Chapter 6

• With surprising strength, she pulls his head down, and a deep, amused chuckle escapes him as she kisses both his cheeks soundly. "My boy," she says, or at least that's what it sounds like.
• "Grandmother," Sandro's voice dips, unsettling Anastasia. The affection in it strikes her, making her long for her father, as it has been far too long since she has witnessed such warmth.
• "I didn't think you would come," she replies, laughter lightening her tone.
• "Because you gave me a choice. You look well," Sandro responds.
• She nods in approval. "You're thinner. Nothing a few days of healthy meals won't fix." Turning his head to inspect him, she continues, "I told you that straying too far would ruin your beautiful complexion. You have such dark circles under your eyes. Trouble sleeping? I'll have Dr. Russford pay a visit. You must be in perfect condition. And there's also the matter of—"
• "Grandmother," Sandro interjects, his tone sharper, halting her mid-sentence and causing Anastasia to flinch at the sudden darkness in his voice. It appears to be a sensitive topic.
• Her eyes narrow, and just as she parts her lips to reprimand him, she finally notices Anastasia standing awkwardly beside him. The woman's nostrils crinkle as she takes in Anastasia's disheveled hair, mismatched oversized pajamas, and unfortunate flip-flops.
• Tilting her head, she raises her gaze to Anastasia's face. "What have you dragged home from the gutters this time, Sandro?"
• Anastasia feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment. If only she had been given more time to attend to her appearance and find suitable clothing, she wouldn't look like a gutter rat.
• Sandro stiffens, casting a dark, irritated glance back at her. Oh no, did she just say that out loud?
• Under the scrutiny of both his and his grandmother's gazes, warmth floods the pit of her stomach, spreading like wildfire. "I—"
• "She's the help," Sandro replies smoothly, a response far better than anything she could have concocted.
• "The help," his grandmother echoes, assessing Anastasia with a sharp gaze that suggests she's found her lacking yet again. It's clear where Sandro gets his attitude.
• "You've brought home another stray cat," she says, practically sneering at Anastasia with palpable disdain.
• Sandro shrugs, linking his arm with hers. "Charity, grandma. You taught me the importance of helping those in need."
• Turning her away from Anastasia, he looks back at the guards instead. Not at her, as if she were invisible. "Vincent, take her to the house manager."
• ........
• It had been over a week since she last saw Sandro. The truth? She didn't particularly miss him or his infuriatingly perfect lips. Instead, she was settling in well with the other maids. She had a room, albeit next to the guards', but it was hers—something real and personal after such a long time.
• Although she struggled with cooking, the chef appreciated her enthusiasm and noted that she was a quick learner.
• Not all the maids were fond of her. Half seemed to believe she was sleeping with Sandro for special treatment, while the other half were so accommodating she felt as if they had been best friends since childhood. She ignored the sneers directed at her; she was focused on earning her keep in her first real job—her first real anything.
• The house manager, Lizabeth, had informed her that her monthly salary would be enough to cover her accommodation in the outhouse, with some left over for herself.
• Never had she smiled so brightly. If she could save enough, she could leave this place. And unlike Jayson, Sandro wouldn't stop her if she decided to go. In fact, he probably wouldn't care. He might even toast to her departure.
• Then came the matter of his grandmother. Anastasia was convinced the woman loathed her; she was always observing, searching for mistakes. Apart from her dreadful cooking, there wasn't much else to criticize, as Anastasia had cleaned Jayson's apartment and done his laundry for fun. She excelled at those tasks.
• If she had the opportunity, she would tell Sandro's grandmother to keep her eyes on her granddaughter-in-law, who always seemed to dress impressively whenever Sandro was around.
• That woman didn't like Anastasia either, perhaps because she was not Italian or because she saw her as a threat to Sandro—never mind that her husband was on life support. It was a ridiculous thought.
• "Tasha, could you fill in for me today?" Luciana asked, clutching her mop closely to her chest. "I have to visit the hospital."
• "Oh, of course!" Anastasia replied, smiling as Luciana beamed and leaned in to kiss her cheeks in gratitude. However, Anastasia instinctively flinched.
• Noticing this, Luciana kept her distance, her eyes filled with concern. "Every time we come too close, you flinch or lash out. I don't want to intrude, but I think you should consider getting some help." Her tone was gentle, laced with worry, yet it only hardened the ice around Anastasia's heart.
• "I'm fine," she insisted, hating herself for how cold her tone sounded and that it made Luciana flinch in response.
• "Seriously," she added quickly, hoping to ease the tension.
• Luciana nodded, but the worry didn't leave her eyes as she walked to the end of the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
• Therapy was not something she could afford right now, and even if she could, she doubted it would make any difference. The fear had seeped too deep into her being; it had become one with her roots.
• Unfortunately for her, taking over after Luciana meant she had to clean the boss's study and bedroom. Typically, she was assigned to the kitchens, guest rooms, and a few long hallways that left her back, thighs, and arms aching with exhaustion by the end of the day. She had never ventured upstairs—or into Sandro's room.
• The mere thought left a bitter taste in her mouth as she gripped the vacuum cleaner in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. Maybe she should consider placing a rat under his sheets or setting them ablaze for every instance he had been rude and unpleasant to her.
• As she struggled to navigate the stairs with her obvious burden, she politely declined the help offered by a guard at the corner, wary of his overly friendly smile. No man was that nice without ulterior motives.
• Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she noticed the grouchy grandmother walking next to a stunning tall blonde who wore a velvet green suit better than any model. The woman's cold emerald eyes passed right over Anastasia as if she were merely furniture, while the cranky grandma stared at her with reproach and condemnation.
• Moving away from the wall where she had pressed herself, she allowed the men behind them to pass by, a few casting slimy glances her way. They must be visitors; she hadn't seen them around before.
• Sandro's room was scrupulously clean. It reeked of masculinity, the crisp scent of books and money, mixed with something clean and spicy. Everything was meticulously arranged, almost jarringly so.
• Jayson would never bother to remove hair from his comb or wipe sweat from his mirror like this. The sheets were perfectly aligned, with pillows spaced equally apart, making it hard to believe Sandro had even spent the night there—except for the neatly folded dirty laundry in the basket.
• Well, if the rude prick wasn't a neat freak.
• Nonetheless, she proceeded with her cleaning, and when she reached the bed, she knelt on all fours to peek underneath. That was when the door swung open behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at the sudden, electric tension filling the air. Slowly, she backed away from under the bed and turned to face Sandro. As usual, he appeared annoyed. "What are you doing?"