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Chapter One
Mila
The Wintertide Hotel gleamed with the kind of opulence that made your eyes widen and your breath catch—a marvel of crystal chandeliers and marble floors. It was my daily battlefield, armed with a duster and a cart full of cleaning supplies, waging war against every speck of dust that dared to settle on the polished surfaces.
As I fluffed pillows in one of the suites, my ears perked up at the sound of hushed voices from the hallway. I pressed my ear to the door, not to eavesdrop, but simply caught by curiosity’s current.
“…exclusive masquerade ball this weekend,” said one voice, rich like honey. “Invitation only, you know how it is.”
I knew indeed. The hotel’s annual gathering for those with bank accounts as vast as oceans and desires as hidden as the depths below. I straightened up, smoothing down my maid’s uniform—a stark contrast to the evening gowns and tailored suits that would soon waltz through these halls.
I returned to making beds with military precision, my mind adrift in a sea of what-ifs. I imagined slipping into a gown that clung to me like a second skin, my face hidden behind an intricate mask, twirling around the ballroom as an equal among those glittering titans of industry and heirs to fortunes.
But the sharp snap of latex gloves as I tugged them on pulled me back to reality. A maid at a masquerade ball? As likely as a fish riding a bicycle. Yet for a moment there, behind closed doors and within the confines of my own head, I was no longer just Mila Johnson, but a mysterious debutante with secrets in her smile.
My daydreams were put on pause as I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror—hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, eyes that had seen more dirty bathtubs than starlit dances. I let out a little laugh at myself; this was my world, and those dreams were just that—fleeting fantasies.
I pushed my cart down the corridor towards the next room on my list, tucking away thoughts of masquerade balls beneath fresh linens and bottles of multi-surface cleaner. But somewhere deep inside, where dreams are spun from whispers and wishes, I danced on.
My shift ended in the soft purr of twilight, the sky a canvas of deepening blues and purples. I slipped out the service door, my mind already on the bus schedule and the evening’s chores waiting at home. I’d taken no more than a few hurried steps when a solid form materialized from the dusky haze of evening, and I collided with a wall of bespoke tailoring and masculine scent.
“Whoa, careful there,” a voice rumbled above me, smooth as polished stone yet warm as sun-drenched linen.
I stumbled back, a hand steadying me by the elbow. My gaze traveled upward to meet eyes that weren’t just brown but a symphony of amber and mahogany, belonging to none other than Cassius Portman—his name a whispered legend even among those of us who only ever glimpsed him from afar. The handsome billionaire stood before me, an apology perched on my lips before I could think better of it.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Portman,” I managed, heat creeping up my neck and coloring my cheeks.
“No harm done,” he said with an easy grace that left no room for further embarrassment. But any solace his words offered was short-lived.
My boss appeared like an ill omen, materializing from the shadows with practiced disapproval etched into his features. “Mr. Portman, I apologize for my staff’s carelessness,” he said, voice dripping with contrition that didn’t reach his eyes.
I hung my head, not daring to meet Mr. Portman’s gaze again. I felt small, smaller than usual—like I’d shrunk beneath the weight of my boss’s silent reproach. Without another word, I sidestepped around them both and rushed off into the encroaching night, fleeing the scene of my clumsiness.
The air outside offered little relief as it clung to me like a second skin. The evening’s encounter replayed in my mind—a dance of what-ifs and could-have-beens—and for a moment, under the watchful eyes of stars just beginning to twinkle to life above, I allowed myself to imagine a different kind of meeting with Cassius Portman. One where I didn’t run away.
But dreams were dreams, and reality waited for no one—not even for maids who bumped into billionaires at dusk. So I quickened my pace towards the bus stop, leaving behind fantasies and what might have been a fleeting connection in another life—one where our worlds weren’t separated by invisible yet insurmountable lines drawn by circumstance and fortune.
***
The brisk evening air embraced me as I left the grandeur of the Wintertide Hotel behind, my mind still spinning from the collision with Cassius Portman. The city’s hum wrapped around me like a familiar shawl as I made my way home, the cacophony of car horns and distant chatter a stark contrast to the silent reverie I’d been lost in moments before.
I arrived at our modest apartment just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Pushing open the door, I was greeted by the smell of antiseptic and old books. My father’s cough echoed from his room—a constant reminder of his relentless battle with cancer.
Melody’s laughter reached my ears before I saw her, a sound as bright and cheerful as the daisies she often wore in her hair. She was perched on the edge of our tattered sofa, chatting animatedly with Josie, who had an uncanny ability to light up a room despite her shy demeanor.
“Your dad’s had a good day,” Melody said, her eyes sparkling as she caught sight of me. “He even cracked a joke about Dr. Phillips’ horrendous tie. Just keep it down, Chad and Rachel are already asleep, no idea where Brenda is though.”
Josie turned her gentle gaze toward me, offering a warm smile. “We brought some of that chicken soup he loves. Thought it might lift his spirits.”
I shed my coat and joined them, the weight of exhaustion falling from my shoulders in their comforting presence. “You two are angels,” I said.
We moved to Dad’s bedside together, like some kind of makeshift family unit that life had stitched together through shared struggles and moments of joy. He looked frail beneath the quilt I’d made him years ago, but his eyes twinkled with that same mischievous glint that defined my childhood.
“Look who’s finally home,” he teased weakly, reaching out for my hand.
“I missed you, Dad,” I replied, squeezing his fingers gently.
As Melody and Josie set about warming the soup in our kitchenette, I sat with Dad, recounting trivial details from my day—carefully omitting my encounter with Cassius. It felt like a secret too delicate to share just yet, a dreamlike moment that belonged only to me for now.
