Amara's POV
I had one hand on the doorknob, already imagining the relief of the rain slick driveway and the freedom beyond it, when his voice cut across the hall.
"Miss Castillo."
The words stopped me instantly. They sounded like a command, not a greeting.
I turned slowly. Trey was leaning against the carved banister at the base of the grand staircase. Gray storm light spilled through the tall windows, catching in his hair and along his bare forearms. He was no longer wearing the charcoal suit. Instead, he had on a plain white T-shirt and dark sweatpants, the kind of clothes ordinary men wore at home. On him, they looked anything but ordinary. The fabric clung to lean muscle, the simplicity somehow making him more striking. He looked relaxed and completely in control at the same time.
In his hand, he held something small and black. A set of car keys dangled loosely between his fingers.
"You're leaving to get your things," he said. It was not a question. It was a decision already made.
I tightened my grip on my portfolio. "Yes. I need my files and clothes."
"You'll take one of my cars," he replied flatly as he stepped closer, shrinking the distance between us. "Starting today."
My brows pulled together. "Excuse me?"
He flicked the keys, making them catch the light. "Your old car dies in the middle of the road during a storm. That's unacceptable. You can't show up to my wedding project looking soaked and late. You're working for me now. I don't want delays. And I don't want excuses."
His words struck with precision.
"I don't need your car," I said, lifting my chin.
"You do if you're on my time." His gaze locked onto mine, cool and unwavering. "I hate tardiness. Time is money. If you represent my wedding, you will arrive on time. Every time. You cannot run a multi-million-peso event like a barangay fiesta and show up late with an umbrella and an apology."
Something in his tone made me feel small again, the way I had as a teenager hiding in the servants' wing.
The memory surfaced instantly.
I was fifteen again, crouched behind the carved balusters, clutching a tray to my chest and praying I wouldn't spill iced tea as his laughter drifted from the garden. Rose petals floated on the breeze. Champagne glasses clinked across the lawn. My cheap shoes pinched my feet, but I didn't dare move. He was there. Trey, already twenty-five, taller than the other men, moving with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere. He glanced my way once, eyes dark as the storm that would come later, then looked straight through me.
Then came the night in the rose garden.
I had slipped away from my shift, still wearing my plain dress and apron, my heart pounding so hard I thought he might hear it. He stood by the fountain, jacket over one shoulder, tie loosened. The air smelled of damp grass and expensive cologne.
"Trey," I whispered, my voice shaking as my fingers twisted the fabric of my skirt. "Can I talk to you?"
He turned, brows lifting as if surprised. "You shouldn't be out here." His voice was already steady, already grown.
"I'm on break," I rushed to say. "I just need to tell you something."
He looked at me the way someone looks at a stray cat on the porch. Curious, cautious, already ready to send it away. "Go on."
My throat tightened. "I like you," I blurted. "I've liked you for a long time."
For a brief moment, something softened in his expression. Something almost gentle. I thought, just for a second, that maybe there was hope.
Then his mouth twisted. "You're fifteen," he said quietly, the words cutting like glass. "And you're just the maid's daughter. Stop believing in fairy tales. They're not for you."
"I'm not," I tried to say.
"Go back inside, Amara." His voice was softer, but final. "You don't belong out here."
Shame burned through me. My eyes stung. My hands clenched so tightly around the tray that the silver edge bit into my palms. I turned and ran, my shoes slipping on wet grass, the scent of roses clinging to me like a bruise.
Now, standing in the Alvarez mansion, that memory pulsed beneath my skin like an old wound struck open.
I blinked hard and forced it away. That was then. This was now.
And a sharper, older part of me pushed back.
"I can handle my own transportation," I said, though even I heard how thin it sounded.
He stepped closer. The scent of clean skin and faint cedar wrapped around me. Even dressed down, he carried authority no boardroom could teach.
"You're not handling anything," he said calmly. "You're working. For me. Take the keys. Unless you want another breakdown in the rain and arrive looking like you crawled out of a drainage canal. I doubt my fiancée would appreciate mud on the carpet during our first planning session."
