The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and warm food as I rinsed the last plate, the water running over my fingers in a steady stream. Dave stood beside me, towel in hand, quietly drying the dishes I passed to him. I had already told him several times that he didn't need to help—that this was my duty, the maid's duty. But he simply smiled each time, ignoring my protests.
"Oh, you really don't have to do that," I said again, unable to hold the smile tugging at my lips. "This is my work."
"I know," he replied calmly, "but helping you is not a crime, Chant."
There was something unusually gentle in his tone—something that softened the heaviness in my chest after everything that had happened earlier. Even after Sylvia's slap. Even after the chaos of emotions swirling around in my head.
And yet, beneath all of that, another feeling lingered—quiet but warm.
I was still thinking about Thompson.
The way he stared at me today… not just with admiration, but something deeper—confusion, surprise, and something I didn't want to name yet. The way he looked at me had overwhelmed me all day, even as I tried not to think too much into it. But each time my mind wandered, it wandered back to his gaze, his smile, the softness in his voice
Our conversation today
I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear Dave speak until he called my name again.
"Chant," he said gently.
I looked up, startled.
"Yes, sir?"
He paused, watching my expression carefully. "Do you ever think of leaving this place? Leaving the house?"
His question surprised me. I stared at him for a moment before answering.
"Of course not," I said. "This is my home, Mr. Dave. I already took it as my home. So nothing like that is in my thoughts."
He rinsed the dish in his hand and nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Alright."
He was quiet for a moment, and then he said:
"I want you to come out with me this evening. For dinner. If you don't mind."
I froze.
Dinner.
With Dave.
My eyes widened slightly, and I almost dropped the spoon in my hand. Why would he want to take me—a maid—to dinner? Even though I had noticed the way he looked at me sometimes, I never thought it meant anything.
Dave, just like Thompson, was handsome in a calm, mature way. Tall, clean-cut, always confident. He looked like someone who should dine with business partners, celebrities, or models—not someone like me.
"Dinner?" I asked, blinking.
"Yes," he confirmed. "Is there a problem with that?"
"I… I don't know what to say." I looked down at the running water. "Why would you want us to go to dinner? Is anything wrong? I can always prepare a good dinner here."
He chuckled lightly. "Nothing is wrong. I just want you to go out—at least once. Outside of this house. And maybe" —he shrugged slightly— "maybe we could talk. Or something."
I swallowed.
Talk? About what?
Me? Him? Thompson?
Something else entirely?
I didn't answer right away. My heart was beating faster than normal.
"Mr. Dave… I will think about it," I finally said softly.
"Chant," he said, washing the last plate, "it's already 7 pm. There's nothing wrong with it. It's just a casual outing, okay?"
I wasn't refusing because I feared him. That wasn't it at all. I just didn't want Thompson to misunderstand anything. But Dave said Thompson already knew.
What exactly had he told him?
Dave noticed my hesitation and called me again. "Chants?"
"Yes?"
He smiled gently. "That's why I'm helping you with these plates. Just go shower and get ready so we can leave early, okay?"
I nodded slowly, still unsure, but finally whispering, "Okay."
He smiled again and stepped aside to let me leave the kitchen.
Back in my room, I walked straight to my wardrobe, searching for something appropriate to wear for the evening. My fingers brushed over fabrics and colors until they landed on a white fitted gown I had never worn—not even once.
I held it up, and the fabric shimmered slightly under the light. It was simple, elegant, and soft.
I spread the gown on my bed and then bent to check my shoes. My eyes caught the red flat shoes that matched perfectly with the white gown. The combination looked perfect, almost as if they were meant for each other.
Without wasting time, I took a quick bath. When I came out, droplets of water still clinging to my skin, I noticed my hair in the mirror.
The waves Clara had set still fell beautifully over my shoulders—soft, shiny, and elegant. I almost looked like a different version of myself. A version I didn't want to lose.
I slipped into the white gown, and it hugged me perfectly. Every curve. Every line. I felt… beautiful.
Not because of makeup—I didn't bother with any. I only applied lip gloss and wore the red flats. Simple, clean, effortless.
I was still adjusting my gown in front of the mirror when a soft knock sounded on my door.
"Chant?" Dave called.
I grabbed my small purse, took a breath, and opened the door.
Dave's eyes widened just slightly before he smiled—a real, warm smile.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly. "As usual."
His compliment made something flutter in my stomach, though I tried to hide it.
He stepped back, allowing me to walk out first. We went downstairs quietly and out into the cool evening breeze. Then he opened the car door for me with the same gentle politeness that always surprised me.
I entered, and as soon as he shut the door and went around to his side, I exhaled softly.
The car smelt faintly of new leather and his cologne—clean and masculine. When he started the engine and we drove out of the compound, I found myself glancing at him from the corner of my eye.
He didn't look at me immediately.
But when he eventually did…
His gaze lingered, warm and unreadable.
It felt like the beginning of something.
Something I couldn't name.
Something I didn't know I was ready for.
But the night had already begun.