Lewis Delgado, the prince of the Capital's elite circle, kept me for three years. Everyone in our world said I was his dog.

The day his first love came back from abroad, he told me to get lost. I did more than get lost—I handed him a thick stack of documents on my way out.

Lewis assumed it was a letter of remorse. He opened it with a sneer, but the smile froze on his face.

It was an itemized Emotional Services Invoice covering the past one thousand and ninety-five days:

"Hand-holding fee: $5,000/instance. Drink-blocking fee: $20,000/bottle. Faking orgasms: $100,000/includes performance premium."

I extended my hand, calm and composed. "Mr. Delgado, settle the balance, and we're even."

Lewis's eyes went red. He tore the document to shreds. "Abigail Fox, did you not have one ounce of sincerity in this house?"

I pulled out a calculator, genuinely puzzled. "Sincerity? That's a separate line item. You never purchased it, Mr. Delgado."

——

The moment his fingers loosened, the scraps drifted down like snowflakes.

"Abigail. Three years in this house. I treated you so well, and you turned it into a transaction?"

His voice ground out through clenched teeth, vibrating with disbelief and fury.

"Mr. Delgado, let's not rewrite history."

I straightened my spine.

"By 'well,' do you mean the nights you got drunk calling Miss Simmons's name while I sat beside you, mimicking her voice to coax you to sleep?"

"Or do you mean the galas where you paraded me in front of trust-fund brats who called me 'the knockoff'—and you stood there and said nothing?"

"Or maybe—"

"You're blaming me?"

A cold laugh. He stepped forward, his presence bearing down like a wall.

"Mr. Delgado, please."

I lifted my chin and gave him that flawless, impeccable smile he loved so much—the professional kind, the kind that never reached the eyes.

"I graduated with a finance degree. I don't make losing deals. In three years, I blocked eighty-six drinks for you, handled twenty-four women angling for my spot, and managed your emotional needs every single night. That's labor. It has costs."

"Reset—eighty-six times ten, plus—"

I shoved the calculator screen in his face.

"I'll round down. Twenty-four million. And since you're welcoming Miss Simmons home, I'll throw in a two-percent discount. Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness."

Lewis stared at the number. His chest heaved.

"Fine. Fine."

One swipe of his hand sent the calculator clattering to the floor.

He looked at me. "The Fox family still owes me fifty million. You walk out now—how do you plan to settle that?"

I crouched down, picked up the calculator, and pressed the reset key.

"Your memory's slipping, Mr. Delgado." I stood, brushing the dust off my knees. "Last month, the acquisition I closed for you? The commission plus my base salary covered the last of the debt. The bank statements hit your inbox yesterday."

Lewis didn't check his inbox.

He sank onto the sofa and lit a cigarette.

Smoke curled upward, veiling his eyes.

"So you used me, and now you want to leave?" He exhaled a ring of smoke. "Clarissa just got back and you can't wait to throw attitude in my face?"

"It's the end of a contract." I corrected him. "Our employment relationship terminates today."

The electronic click of a fingerprint lock echoed from the foyer.

The door opened.

Clarissa Simmons stood in the doorway in a white dress, a limited-edition Birkin dangling from her fingers.

She took in the shredded paper scattered across the floor, then looked at me.

"Lewis, did I come at a bad time?" She stayed where she was, her fingers tightening around the bag strap.

Lewis crushed out his cigarette and rose to his feet, walking toward Clarissa.

As he passed me, he deliberately knocked his shoulder into mine.

The shove hit hard.

I stumbled half a step, barely catching my balance.

Lewis took the bag from Clarissa's hand and set it on the cabinet, then turned to look at me.

"Who said you could leave?"

A cold smirk crossed his face.

"When you signed the contract, Supplemental Clause Ten was spelled out in black and white."

"'Until Party A consents to termination, Party B must unconditionally renew for a three-month transition period.'"

He lifted his chin toward Clarissa.

"Clarissa just got back to the country. She's fragile—can't handle stress."

"And I'm not going to find someone suitable on short notice."

"Until I hire a proper caretaker, you'll stay and attend to her."

I froze for a moment.

"Doesn't Mr. Delgado find my presence... an eyesore?"

Lewis said nothing. He just stared at me, his gaze glacial.

I drew a deep breath and pressed the calculator in my hand back to life.

"That'll be extra."

The next morning, six a.m. sharp.

I was up and in the kitchen right on time.

Lewis had a chronic stomach condition—breakfast was always fresh-ground black soy milk and a warm sandwich.

Clarissa had low blood sugar. No matter how late she slept in, she needed her bird's nest soup.

All of it was in my professional repertoire.

At seven thirty, Lewis came downstairs.

He wore a charcoal custom-tailored suit, his tie hanging loose and unknotted.

Before, I would have walked over, taken the tie from his hands, and risen on my toes to knot it for him.

That was my "Warm Morning" service—two thousand dollars per occurrence.

Today, I stayed behind the counter, head down, slicing fruit.

Lewis walked to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

He glanced at the empty table, then at me.

"Tie," he said.

I set down the knife, dried my hands, and walked over to him.

But I didn't take the tie. Instead, I pulled out my phone and opened the payment screen.

"Tie-knotting service, two thousand per session." I held the screen in front of his face. "Mr. Delgado, scan first."

