So far… nothing. Well, almost nothing.
The good news: no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. Which means I can sleep and shower without an audience. Thank God for that, at least.
The bad news: I have access to everywhere except the two places that actually matter. His bedroom and study. And the more the days that pass, the more convinced I become that whatever intel Kayla’s captor wants will be found behind those locked doors.
But I can’t even break in without being caught on camera.
And I definitely can’t justaskhim for access, because that would require actually talking to him, and hell, I haven’t had the guts to do that at all since the incident in the kitchen.
Every evening, the moment the sun dips below the horizon, I go scurrying back to my room like some kind of prey animal, heart pounding, palms sweating. Pathetic, really.
After the first night, I’ve fallen into a routine. A twisted little ritual that would probably horrify me if I thought about it too hard.
I lie on my bed, blinking at the dark ceiling, waiting with bated breath for him to come home. My heart starts its erratic racing the moment I hear the front door open, and I listen like my life depends on it as he climbs the stairs.
Each night, he pauses outside my door. Just stands there for seconds that feel like hours.
Each night, I simultaneously pray for him to knock and hope he’ll just leave me alone.
Each night, I'm both disappointed and relieved when his footsteps continue to his own room.
Only when his door clicks shut do I allow myself to breathe again, to get up and take my sleeping pill.
It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I should bemoreworried about drugging myself unconscious while he’s in the house. But somehow, knowing he’s here, just down the hall, makes me feel… safer. Like nothing else can hurt me as long as he’s standing guard.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
But God, I’ve had the best sleep of my life the past few days. I feel refreshed. Clear-headed. And with that clarity came a realization: I’ve been overthinking this entire situation.
Roan doesn’t suspect anything about me at all. He’s not playing some elaborate mind game or punishing me. He’s just a man acting on his desire for a woman he wants. Easy for me to deal with.
And the nickname? Please. What man doesn’t give a woman he wants a pet name? It’s practically a requirement, isn’t it?
So I’ve come up with a plan.
Afrim mentioned I should cook for Roan, so that’s exactlywhat I’m going to do—but not Albanian food. I don’t know the first thing about it, and learning would take effort I’m not willing to invest. Plus, Roan would definitely be suspicious if I suddenly started making traditional dishes.
No, I’m going American. Old-fashioned mac and cheese with spicy chicken wings and tossed green salad. I even raided the main mansion’s refrigerator for beer—which earned me some curious looks from the kitchen staff, but no one questioned me.
Here’s my theory: Afrim is one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met, despite being a literal crime boss. So logically, Roan must have that same capacity for warmth buried somewhere deep inside. I haven’t seen it yet, but it has to be there. It has to be. And since he clearly wants me, I should be able to coax it out.
Tonight, when he gets home, I’m going to be the perfect domestic goddess. I’ll ply him with good food and cold beer. And once he’s relaxed and full, I’ll casually bring up how bad I feel about not doing my job completely. When he asks what I mean, I’ll look sad and say not being able to clean his bedroom and study. I’ll even suggest he send a guard or another maid to supervise if he doesn’t trust me in his private spaces.
I smirk, almost hearing him say there will be no need for that—and giving me those codes.
Once I have access to those rooms, I’ll have all the information I need. And I’ll finally be able to leave this estate and free my sister.
There’s no doubt in my mind that my plan will work.
What man isn’t putty in your hands after a good home-cooked meal?
A quiet hum threads out of me as I move around the kitchen,buoyed by the small jolt of hope that comes with having an actionable plan.
I’m just turning off the stove and oven, everything cooked to perfection, when I hear the security code being entered and the front door opening. My stomach drops straight through the floor, and sweat immediately slicks down my spine.
Shit. He’s early.
I’d hoped to shower and change into something… I don’t know, strategic? Something that says ‘harmless maid’ while also saying ‘you want me, so give me what I want’.
