Chapter 1: The Maid’s Illusion

You blinked in the pale morning light, the scent of bleach and lavender clinging to your hands, and realized you weren’t just dreaming—you were someone else entirely. You’d woken up in the body of a live-in maid, a young woman assigned to serve in your boss’s private quarters. Too many romance novels had filled your head with stories of chasing after 'the one,' burning bridges for love, and you clung to the naive hope that your boss would have eyes only for you.

The thought was ridiculous in the cold light of day, but it wouldn’t let go. Even as you caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror, hair tucked under a starched cap and apron pressed so stiff it could stand up on its own—just like the ones you’d seen in old Southern cookbooks—your heart spun stories where you were the chosen one. In those daydreams, love, not luck or family, could change your fate.

You took a risk and shared his bed, guiding that inexperienced young man through his first taste of intimacy. For him, everything was new and thrilling; he clung to you with the fervor of first love. You mistook his attachment for something deeper: you believed he loved you, would love you tomorrow, and would go on loving you for three whole days.

Those nights, with the hush of the old house pressing in and his hands trembling in yours, you let yourself believe in happy endings. You imagined him whispering your name at dawn, and you—swaddled in borrowed warmth—pretended you belonged there. It was foolish, but you clung to it anyway.

On the fourth day, before you could even pretend to urge him toward restraint, another maid slipped into his bed. You wanted to scream or throw something, but all you did was bite your lip until you tasted blood.

You heard the giggle behind the wall, saw the shadow of her bare feet padding down the hallway. It stung—a sour ache curling inside your chest. You’d seen enough soaps and sitcoms to know how this story ended, but living it made the script cut deeper.

All of you were live-in maids, after all; if you could share his bed, naturally, so could the others. The unspoken rules of the house were as clear as a Sunday sermon. No matter how you tried to claim a piece of him, there would always be someone younger, prettier, or just different waiting in the wings.