They said he was perfect.
Dylan Blackwood—flawless jawline, killer smirk, and eyes cold enough to freeze fire. When he walked through Crestview High's golden gates, time slowed. Conversations paused. Girls flipped their hair. Boys straightened up. Teachers smiled like they feared him.
But I didn't.
I couldn't afford to.
Because while they saw him as a god walking among them, I knew a different side of Dylan—the one who tossed his keys at me like I was invisible. Because I was. Just a maid. The help. Nothing more.
And today, he looked at me like he'd just found out who I really was.
"You're the girl from the mansion," he said, his voice low, unreadable.
I froze. In the middle of the crowded hallway, I felt like I'd been stripped bare. He smirked. That same devilish smirk I had seen when he caught me cleaning his room last week.
From that moment, I knew two things.
One: Dylan Blackwood had recognized me.
Two: My life at school was about to become a living hell.
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I wanted to disappear.
The hallway buzzed around me—laughter, locker doors slamming, footsteps echoing—but all I could hear was the sound of his voice, still playing over in my head.
"You're the girl from the mansion."
Not Isla. Not the quiet one from Biology.
Just the maid.
I clutched my books tighter to my chest and forced myself to move, to walk past him like nothing happened. But my heart thudded like a drum in my chest, loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
This school was my escape. The only place I wasn't wiping glass tables and scrubbing marble floors. But now… even here, I wasn't safe.
"Well, well, if it isn't Cinderella in uniform."
My eyes flicked up—and there she was.
Jasmine Lane.
Head cheerleader. Daughter of a senator. Owner of the most toxic smile I'd ever seen.
And the girl who had been obsessed with Dylan since forever.
She leaned against her locker, flipping her glossy black hair like she was in a shampoo commercial, eyes narrowed directly at me.
"I saw him looking at you," she said, voice dripping with venom. "Don't get ideas. He doesn't date the help. He tips them."
Her squad laughed behind her like trained parrots.
I didn't respond. I never did. That was the rule: ignore, survive, repeat.
But as I walked away, I could feel two pairs of eyes on me.
One filled with hate.
I should've looked away. I should've kept walking. But as I stepped past Dylan, I glanced back—and he was still watching me. Not with curiosity. Not with interest. But with intent.
Like a hunter who had just found something new to break.
I turned the corner, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the rest of the hallway noise. Jasmine's laughter faded behind me, but her words stuck like gum on the bottom of my shoe: He doesn't date the help. He tips them.
Maybe that was true. Maybe Dylan Blackwood would never really see me.
But something in his eyes told me otherwise.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
And for the first time since I'd started working at the mansion, I felt something worse than fear.
I felt seen.