My Family Forced Me to Become a Maid at 17—But Every Night, I Secretly Entered the Millionaire’s Son’s Room

“Sir? Cute.”

You try to step around him, but he shifts with you.

“You clean my brother’s room?”

Your stomach tightens.

“Yes.”

“How is the crippled prince?”

Your hands curl around the laundry basket.

“He is resting.”

Damian smiles.

“Of course he is. That’s all he does.”

You say nothing.

That is another thing you have learned in the mansion.

Silence protects you.

At least, until it doesn’t.

That night, when you enter Alejandro’s room, he notices your face.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You place his dinner tray on the desk.

“I’m fine.”

His expression hardens.

“Was it Damian?”

You freeze.

That is answer enough.

Alejandro looks toward the door like he wants to roll out and break something.

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Those words stop you.

In your own family, your feelings were a luxury no one could afford. Your father drank through apologies he never gave. Your mother called sacrifice obedience. Your brothers ate first because “men need strength,” while you learned to make hunger quiet.

No one had ever said your humiliation mattered.

You turn away before he can see your eyes.

“He called you something cruel,” you say.

Alejandro’s face closes.

“Oh.”

“And he laughed.”

For a long moment, he says nothing.

Then he whispers, “He used to laugh after the accident too.”

You look at him.

Not directly.

Carefully.

“What happened that night?”

His hands tighten around the wheels of his chair.

“I was driving back from San Francisco. Damian was in the passenger seat. We had gone to a private party. He was drunk. I wasn’t supposed to drive, but he was worse.”

Your chest tightens.

“The police report said a truck cut us off,” he continues. “The car went off the road. I woke up in the hospital two days later. Damian had a broken wrist. I had a broken spine.”

You sit slowly on the edge of the chair across from him.

“Do you remember the crash?”

He looks out the window.

“Not clearly.”

“But you remember something.”

His silence stretches.

Then he says, “I remember Damian grabbing the wheel.”

A chill moves through you.

“Why?”

Alejandro’s voice drops.

“We were arguing.”

“About what?”