Iris Hale arrived at the Adams mansion with a single suitcase and the habit of not expecting much.
The gates opened slowly, iron whispering against stone, revealing a house that looked less like a home and more like a decision already made. The kind of place where nothing was accidental. White columns. Tall windows. Lawns trimmed to obedience. Even the air felt measured, as if it belonged to someone else and was only being lent out.
She stepped out of the car and smoothed her dress, the fabric cheap but clean, ironed twice that morning in the small room she had shared with three other girls at the agency. Her shoes were sensible. Her hair was pulled back. Iris had learned early that survival depended on being neat, quiet, and forgettable.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon polish and something older, heavier. Wealth, she thought. Or history. Maybe both.
She looked around as if she was trying to discover every hook and corner of the house. it was beautiful, big and unrealistic.
She heard a footstep walking toward her.
"New girl?" a woman asked from the hallway.
Iris turned quickly. "Yes, ma'am."
The woman smiled, not unkindly. "No ma'am here. I'm Mrs. Turner. The Head Maid." She looked Iris up and down with practiced eyes, then nodded once. "You'll do."
That was the first kindness Iris received in the Adams house. It would not be the last, but it would be the simplest.
She was shown her room on the third floor. Small, narrow bed, a window that overlooked the back gardens. It wasn't much, but it was hers. Stability had always been a luxury to Iris. This felt close enough.
Downstairs, the house moved like a living thing. Staff glided through corridors, voices low, footsteps soft. Everything operated on rules that were never spoken aloud. Iris paid attention. She always did.
"Mr. Josh is back tonight," one of the maids whispered as they folded linen together.
Iris didn't ask who that was. She already knew.
Everyone knew Josh Adams.
He was the only son of Edward Adams, owner of Adams Holdings and half the land in town. The kind of man whose name opened doors before you knocked. Josh had grown up inside this house and somehow never belonged to it. His reputation came with him wherever he went, trailing like cologne.
Spoiled. Wayward. Dangerous in a beautiful way.
Iris had seen his face once, on a magazine left behind in a café. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that looked like they didn't stay anywhere for long. She hadn't thought much of it then. Men like that lived in a different world. They always had.
She finished her work for the day just as dusk settled over the mansion. Lights flickered on one by one. Somewhere outside, a car engine sounded, low and expensive.
"He's here," someone murmured.
Iris was carrying a tray of clean glasses when she heard his voice.
Not loud. Not careless. Calm, controlled, edged with something tired.
"Don't wait up. I won't be hungry."
Her hands tightened around the tray without her meaning to.
She didn't look at him at first. She had learned not to. But curiosity is a quiet thing, and it grows when ignored.
Josh Adams stood in the foyer, jacket draped over his arm, white shirt open at the collar. He looked older than the photos. Not reckless. Not careless. Just… heavy. As if the day had pressed down on him and he had let it.
He walked in with a lady half naked with her butt almost out of my dress.
Mrs. Adams descended the stairs, graceful as ever. She saw them, ignored the lady after watching her with scorching eyes. "You look thin." She faced Josh.
"Work," he said simply.
She touched his arm. "You should rest."
He smiled at her then, brief and practiced. "Later."
"Hi ma'm" The lady greeted but was ignored by Mrs Adams.
Iris moved past them, eyes lowered, breath steady. She felt him before she saw him looking at her. The weight of attention was unmistakable. It brushed her skin like heat.
He noticed her, "Who's that?" he asked.
"The new maid," his mother replied. "Iris."
He glanced at her again. Really looked this time. Iris felt it in the way the air shifted, in the way her name sounded different when he said it, slower.
"Iris," he repeated, as if testing the shape of it.
She kept walking without looking back.
He left for his room along side his guest as they both walk the stairs looking like they were ready to devour each other.
Later that night, Iris stood at the window of her room, watching the lights in the house dim one by one. Somewhere below, laughter drifted up. A woman's laugh. Soft, familiar, temporary.
She closed the curtain gently.
Men like Josh Adams did not notice girls like her. And if they did, it was never for long.
That was the rule. Iris had survived by following rules.
Still, as she lay in bed, the house quiet around her, she found herself thinking of his voice. Calm. Controlled. Nothing like the stories.
And for the first time since arriving, Iris felt something stir that had nothing to do with fear or hunger or survival.
It felt like danger.