The fake heiress, Veronica, was a mess of tears and mascara on the day I officially came back to the manor. Her drama queen moment? Mom and Dad were forcing her to marry Gideon Kessler—the notorious, ill-tempered playboy of the city’s elite, who also happened to be confined to a wheelchair. My mother, Elaine Ashton, glanced at my own rough hands, the skin calloused and scarred from years of manual labor, and let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “Since you’ve decided to show up, Maisie, you can take the contract. It’s not like you’ve seen the inside of a decent restaurant, let alone the world. You’ll be lucky to have it.” Veronica sat beside her, barely concealing a smirk, waiting for me to throw a fit, to beg, to refuse. Instead, I simply took a calm sip of the cheap coffee I’d been given and asked in my unpolished, direct way: “What’s the actual money we’re talkin’ here? Is the dowry stock options or cold, hard cash? And does the monthly allowance come on time?” The entire family froze. My mother, visibly stunned, stammered that the monthly allowance would be two million. I couldn’t help it—I laughed out loud, slapping my thigh. “Two million a month? You serious? Shoot, give me the money, and he can have the temper of a psycho. If he’s rich enough to pay, I’ll sponge-bathe him, flip him like a pancake, and tuck him in until he kicks the bucket!” “Where I come from, survival is the only virtue. What’s a little hardship, huh? Piece of cake!” My grand declaration landed with a thud. My birth mother stared at me as if I were a lunatic, before finally digging into her Birkin bag and tossing a bank card onto the coffee table. “Here’s a million. Your severance, so to speak. You’re the elder, but this marriage was always... well, never mind. Once you’re married, stay gone. Don’t come back and embarrass Veronica.” My hand shot out, pressing down on the card before it could slide off the polished wood. One million dollars. Back home in the country, my step-parents were ready to sell me to the village simpleton for a five-thousand-dollar bride price. To pay for my little brother’s school fees, I’d prick my hands bloody clipping thousands of threads a day at the factory just to earn fifty bucks. Now, I get a monthly salary and a one-million-dollar bonus just to play nursemaid to a rich cripple? This wasn't a punishment. This was the lottery. “What’s the PIN?” I pulled out my beat-up phone—the screen spiderwebbed with cracks—and opened my notepad to write it down. Veronica, sitting primly across from me, covered her mouth, a sneer flashing in her eyes. “Sister, you’re just... going to check your dignity at the door? That’s the Kesslers. It’s a literal death trap. You might get the money, but you’ll never live to spend it.” I didn't even lift my head. I jotted down the password, then carefully slipped the card into my inner pocket, patting it securely. Then I looked up. “Dignity, little sister? How much is that going for a pound these days? Does it buy dinner?” “Back home, I spent winters hauling a hundred-pound sack of feed to the pigs, with my little brother strapped to my back. If I was a minute late, I got hit. Now all I have to do is look after one guy for two million? Only an idiot like you would call this a death trap.” Veronica rolled her eyes, deciding I was clearly a lost cause, a peasant too poor to be reasoned with. My father, Robert Ashton, waved his hand dismissively from the head of the table. “Fine. Since you have no objections, pack your things and go. The Kessler car is waiting outside.” “You got it, Boss... I mean, Dad.” I agreed instantly, turned, and walked back to the cramped guest room where I’d left my belongings. I came out carrying one thing: a battered, bright red-and-blue utility tote. It held my entire life: two sets of faded clothes, a pack of my frozen pasta, and a few bottles of medical muscle rub. When I reached the front door carrying that ratty bag, Elaine’s face went pale green. “You’re going to show up at the Kesslers with that? Are you trying to make the Ashton name a joke in this city?” I looked down at the sturdy, synthetic canvas. “It’s durable. It holds a lot and it’s waterproof. We always used this kind for travel.” “Just go! Get out!” Elaine shooed me away, unable to look at me a moment longer. I shrugged, unbothered, and climbed into the stretch limo sent by the Kesslers. As the door closed, I looked through the tinted