Lewis went still.

He stared at the QR code. His chest rose once, sharply.

"Abigail Fox." He used my full name. "Are you that obsessed with money?"

"Professional standards." My expression didn't waver. "No credit."

Footsteps sounded on the staircase.

Clarissa drifted down in a silk nightgown, her cheeks flushed with the softness of sleep.

"Lewis, fighting this early in the morning?" She walked to his side and reached for the tie in his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Let me help. Abigail used to be a socialite—she's not cut out for this kind of thing."

She rose on her toes and fumbled with the tie around his neck, her movements clumsy and unpracticed.

Lewis didn't push her away. His eyes stayed fixed on me.

Clarissa tried three times. The knot came out crooked, the tie hanging limp and lopsided around his collar.

"Ugh, this is so hard." She stuck out her tongue. "Lewis, am I hopeless?"

He pulled his gaze away from me and looked down at her. "It's fine. I'm not in a rush."

He took her hands gently and guided them through the knot.

The two of them stood close, their breath mingling.

I stood to the side and checked my watch.

Seven forty-five.

"Mr. Delgado. Miss Simmons." I spoke up. "Per the agreement, my working hours begin when you sit down for your meal. Since this is currently a tutorial session, I'll head back to my room."

I turned to leave.

"Stop." Lewis's voice cut through the air like a blade.

I stopped.

"Come here." He pointed at the bird's nest soup on the table. "Clarissa's hands are too delicate for hot dishes. Feed her."

A blush crept up Clarissa's cheeks. "That's not necessary, Lewis. I can manage on my own..."

"Let her do it." Lewis looked straight at me, his eyes devoid of warmth. "She took the money. She does the work."

I walked to the table and picked up the bowl of steaming bird's nest soup.

I stirred it once with the spoon, letting the heat curl upward in thin wisps. Then I scooped up a spoonful and brought it to Clarissa's lips.

Clarissa glanced at Lewis, then opened her mouth.

The instant the spoon touched her lips, she flinched. Her head jerked back, and her hand swatted the bowl away.

"It's burning!" she cried.

The porcelain bowl hit the floor.

Scalding soup splashed out, most of it landing on the back of my hand and my wrist.

The skin flushed red immediately.

Clarissa clutched her chest, eyes brimming. "I'm so sorry, Abigail—I didn't mean to, it was just so hot..."

Lewis pulled Clarissa toward him, checking her face and neck.

"Are you burned?" His voice was tight with concern.

Once he confirmed she was fine, he turned to look at me.

Two glistening blisters had already risen on the back of my hand.

His gaze lingered on them for exactly one second. Then it moved away.

"You can't even handle something this simple," Lewis said. "Clean it up."

I lowered my hand. The blisters grazed the hem of my sleeve, and a sharp sting shot through my skin.

"Of course," I said.

I bent down and gathered the shards of porcelain from the floor.

My fingers bled where the edges bit in. I didn't make a sound.

At eight that evening, a private banquet was held at the Delgado Mansion.

It was a welcome-home celebration for Clarissa.

Lewis handed me a black staff uniform and assigned me to serve drinks and direct guests.

I was the former companion. Now I was the waitstaff.

Everyone in the Capital's elite circle treated it as entertainment—a chance to watch the fallen Fox heiress make a fool of herself.

I changed into the uniform and moved through the crowd with a tray balanced on my palm.

Someone deliberately clipped my shoulder. Wine sloshed over the rim.

"Well, well—isn't that Abigail Fox?" A woman in a red dress covered her mouth, laughing. "What happened, didn't Lewis give you a severance package?"

I recognized her. She'd once tried to cozy up to Lewis, and I'd been made to down three shots of hard liquor on her behalf.

"Beth Finch." I pulled a cloth from my apron and wiped down the tray. "The champagne runs ten thousand a bottle. You just knocked over half a glass. That's five thousand in damages. Card or wire transfer?"

The color drained from her face. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If you'd rather not pay," I tipped my chin toward Lewis across the room, "that's my employer over there. You're welcome to file a complaint. He can dock it from my wages—though he usually requires the responsible party to reimburse ten times the amount."

Beth glared at me, then walked away.

In the center of the hall, Lewis had Clarissa on his arm as they made their rounds, toasting guests.

Clarissa wore a couture gown. Around her neck hung a sapphire necklace.

I'd seen that necklace before.

It had belonged to my mother. It was also the most valuable thing I'd ever pawned to Lewis.

I stood in the shadows, watching the sapphire catch the light.

Lewis seemed to sense my gaze. He turned his head.

He raised his glass in my direction—a distant, mocking salute.

A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

Clarissa followed his line of sight, then leaned close and whispered something in his ear.

Lewis nodded.

Clarissa gathered her skirt and walked toward me.

She stopped in front of me, her fingers trailing along the necklace.

"Abigail, Lewis told me this necklace was your mother's." Clarissa smiled. "It's beautiful—I absolutely love it. He said he's giving it to me. You don't mind, do you?"

I stared at the sapphire.

"It's his property." My voice dropped low. "It has nothing to do with me."

"As long as you don't mind." Clarissa plucked a glass of red wine from a passing tray. "As a thank-you, let me toast you."

She held the glass out to me.

I reached for it.

Clarissa's fingers released.