My heart raced. I hated how aware I was of him. His mouth. His jaw. The veins along his forearms. It wasn't fair how he could look this composed while I stood there damp and exhausted.
"You don't get to order me around outside the contract," I said.
A flicker of irritation, or maybe amusement, crossed his eyes. "This is within the contract. You're staying on the estate. You're under my schedule. And you'll drive a reliable car. This isn't a discussion. You signed the papers, Miss Castillo. You didn't think I'd let you commute to a job of this scale in a piece of junk, did you?"
He tilted his head slightly. "I don't hire amateurs. And I don't tolerate lateness. You're in the big leagues now. Keep up."
He extended the keys again, arm steady. "Take them."
I stared at the key fob dangling between his fingers. Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, to hold onto some shred of independence.
Then his gaze held mine, dark and certain, and I knew he had already won.
I reached out. My fingers brushed his as I took the keys. Electricity shot up my arm, sharp and unexpected. My breath caught.
He noticed. Of course he did. His mouth curved just slightly, not quite a smile.
I closed my fist around the keys and stepped back before he could see the color rising in my face.
"Fine," I muttered, turning away. I headed for the door without thanking him, the fob biting into my palm like a brand. I just wanted to get out before he noticed how fast my pulse had jumped.
Behind me, his voice followed, low and deliberate. "Seven a.m. briefing. Don't be late."
I didn't look back. If I did, he'd see it. The heat in my cheeks. The tremor in my hands. The way a single touch had set my blood sparking.
The car waited in the circular driveway, black and gleaming like a predator crouched under the rain. Even through the storm, its chrome caught the light like teeth. I had seen cars like this in magazines or parked at gala entrances. Never from behind the wheel.
I slid inside and the scent hit me immediately. Leather. Cedar. Something faintly electric. The cabin hummed with quiet power, unfamiliar buttons glowing beneath my fingers. Even the steering wheel felt commanding.
I started the engine and it purred to life, smooth and controlled. The sound sent a shiver through me, not from awe but from resentment. This wasn't just a car. It was a message.
The rain softened to mist as I guided the car down the winding driveway. My reflection shimmered faintly in the windshield, hair still frizzed, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Blue ambient light traced my cheekbones like an unforgiving spotlight.
With every curve of the road, anger built under my skin. Of course Trey would do this. Of course he would put me behind the wheel of something that screamed wealth and control. It was a reminder wrapped in luxury. You're in my world now.
I tightened my grip on the wheel. "Still showing off, Alvarez?" I muttered. "Still proving I'll never belong?"
Every detail whispered a life I hadn't been born into. And every part of me screamed that I didn't belong here, that I had fought for years to stand on my own only to be pulled back into his orbit, his rules, his shadow.
But as the anger burned hotter, it hardened into resolve. My breathing steadied. My jaw set. I swore then, hands gripping his leather steering wheel, that before this was over, he would see me for who I was now. Not the girl in the servants' wing. Not the maid's daughter trembling in the rose garden.
He would stop underestimating me. And he would regret ever doing so.
The city lights spread below as I descended the hill, gold and white blurred by mist. My chest tightened. It had been years since I felt this exposed. Not since the rose garden. Not since the day he walked away without looking back.
I pressed harder on the accelerator, needing the speed to match the pulse in my throat. The car surged forward as if it welcomed my anger.
"I don't care how expensive you are," I whispered to the wheel. "You're not going to break me."
Still, as the city swallowed me whole, I felt his presence like a ghost in the passenger seat. The memory of his touch. The way he stood there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking like control wrapped in sin.
I hated him for it.
I hated myself more for noticing.
By the time I reached my apartment building, the anger had sharpened into a promise. If Trey Alvarez thought a car and a contract could turn me small again, he was wrong.
I parked, shut off the engine, and sat there until the shaking stopped. The car still smelled like him.
Then I opened the door and stepped back into the rain.