Chapter 2

The first week was a blur of routine and revelation. Jennifer moved through the sun-drenched halls and hushed, subterranean corridors of Thornhaven with a determined focus, her mind partitioning the shock of her arrival into a neat, manageable compartment labeled For Later. She learned the intricate choreography of service: the precise timing for refreshing Mr. Thorne’s coffee (never let it cool below a specific temperature), the exact pressure to apply when polishing the Georgian silver (circular motions, never back-and-forth), the silent language of the staff’s glances and gestures.

She saw Chloe often. The blonde maid moved with a languid, cat-like grace that seemed to mock the very concept of hurry. She was always smiling, a secret tucked into the corner of her mouth. Once, in the pantry, she caught Jennifer staring at a particularly lurid romance novel left on a shelf.

“See something you like?” Chloe had purred, not looking up from the inventory list she was checking.

Jennifer had jumped, her face heating. “No, I was just—”

“It’s alright,” Chloe interrupted, her eyes—a startling shade of blue—finally meeting Jennifer’s. “We all start somewhere. Curiosity isn’t a crime here.” She’d leaned closer, the vanilla-sweet scent of her perfume enveloping Jennifer. “It’s practically a job requirement.”

Then she’d winked and glided away, leaving Jennifer flustered and strangely warm.

The uniform became a second skin. The initial shock of the cool satin against her thighs, the constant awareness of the deep neckline, the feel of open air on her back—it all faded into a persistent, low-grade hum of exposure. She learned to move in it, to bend and reach without giving everything away, though she knew it was a futile endeavor. The other maids didn’t bother with such modesty. They existed in a state of casual, breathtaking display. The redhead—whose name was Lina—would often stretch in the common room after a long shift, the movement pulling her already-short dress high up on her toned thighs, a contented sigh on her lips as if she were utterly alone.

Jennifer watched. She listened. She saw the easy touches, the shared smiles that lingered a beat too long, the way two maids might disappear into a linen closet and emerge minutes later, their uniforms slightly askew, their cheeks flushed. The house thrummed with a hidden current, a rhythm of desire that was as much a part of its foundation as the marble and steel. And Mr. Thorne ... he was the silent conductor. She caught glimpses of him—a broad-shouldered silhouette at the end of a hall, the low murmur of his voice behind a closed door, the scent of his sandalwood cologne lingering in a room he’d just vacated. His presence was a constant, subtle pressure.

On the eighth day, the summons came.

Elise found her in the conservatory, carefully misting the orchids. “Jennifer. You are to report to the west wing study in fifteen minutes. Mr. Thorne wishes to conduct your preliminary uniform inspection.”

A cold trickle, followed immediately by a flush of heat, raced down Jennifer’s spine. “Inspection?”

Elise’s dark eyes were unreadable. “A standard procedure for new staff. To ensure the uniform is worn correctly and fits to Mr. Thorne’s standards. Do not be late.” She turned to leave, then paused. “And Jennifer? Stand up straight.”

The fifteen minutes passed in a heart-pounding rush. Jennifer retreated to the staff washroom, her hands trembling as she tried to tame a flyaway strand of blonde hair. She stared at her reflection. The girl in the mirror was familiar yet foreign. Her C-cup breasts, firm and rounded from years of swimming, pressed against the slick black satin, creating a soft valley of cleavage that seemed deeper, more pronounced than ever. The athletic curve of her waist was accentuated by the dress’s cut, and her legs, toned and long, looked endless beneath the scandalously short hem. A week ago, this image would have horrified her. Now, it sent a confusing jolt straight to her core. It’s just a job, she told herself. It’s just fabric.