window. The three of them were huddled together: Veronica clinging to Elaine’s arm, whining, and Elaine stroking her hair. A perfect, intimate family tableau. I touched the bank card in my pocket, and a genuine, private smile stretched my face. If they knew this wasn't punishment, but a rescue, a genuine opportunity for me, I wondered if they’d be furious enough to demand that million back. The car made a smooth climb into the exclusive hillside community. The Kessler estate loomed on the hillside like a silent, black beast. It was late, and only a few dim ground lights were on. The man who’d picked me up, the butler, stopped the car. His eyes held a mixture of pity and contempt as he opened my door. “Miss Ashton,” he said, using the wrong name as a deliberate slight. “We’re here. Mr. Gideon’s temper is... challenging. Especially at night. Good luck to you.” I grabbed my utility tote and stepped out, looking up at the obscenely large house. I took a deep breath. “Show me the way,” I said, straightening my spine. My gaze was steady, as firm as a rock. “I’m clocking in.” The butler led me to a door at the end of the second-floor hallway. He dumped me with a curt, “The master doesn’t want visitors. Take care of yourself,” and vanished, as if a ghost were chasing him. I held my bag and reached for the knob. The moment my hand touched the brass, a heavy, metallic scent of medicine wafted out of the crack in the door. “Get out!” The door was barely ajar when a black shadow accompanied by a furious, primal roar flew at the opening. The years of endless farm work and factory shifts had trained my reflexes better than any boxing class. I sidestepped, and a delicate porcelain cup shattered against the doorframe. The shrapnel grazed my cheek, leaving a stinging trail. The room inside was pitch black. The legendary crippled husband was hidden in the shadows, his voice a gravelly snarl. “Are the Ashtons that desperate for cash? Sending me this?” I touched my cheek, feeling the warm bead of blood, but I wasn't angry. I was relieved. He could still throw things. That meant he wasn't dead. My long-term meal ticket was secure. Instead of retreating, I pushed the door open, walked in, and flipped the main light switch. The sudden glare made the man in the wheelchair throw an arm up to shield his eyes. I took him in: gaunt, too thin, with a pale face and sunken eye sockets. But nothing could hide the sharp, exquisite bone structure of his face, or the dark, bloodshot fury in his eyes. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Gideon Kessler saw my cheap clothes and the ratty utility tote and his disgust intensified. He snatched a black Amex from the bedside table and threw it. It hit my collarbone—sharp, painful—but the crisp sound it made as it hit the marble floor was music to my ears. My eyes lit up. I bent to snatch the card faster than a gambler seizing a winning hand. “Boss, what’s the PIN?” I pulled out my phone, opening my banking app. Time to verify the goods. Gideon choked on his anger, clearly not used to someone so mercenary. He gritted his teeth. “Six eights! Now get out!” I typed it in. Search. Seeing the dizzying string of zeros on the screen, my breath hitched. Hundreds, thousands, millions... Two million. It was real. Back home, I cooked, fed the livestock, washed clothes for ten people, and still had to bring piecework home from the factory—all for barely three thousand dollars a month, tops. Now, I take one hit, and I get two million? “Thank you, Boss!” I tucked the card into my inner pocket, patting it firmly, afraid it would somehow fly away. My sheer, naked greed made Gideon laugh—a weak, humorless sound. He pointed at the door. “You have the money. Can you leave now?” “Oh, no can do.” I put down my utility tote, rolled up my sleeves, and walked to the corner, where I expertly located a broom and mop. “I’ve accepted the money. And where I come from, we honor a deal. The money’s taken, the job’s getting done.” I knelt down and began to silently sweep up the shards of porcelain. The work was second nature, quick and efficient. I wasn't kidding; this felt like a break. In the old village, I spent winters washing ten people’s clothes in the icy river, my hands covered in cracked, weeping chilblains. I endured that soul-deep, burning pain for twenty-three years. Standing here now, in an air-conditioned mansion with the thermostat set to a comfortable seventy-eight