THE DIVORCE THEY FORGOT

The first time Stellin Brooks truly looked at me, I was on my knees in the dark, scrubbing a red wine stain out of his grandmother's antique Persian rug.

It was nearly two in the morning. The last of the Brooks family's high-society guests had finally stumbled out an hour ago, leaving behind a battlefield of crystal glasses, lipstick-stained napkins, and the lingering, suffocating scent of expensive perfume and old money. The grand mansion was finally quiet.

I was the only one left awake. I was always the only one left awake.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him. Soft, measured, echoing against the polished marble floor of the grand hallway. I didn't look up. In this house, I had learned very quickly that the best way to survive was to be invisible. I kept my head down, my dark hair falling out of its messy braid, my sleeves rolled up past my elbows, my hands raw from the harsh cleaning chemicals.

"You're still here," a deep voice said.

I froze. The sponge hovered mid-air in my hand. I knew that voice. Everyone in the city knew that voice. It was the voice of the man who owned half the skyline. But hearing it directed at me, in the dead quiet of the night, made my stomach tighten into a painful knot.

I scrubbed harder at the stubborn stain. "The floor needs to be done before morning, sir."

*Sir.* I hated that word. I hated the way it tasted on my tongue, the way it immediately put a thick, impenetrable wall between me and the people I served. But Stellin Brooks wasn't just anyone. He was the heir to Brooks Holdings, a billionaire several times over. He was a god in this house, and I was the dirt under his expensive shoes.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I finally looked up, just once. He was standing a few feet away, leaning against the doorframe. He wasn't wearing a suit like the other men at the party. He was just in a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark hair slightly disheveled. He was holding a glass of water. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes prominent.

"Millie," I said quietly.

"Millie," he repeated, drawing out the syllables as if he was tasting the name. His eyes were dark and intense, completely void of the disdain and cold indifference I was so used to seeing from his family. "You should sleep, Millie. It's late."

"I should finish," I replied, dropping my gaze back to the rug. "With respect, Mr. Brooks, your grandmother would fire me for breathing too loud. I'd rather not give her a reason."

Stellin didn't say anything for a long moment. The silence stretched so thin I thought it might snap. Then, he walked past me to the wet bar in the corner of the room. I heard the clink of glass. A moment later, he walked back and set a second glass of water down on the floor beside my bucket of dirty water.

"I'm not going to let anyone fire you," he said, his voice low and firm. "Have a good night, Millie."

He walked away, leaving the glass of water and a strange, fluttering feeling in my chest.

I didn't plan to fall in love with him. That was the thing no one would ever believe-not his vicious grandmother, not the tabloids, not even Stellin himself in the end. They all thought I was a schemer. A gold digger who climbed her way out of the servants' quarters by trapping the billionaire heir.

But they were wrong. I fell in love with him in the quiet moments.

After that night, Stellin started appearing in the kitchen at odd hours. He pretended he wanted coffee. I pretended I believed him. He would sit at the wooden island while I baked bread at five in the morning, watching me.

"You bake like it's a science," he observed one morning, watching me weigh out the flour with intense precision.

"Because it is," I said, not looking up. "If you mess up the ratio, the whole batch is ruined. You have to be exact."

"Is that what you want to do?" he asked softly. "Open a bakery?"

I finally looked at him, surprised he remembered. I had mentioned it once, in passing, to one of the other maids. "Someday. I'm saving up. I have a notebook full of recipes and a business plan. I just need the capital."

"I could help you," he said. "I could get you a storefront tomorrow."

My pride flared, hot and immediate. "I don't want your charity, Stellin."

"It's not charity."

"Then what is it?"

He stood up from the stool and walked around the island. He stopped so close to me I could smell his cologne-cedarwood and rain. "It's me, not being able to stand the thought of you getting tired."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "You shouldn't say things like that to me. Your grandmother is already planning your engagement to Ara Finch."

A shadow crossed his face. Ara was the perfect socialite, the woman his grandmother groomed for him. But Stellin's eyes darkened with a quiet, resentful anger at the mention of her name.

"My grandmother doesn't get to choose who I love," he said.

He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. I stopped breathing.

"I see you, Millie," he whispered. "Not the uniform. Not the bucket and the mop. I see *you*."

When he kissed me, I forgot that I was a servant. I forgot the rules. I forgot the whole world. But I knew it couldn't last. I was a maid, and he was a Brooks.

For six months, we lived in the shadows. We stole moments in the pantry, our hands brushing as we reached for the same jar of sugar. We whispered in the gardens at midnight, hidden by the tall hedges. Stellin didn't care about the class divide, but I did. I was terrified of what his family would do to me if they found out.

The proposal came in the servants' corridor. It was a narrow, dim hallway smelling of lemon polish and coffee. I was holding a mop, staring at him like he had lost his mind.

"You're joking," I said.

"I have never been more serious in my life." He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside was a diamond ring that probably cost more than my mother's house.

"Stellin. I'm the *maid.*"

"You're Millie." He took the mop out of my hands and set it aside. "And I am in love with you."

"Your grandmother will kill you."

He let out a harsh breath, looking suddenly vulnerable. "My parents died when I was twelve, Millie. My grandmother raised me. She's the only family I have left. She is cruel, and she is manipulative, but she is all I have." He took my hands, his grip fierce. "But I would rather lose her than lose you."

"I am choosing you," he said. "Not out of pity. Not out of rebellion. I am choosing you because you are the best thing that ever walked through the doors of this house, and I am not going to spend the rest of my life pretending otherwise."

I said yes. How could I not? He was willing to risk everything for me.

But the grandmother didn't take the news of our engagement lightly. She waited until Stellin was out of the room, cornering me in the library.

"You think you've won," she said, her voice a soft, deadly hiss. "You think a ring on your finger makes you a Brooks. You are a temporary amusement, Millie. A phase. And when he tires of you-and he will-I will make sure you have nothing left. Not your reputation. Not your little bakery dreams. Nothing."

I didn't tell Stellin about her threat. I was too proud. I convinced myself that his love was enough to protect me. I was so naive.

The wedding was small. A disaster dressed in white lace. The Brooks family refused to make a spectacle of what they considered a scandal. No society pages. No announcement. Just a quiet signing of papers in a church that smelled of dust, with only my mother and a handful of witnesses present. Stellin's grandmother sat in the front row, dressed in black like she was attending a funeral.

That night, in the small penthouse Stellin had bought for us, I finally let myself believe it. I lay in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and I thought: *I escaped. I am safe. I am loved.*