MAY'S POV
Living in Danny Morgan's mansion slowly began to change everything about my life.
At first, I felt like a stray dog someone had accidentally brought into a palace.
Everything around me was too clean. Too polished. Too quiet. Too different from the streets that had been my home for three years.
Even the way people moved inside the house felt different—maids gliding silently across the shinny floors, chefs working in the enormous kitchen like they were performing a carefully rehearsed dance. Every object seemed expensive. Every room looked like it belonged in a magazine.
And then there was me.
I didn't belong anywhere in it. Nothing felt familiar. Nothing at all.
The first time I sat at the massive dining table, I was so nervous I could barely breathe. The sparkly table surface reflected the warm glow of the chandelier above us, and the place setting in front of me looked more complicated than a puzzle.
There were too many forks.
Too many knives.
Too many spoons.
I stared at them like they were weapons someone had carefully arranged to confuse me.
Eventually, I picked one up and held it in the air.
"Why do rich people need so many weapons just to eat?" I asked seriously.
Danny, who had just taken a sip of wine, nearly choked. He coughed into his hand while the corner of his mouth twitched.
"They're not weapons, May."
I frowned and examined the fork again.
"They definitely look like weapons."
Danny leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering across his face.
"You're supposed to use them in order."
I glanced down at the row of shining silver utensils.
"That sounds unnecessarily complicated." Living on the streets, you didn't need all these fancy tools, all you needed were your hands. Life was simpler that way.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Danny laughed.
Not the polite chuckle I had heard from him before. It was a real laugh. Deep and warm and completely unrestrained.
The sound echoed across the enormous dining room, bouncing off the tall windows and shiny walls.
It surprised me so much that I blinked at him.
That was the first time I had ever heard Danny Morgan laugh like that.
And something about it made the mansion feel a little less intimidating.
A little less cold.
Little by little, life inside the mansion started to feel less like a dream I had accidentally wandered into and more like a place that could one day be my real home.
Danny never made me feel stupid for not knowing things. When I held the wrong fork, he simply slid the correct one closer. When I accidentally tried to drink soup instead of using a spoon, he gently nudged the spoon toward me with a quiet smile.
When a maid once tried to brush my tangled hair and I instinctively recoiled like a frightened animal, Danny had calmly taken the brush himself and handed it back to me instead.
"You can do it yourself," he said softly. "No one here will force you."
It was such a small thing.
But back then, it mattered so much.
Because for the first time since waking up on that cold sidewalk three years ago, someone wasn't disgusted by my appearance or lack or etiquette or were they trying to control me.
They were just… helping me.
Over the next few months, Danny began showing me parts of the city I had never truly seen before.
Not the alleys. Not the dumpsters. Not the cold sidewalks where I used to sleep.
He showed me the beautiful parts.
Restaurants filled with music and laughter.
Rooftop terraces where the city lights stretched endlessly beneath the night sky.
Quiet beaches outside the city where the ocean whispered softly against the shore and the air smelled like salt instead of garbage.
The first time we watched the sunset over the water, I couldn't stop staring at the horizon.
I had never realized the sky could hold so many colors at once.
Orange.
Pink.
Purple.
It felt like the world had been secretly beautiful all along… and I had only ever seen its ugliest corners.
One night, months later, we stood together on one of the mansion's high balconies. The city stretched below us like a sea of glittering lights. Cars moved like tiny glowing insects through the streets, and the wind brushed gently against my hair.
For a long time neither of us spoke.
Then Danny broke the silence.
"Do you ever regret saving me?" he asked suddenly.
I remember that question like it was asked only minutes ago.
It caught me completely off guard.
I remember turning toward him, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, and answering without even thinking.
"Why would I regret that?"
He rested his arms on the balcony railing, staring out over the city.
"You could have stayed invisible," he said quietly.
I leaned beside him, the cool metal of the railing pressing against my palms.
"I was invisible before," I replied.
The wind swept across the balcony again, carrying the distant sounds of the city below.
Then I added softly, "But you saw me."
Danny didn't respond right away. For a long moment, he just stood there beside me. Then he said quietly, "You saved me first."
Months passed.
Somewhere along the way, the mansion stopped feeling like a stranger's house.
And Danny stopped feeling like a stranger.
Our conversations grew longer. Our silences grew more comfortable. The distance between us slowly began to disappear.
Sometimes we would sit on the enormous couch late at night, watching movies while the rest of the mansion slept. I didn't always understand the plots, but Danny would occasionally explain things in a quiet voice, his shoulder resting lightly against mine.
Other nights he would return from the city carrying takeout from his favorite restaurant, setting the bags on the table like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Try this," he would say, sliding a container toward me.
I tried everything. Spicy noodles. Grilled seafood. Delicate desserts that looked too pretty to eat. Each new flavor felt like discovering a tiny piece of a world I had never known existed.
To me, Danny was worth more than all the wealth the world could offer. In my heart, I made a quiet promise—to make sure he would never regret letting me into his life.
But then one winter morning, I caught a terrible cold.
It started with a sore throat.
By evening, my entire body felt heavy and weak, like someone had replaced my bones with wet sand.
I expected the staff to handle it.
Maybe a doctor.
Maybe medicine.
But instead, Danny canceled an important meeting and stayed home.
When I woke up from a feverish nap, I found him sitting beside the bed with a glass of water and a bowl of soup.
"You didn't have to do that," I murmured weakly.
He set the glass carefully on the bedside table.
"Yes," he said calmly.
"I did."
I frowned slightly.
"Why?"
Danny looked at me for a long moment.
His expression softened in a way I had never seen before. Then he spoke quietly. "Because you matter to me."
I remember how my heart acted in that moment, how it began to beat a little faster than normal.
At the time, I didn't fully understand why those words made my chest feel warm.
I didn't realize what was slowly growing between us.
I didn't realize how fragile it was.
But later…
Much later…
I would think back to those quiet, gentle moments more than anything else.
Because those were the memories that hurt the most.
The ones that made the betrayal feel unbearable when everything finally fell apart.