degrees, and getting paid two million to sweep a floor? What reason did I have to leave? Gideon stared at me, as if I were a madwoman. “Are you deaf, or just trying to get yourself killed?” I finished mopping the floor until it gleamed, even wiping a smudge of dirt from his wheelchair tire, before standing up. I gave him a standard, deferential smile. “I’m Maisie Shaw. And from now on, I’m your full-time everything. You can have the worst temper in the world. As long as the checks clear, you can tear the roof off the house, and I’ll stack the bricks back up for you.” “Also, that cup looked expensive. Next time you need to vent, just smash the stainless-steel thermos. It won’t break, it’s loud, and it’s way cheaper.” My “dead pig doesn't fear boiling water” attitude seemed to completely baffle Gideon. He stared at me, then slammed his finger onto the call button on his wheelchair armrest. Ten minutes passed. The massive mansion remained utterly silent. No one came. “Do you see now?” Gideon slowly lifted his finger, a self-mocking sneer on his lips. “In this house, I’m less than a dog. Follow me, and you’ll get those numbers, but you’ll get nothing else.” I ignored his cynicism, my attention snagging on the untouched food tray on his bedside table. It was a bowl of congealed pastas, topped with sickly yellow, rotting greens. The oil had solidified into white grease. I walked over and touched the bowl. Ice cold. Hard as a rock. “You’re supposed to eat this?” I frowned. Gideon turned his head away, utterly jaded. “It’s fine. Just go. Stop playing the martyr.” I didn't say another word. I picked up the bowl and walked out. “Where are you going?” “To file a complaint.” Carrying that bowl of slop—worse than pig feed—I marched downstairs. As I approached the kitchen door on the first floor, I heard laughter, the sharp click of cards, and the rich, pungent scent of a catered hot meal wafting out. Unbelievable. The master eats cold slop while the staff hosts a party? I kicked the kitchen door open. The three housekeepers huddled around the table, their mouths slick with grease, nearly jumped out of their skin. The head cook, Doris, saw me and snorted, spitting a grape skin. “Well, look at the new Mrs. Kessler. Hungry? There’s some leftover dishwater in the pot. You can serve yourself—” “Splat!” I didn’t wait for her to finish. I backhanded the bowl of cold pastas onto the center of the poker table. Broth splattered everywhere. A long, yellow piece of congealed vegetable clung to Doris’s cheek. The room went dead silent. “Are you crazy?!” Doris shrieked, jumping up. “You backwoods—” “I am backwoods, but I know this much: you take the money, you do the job,” I cut her off. I grabbed the heavy meat cleaver off the cutting board and brought it down hard onto the corner of the table. It sank deep into the wood. The handle still vibrated. All three faces drained of color. Doris swallowed her next insult. I yanked the cleaver out, my voice flat and cold. “I don't care what the old rules were here. I’m here now, and the rules change.” “That man upstairs? He’s my money tree. You feed him trash, you’re trying to starve my future.” “And messing with my money... is worse than killing my family. Got it?” My eyes were hard, the reflected light off the cleaver’s blade glinting. The sheer, unrefined menace I'd learned from decades of living under the threat of violence was now fully deployed. No one spoke. Doris’s legs were shaking. “Make him a pot of rice congee, slow-cooked. The best shrimp and dried scallops you have. It needs to be upstairs in half an hour,” I tossed the cleaver back onto the board. “Do it wrong, and I’ll make you taste that cold pasta slop.” Without another glance at the three bullies, I turned and went back upstairs. Returning to the room, Gideon was in the same position. Seeing me empty-handed, his eyes were full of scorn. “Get chased off already?” I didn’t answer. I walked over, bent down, and crossed my arms beneath his armpits and under his knees. Gideon’s eyes widened. “What are you doing? Don’t touch me!” “Ah!” Following his startled shout, I inhaled, centered my weight, and—with the strength of a woman who'd spent two decades hauling pig feed and firewood—lifted him, blanket and all, off the wheelchair. “Let go of me! Maisie Shaw! I will kill you!” Gideon’s face was crimson with rage as he struggled violently in my arms.
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