The next morning.

Arianna was jolted awake by her alarm. She grabbed her duvet, sitting upright on the bed in a daze. The events of last night replayed in her mind like a looped reel—a series of sensory flashes.

The sofa in his bedroom, the dim corner of the kitchen…

The sensation of his thin lips pressed against her eyelids, the calloused tips of his fingers massaging her earlobes, and the way his voice, thick with desire, had dropped to a low, gravelly whisper calling her "baby."

Thoughts are one thing; reality is another.

Whatever fleeting scrap of courage she’d managed to conjure up before sleep had completely vanished by dawn. Arianna made a split-second decision: run.

She didn't care how far she could get, or how long she could hide. She just needed to ensure she wouldn’t have to face him this morning. The mere thought of that level of drama made her heart skip beats like a frantic bird.

It was still early. She scrambled out of bed to wash up, skipping her makeup entirely.

Ten minutes later, Arianna carefully eased her bedroom door open. The guest room next door was shut tight—he was surely still asleep. From the kitchen downstairs, she heard the soft clink of china and metal. It had to be the housekeeper.

Maxwell didn't keep a live-in maid; a professional housekeeper came by daily to handle the meals and would usually leave immediately after. Arianna had crossed paths with her a few times before. She could just make up a flimsy excuse and bolt.

Clutching her handbag, Arianna crept down the stairs like a cat burglar, hugging the wall and tip-toeing toward the foyer.

As she reached down to slip into her flats, the clattering of the spatula in the kitchen suddenly ceased, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps. The housekeeper had heard her.

Arianna plastered a bright, rehearsed smile on her face and turned around. "Hi, sorry! Something urgent came up, so I won’t be able to stay for breakfast—"

The rest of the sentence died in her throat. She froze.

Maxwell was standing there, staring at her. He held a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other, clearly in the middle of frying eggs. To make the surreal image worse, he was wearing a bright, goofy cartoon apron.

He looked at her with a maddeningly calm expression, one eyebrow arched with a hint of playful mockery. He seemed completely unbothered, utterly at ease.

In contrast, Arianna felt like a mouse caught in a trap.

Why was it him? Where was the housekeeper? Had the woman simply vanished into thin air?

Arianna’s smile faltered, her face stiffening. She bit her lip and glanced past him, desperately searching for any sign of the staff. The kitchen remained empty.

Maxwell seemed to read her mind. "The housekeeper had a family emergency. She's back home; won't be back for a few days."

"Oh," Arianna managed, her voice hollow. "Right. I see."

"You were saying? Something urgent?"

"Ah, yes. Definitely. Very urgent." The more nervous she felt, the worse her excuses became. She improvised, "My boss just called. There’s a client demand report that needs drafting before the morning meeting."

She rattled off the details, desperate to make it sound authentic. Little did she know, Maxwell hadn't believed a single word since the moment she started speaking.

"You start work at six in the morning? What time do you clock out?"

Arianna blinked at him, confused. "Eight? Ten? It depends, I'm not really sure."

"Your company is in clear violation of labor laws."

Arianna stared at him, baffled. What did labor laws have to do with any of this?

"Arianna, you have the right to refuse. In fact, you should sue them. If you’re lucky, you could walk away with a massive settlement."

Arianna: "..."

Maxwell loomed over her like some sort of charismatic demon, grinning. "Do you need a lawyer? My legal team is the best in the city. I’ll let you use them for free. Consider it a gift."

Arianna: "..."

"N-no, it's fine," she stammered, scrambling to pull her narrative back from the brink. "My boss didn't say I *had* to go in right now. I just… I wanted to get a head start."

"Then there’s no rush. Eat breakfast first, and then go. Can you do that?"

His tone was perfectly reasonable, like a saintly guardian. If she hadn’t just witnessed his high-handed "persuasion" tactics last night, she might have actually fallen for the act.

"Oh, sure," she forced herself to agree. "A few minutes won't hurt."

"Great. Come sit."

Maxwell seemed satisfied. He watched her kick off her flats and slide into her slippers, then turned back to the stove, humming as he went back to his cooking.

—

At the table, the scent of fresh eggs and toasted sourdough filled the air.

Outside, dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long, shifting shadows across the floor. A soft breeze drifted in through the window, carrying the quiet hum of the morning.

Maxwell had discarded the cartoon apron, revealing a crisp button-down shirt and tailored trousers. He sat with his arms resting on the table, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, well-defined forearms.

His features were sharp and cool. He looked nothing like the "puppy" he’d played last night; he was back to being the untouchable, high-mountain icon, radiating the effortless, suffocating authority of a man who owned the room.

He frowned suddenly, pressing his fingertips to his temple and massaging firmly.

Arianna noticed immediately. "Is your head hurting?"

"A little," he replied, barely lifting his gaze. "Probably the alcohol from last night."

Arianna offered a vague, noncommittal murmur. She had no intention of reliving the night before, so she scrambled for a different topic, only for Maxwell to beat her to it.

"Last night," he said, staring at her with profound intensity. "I didn't do anything, did I?"

Arianna’s eyelashes fluttered. "No."

Maxwell looked unconvinced. "Are you sure? Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

"That’s strange," he drawled, tilting his head with a smirk. "Because I seem to remember you… forcing yourself on me."

Arianna: "???"

"!!!"

"I woke up with a bit of a sore lip," he added, his voice smooth as silk.

"No," Arianna said, her face completely blank. "You’re remembering it wrong."

"Maybe I was dreaming?" He gestured vaguely toward the sofa. "Right over there. I dreamt that you were holding me, kissing me over and over again."

Arianna followed his gaze, and her world went dark. That was exactly where *he* had kissed *her*.

She steadied herself, her voice icy. "You definitely dreamt it."

Maxwell stared at her, his expression unreadable. Slowly, the light in his eyes seemed to dim. The playful smirk vanished, replaced by a look of performative fragility.

"It's fine," he said, his voice dropping to a low, wounded whisper. "If you don't want to take responsibility, just forget I said anything. It’s not like it happened."

He looked at her, so painfully soft and betrayed. "It’s okay, Arianna. Truly."

Arianna: "..."