch."
Elara froze. She slowly stood up and turned around. Alistair stepped closer, extending his left hand, which wore a platinum-plated Patek Philippe watch.
Elara approached, her nimble fingers beginning to touch Alistair's warm wrist. She had to be very careful. As her fingers worked to unfasten the watch, Alistair suddenly leaned down, his face right next to Elara's ear.
"Last night, when that woman danced with me," Alistair whispered, his hot breath caressing Elara's neck. "She whispered something. Her voice... sounded just like yours when you're scared."
Elara's hand slipped. The watch would have fallen if Alistair hadn't caught it with his other hand.
Alistair grabbed Elara's hand, pulling her close until their chests touched. "You're trembling, Elara. Why? Are you afraid I'll find what you're hiding beneath this uniform?"
Their eyes locked. In Alistair's gray eyes, Elara saw a dark passion and restrained anger. Alistair began to lower his gaze to Elara's lips, his large hand slowly creeping up to her waist—right to where the microchip was hidden.
Damn it! If he touches my waistband, it's all over!