Chapter 1 The Girl in the Kitchen
Amara had learned one important rule during her three months at the Laurent mansion.
Never look the Laurent family in the eyes.
Not Mr. Laurent.
Not his wife.
And especially not his two children.
She had learned the rule on her first day.
“You're a servant,” Mrs. Laurent had told her coldly. “Remember your place.”
Amara had nodded.
“Yes, ma'am.”
She hadn't argued.
She never argued.
At sixteen, Amara had already learned that sometimes silence was the only thing keeping a bad situation from becoming worse.
“Amara!”
The shout from upstairs made her freeze.
She quickly dried her hands on her apron.
“Yes, ma'am!”
“Where is my blue dress?”
“I washed it this morning, ma'am. It's hanging in the—”
“I didn't ask for an explanation!”
Amara lowered her eyes.
“Sorry, ma'am.”
Footsteps thundered down the marble staircase.
Mrs. Laurent appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed perfectly despite the early hour.
Her eyes immediately found Amara.
“You were supposed to iron it.”
“I did.”
“Then why isn't it in my room?”
“I thought—”
“You thought?”
Amara stopped.
That had been the wrong answer.
Mrs. Laurent walked closer.
“You are paid to work, not think.”
Amara swallowed.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Go upstairs.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She hurried away.
She had barely reached the staircase when a voice behind her made her stop.
“Wait.”
Amara turned.
Mrs. Laurent pointed toward the floor.
A glass vase lay shattered beside the dining-room table.
“Clean that.”
Amara stared at the broken pieces.
“But the dress—”
“Can wait.”
Amara nodded.
“Yes, ma'am.”
She knelt down.
Carefully, she began picking up the pieces.
One by one.
She didn't notice the figure standing at the end of the hallway.
Mr. Laurent had just returned home.
He had expected the mansion to be quiet.
Instead, he found his young housemaid kneeling on the floor while his wife watched her.
He frowned.
“What happened?”
Mrs. Laurent immediately turned.
“Nothing, darling.”
Mr. Laurent's eyes moved to Amara.
She quickly lowered her head.
“Good morning, sir.”
Something about her voice made him pause.
It was strangely familiar.
Not familiar like someone he'd met before.
Familiar like a memory he couldn't quite reach.
“What's your name?”
Amara looked up.
“Amara, sir.”
The name hit him strangely.
He stared at her for another second.
Then his phone rang.
He turned away to answer it.
Amara returned her attention to the broken glass.
She didn't see the way Mr. Laurent looked back at her before walking upstairs.
She didn't know that, for the first time in fifteen years, something inside the Laurent mansion had begun to feel wrong.
And she certainly didn't know that the billionaire who had just walked past her was the father she had been searching for her entire life.
Not because she knew him.
But because somewhere deep inside her memory...
She had once called him Daddy.
