Chapter 3
The evening sunlight seeped through the curtains, illuminating the couch where Lance lay. He slowly opened his eyes, his forehead creased in discomfort.
As he lifted his hand to rub his throbbing temple, his gaze landed on the couch across from him, and he went completely still.
Tara lay there, half-reclined in serene sleep. Even in rest, her beauty was undeniable, her delicate features as captivating as ever. Her work uniform clung to her figure, accentuating every graceful curve.
It was impossible not to stare. Lance’s eyes lingered on her long, slender legs. They seemed so soft that they seemed like they might turn red at the slightest pressure.
His expression grew solemn, his thoughts unreadable.
Beside him, Stella stirred and woke. She became fully alert when she saw Lance’s open eyes.
“Mr. Swain, you’re awake?” she asked, her voice soft.
Lance shifted his attention from Tara, his voice coming out rough. “Yeah. Did Gemma send you two to keep an eye on me?”
As he spoke, Tara woke up, rubbing her eyes. Still groggy, she watched Lance check his watch.
Stella studied Tara, whose beauty gave her an almost radiant glow, and felt a flicker of irritation. But then she remembered Tara’s abrasive personality, and her worry faded.
“Gemma assigned us to stay with you—for your safety,” Stella said as she poured a glass of water for Lance.
Tara made no move to help. She thought rushing to pour the water would’ve seemed like she was just trying to curry favor with Lance, which wasn’t necessary.
After all, this moment was meant to be a heartfelt exchange between the female lead and the four male leads. As the story’s villainess, Tara had no place to intrude.
So she remained where she was, acting as a passive observer in the background.
While pouring the water, Stella stole another glance at Tara. Usually, Tara would be the first to jump in, eager to prove herself in front of the men.
Stella had braced for her to interfere and was even prepared to have the glass taken from her hands, but this time, Tara didn’t move. She simply sat across the room, suppressing a yawn, showing no interest in participating.
Lance followed Stella’s glance and turned his attention back to Tara.
She had just stifled a yawn behind her hand when she noticed them both staring at her. Her drowsy eyes darted between them, a faint hint of confusion flashing across her face.
She wondered if yawning was against the rules and thought that it seemed too ridiculous to be an actual policy.
Lance studied her carefully. He remembered how she used to strike deliberate poses in front of him, her words playful and loaded with innuendos.
But now, her gaze held nothing but utter, almost naive innocence—so much so that it made him scowl. He didn’t know what kind of reverse psychology tactic she was employing.
“Leave,” Lance said coldly to Tara.
The room went silent. Stella didn’t dare make a sound. She glanced at Lance, then at Tara, her satisfaction barely hidden. She expected Tara to be mortified—maybe even to burst into tears.
Instead, Tara rose immediately, showing no offense or distress. If anything, she seemed almost eager to leave.
“Right away, Mr. Swain,” she replied briskly.
Under Lance’s and Stella’s watchful gazes, Tara left the room without a second thought.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a heavy sigh, grateful to escape Lance’s oppressive presence, where every move had made her feel like she was under scrutiny.
Feeling lighter, she hurried down the stairs. The housekeepers had already finished for the day, leaving the villa quiet as night settled in.
Tara still had work to do, so she couldn’t head back to her room just yet. If Terence Oakley, the butler, noticed, he would dock her wages.
Meanwhile, only Lance and Stella remained in his room upstairs. Stella was too shy to look him in the eye.
Lance rubbed his forehead, saying, “You can go, too. I don’t need anyone watching over me.”
His tone with Stella was noticeably warmer than it had been with Tara. Ever poised, Stella nodded.
Before stepping out, she said, “Please call me if you aren’t feeling well, Mr. Swain. I’d… worry otherwise.”
She glanced at him hesitantly, unsure if she’d overstepped.
Lance leaned back against the couch. He shut his eyes as he quietly hummed.
Stella, pleased with herself, had just turned to leave when his low, rough voice stopped her. “Did I end up on top of you when I passed out drunk?”
Her chest tightened. The scene from when she first entered the room replayed in her mind—Tara had struggled beneath him as she frantically called out for help. Her voice still seemed to ring in Stella’s ears.
Almost reflexively, Stella nodded. “I’m alright, Mr. Swain. Please don’t concern yourself.”
Lance didn’t doubt her. “I’ll compensate you.”
Stella’s heart leapt, but she didn’t dare show any interest in whatever compensation he meant. The truth was, she couldn’t accept any repayment at all, terrified that Lance might discover she hadn’t actually been the one involved in the incident.
“That’s unnecessary, really,” she insisted, aware that stepping back was the way to move forward.
She knew that it was the surest way to make Lance take notice. After this, she was certain she would hold a special place in his thoughts. The mere idea of it filled her with excitement.
Lance dismissed her refusal. His decision seemed final. As for whether Stella’s considerate act had moved him? That remained a mystery.
Downstairs, Tara had no idea what was happening in Lance’s room above her. She had just finished cutting the fruit, dividing it into four portions, and arranging them neatly on a platter.
She had to remember which fruits each of the four men disliked and which they preferred, adding more of their favorites and omitting the ones they avoided.
The high salary didn’t come without effort, and being a housekeeper was far from easy. With a quiet sigh, Tara placed the four servings of fruit in the refrigerator to chill, intending to deliver them to their rooms later.
A soft thud echoed as she carefully shut the door of the expensive refrigerator. It was a high-end model, and she couldn’t afford to be careless. If it broke, she’d never have the money to repair it.
Tara was about to turn back to the bar counter to clean up when she spotted the young woman from earlier—the one she’d seen while collecting laundry at noon—standing behind her with an icy, unwelcoming stare.
Tara looked at her briefly, then dismissed her. She walked back to the bar counter, turned on the faucet, and started washing the cutting board and fruit knife as if no one else were there.
This was the first time she had ever ignored Leah Zeller. At that point, it had always been Leah who acted superior, while Tara buttered her up, fishing for details about the four men or trying to gain their favor.
Leah was certain that Tara would try something when she delivered the fruit platters that night. She’d already managed to rattle Jonah just two days ago. Who knew what she’d pull this time?
Nevertheless, Leah had no intention of stepping in. If anything, she hoped Gemma would fire Tara, too.
“Mr. Oakley said that I’ll be delivering Mr. Pearson’s fruit platter tonight,” Leah announced, her voice and posture dripping with condescension, her disdain for Tara plain as day.
The running water didn’t drown out the edge in her tone, but Tara kept washing the cutting board without missing a beat. She didn’t look up, her reply utterly indifferent.
“Okay,” she said.
Leah had expected Tara to fawn over her as usual, pleading to handle the fruit deliveries herself. She stood waiting, but after that single indifferent response, Tara said nothing more.
When Tara finished wiping down the counter, Leah still hadn’t moved, rooted in place as she stared. Tara couldn’t fathom why Leah was simply standing there gawking at her. As she walked past, she shot Leah a puzzled glance before continuing on her way.
Leah watched her go, completely thrown. She was surprised that Tara hadn’t fought for that night’s assignment. She wondered if Tara had changed to a new approach to win the men over.
Tara left the kitchen and headed straight for the staff dining area. Dinner service would start soon, and she wanted to eat before the rush.
She grabbed one of the prepped staff meals from the fridge. The chef had left them there before clocking out. Peeling off the plastic wrap, she popped it into the microwave.
Within minutes, a savory aroma wafted through the air. Satisfied, Tara pulled out the steaming meal and settled in to eat.
These past two days, along with the generous pay, the quality of the staff meals had been her most pleasant surprise. The chef’s cooking was restaurant-quality, and the food had won her over.
