Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's 22 April, 1995. So, today's my sixteenth birthday. Big deal, right? Except... it's not really. I mean, it's just another day. My mum's a single parent, and she's been juggling work and raising me and my brother since forever. She's got this job at the supermarket, and on weekends, she's out gardening for extra cash. Birthdays? Yeah, not exactly top of her priority list. Can't blame her, though. She's doing her best.

Then there's my brother. Total waste of space, honestly. He's always lurking around, doing nothing, then hitting up Mum for money to buy crack. Real classy. Two years ago, he lost it and punched me—properly punched me, like, not some sibling slapfight. My face was a mess, blood everywhere. Mum finally kicked him out after that. Haven't seen him since. Good riddance, I say.

A few of my mates at school gave me little gifts today at school—Cassie handed me one of those trendy butterfly hair clips everyone's obsessed with, and Vicky, the absolute legend, nicked an exclusive Hugh Grant portrait from a magazine in a store on her way to school. Not bad for adding to my bedroom collection. Typical Vicky, though. She's a proper mad one, but I love her to bits.

Honestly, my mood was pretty good, even if it was just a low-key birthday. Life felt... comfortable, you know? Happy, even. That was until I walked in and saw my mum crying on the sofa. This flat, with its knackered wooden floors, doesn't exactly let you sneak in unnoticed, no matter how quietly you tiptoe. She turned to look at me, her eyes all heavy and worn out. She got up, wiped her tears, and tried to smile. "Ah, you're home, love..." she said, her voice warm but tired. "Can you look after the house? I've got to head to work," she added, grabbing her gardening bag and trying to step past me.

"What's wrong, Mum?" I stopped her, my hand on her arm. "Is something going on?"

"No, it's just... your brother, Billy. He's in the hospital. It doesn't look good," she explained, like it wasn't some kind of emergency. "We can visit him after I get back."

"Mum, wait!" I insisted, holding her back. "Sit down for a minute. I don't understand."

"The police called," Mum said, her voice trembling. "Your brother overdosed and was found unconscious on the side of a street in London. Thankfully, he was still wearing that metal necklace with his ID from his last rehab centre. Well... Billy's in a coma now. I don't know if he'll wake up or not." She broke down again, her body collapsing back onto the sofa.

A shiver ran through me. Sadness, confusion, and anger all swirled together inside me. After two years of disappearing, he decides to show up like this? In a coma? And on my birthday? His existence felt like a curse that day. I just stood there, frozen, not knowing how to react. But Mum eventually stopped crying again. "I really have to go to work. My client today is an important one—they usually tip well, and I don't want to lose their trust."

I nodded, letting Mum walk out once more. The door closed behind her, and I decided to head up to my room. I flopped onto my bed, trying to shake off the heaviness. I stared at the ceiling, clearing my mind. Before I knew it, an hour had passed. I got up, grabbed my backpack, and pulled out the poster Vicky had given me. I stuck it on the wall alongside my other posters. Hugh Grant really is ridiculously handsome. His latest film just came out in cinemas, and I'd been saving up to watch it with Vicky and Cassie today to celebrate my birthday. But now, after seeing Mum like that, I'm not sure if I'm even in the mood to go.

We stepped outside, the cool autumn air hitting us as we made our way to the bus stop. Vicky was already going on about how Hugh Grant's hair in the poster looked "unrealistically perfect," and Cassie was nodding along, though she kept fiddling with her Walkman. I walked a little behind them, my mind still half on Mum and the unpaid bills, half on Billy lying in that hospital bed. But I forced myself to push those thoughts aside. Today was supposed to be about celebrating, right? Even if it felt like the universe was trying to ruin it.

The bus ride was short, and before I knew it, we were standing in front of the Odeon. The bright marquee lights and posters of upcoming movies usually got me excited, but today it all felt a bit... hollow. Still, I plastered on a smile as Vicky grabbed my arm and dragged me to the ticket counter. "Three tickets for An Awfully Big Adventure, please!" she announced, way louder than necessary. Cassie giggled, and I couldn't help but laugh a little too. Vicky's energy was infectious, even on days like this.

"How old are you?" The ticket guy raised an eyebrow. Oh god, I hadn't even clocked that this film wasn't meant for our age group. 

"We're eighteen," Vicky shot back, rolling her eyes like he'd just asked the dumbest question ever. "Seriously, do we look twelve to you?" she added, tossing her hair like she was in some cheesy American soap. Honestly, she was such a pro at lying. 

The ticket guy looked a bit flustered but clearly couldn't be arsed to argue. He just handed over three tickets to Vicky without another word. 

We grabbed popcorn and drinks— Cassie insisted on the largest bucket, even though we all knew she'd eat maybe a handful before passing it to Vicky—and found our seats just as the trailers started. The cinema was packed, and the buzz of chatter around us made it easier to forget everything else for a while. As the lights dimmed and the film began, I felt myself relax a little.

I heard this film was based on a novel, about some 16-year-old girl who falls for the theatre producer she works for. The film was alright, I suppose, though there were loads of scenes that made me cringe a bit. Still, the main thing was I got to stare at Hugh Grant being ridiculously handsome as the producer in the theatre. No wonder the girl fancied him—I laughed to myself at the thought.

But as the credits rolled and we filed out of the cinema, reality came crashing back. Cassie was already planning where we should go next—some new café that had just opened—but I hesitated. "Actually, I think I might head home," I said, trying to sound casual. "Mum's probably back by now, and I should check on her."

Vicky gave me a knowing look but didn't push. "Alright, birthday girl. But we're not letting you off the hook that easily. Next weekend, we're doing something proper to celebrate, yeah?"

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, next weekend."

As I walked home alone, the weight of the day settled over me again. The laughter and the film felt like a distant memory, and all I could think about was Mum's tired eyes and Billy's lifeless body in that hospital bed. I didn't know what the future held, but for now, all I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. The streets were quiet, the glow of the streetlights casting long shadows, and I couldn't help but feel like the world was moving on without me. But maybe, just maybe, things would look brighter tomorrow.

****

Sunday morning, the day after my birthday. I was officially a full-blown teenager now, and for someone like me, sixteen felt like the perfect time to try new things—stuff that was a bit more... adventurous! I rubbed my eyes, still half-asleep, when I heard a soft knock on my door. Mum asked if I'd come with her to visit Billy today.

At the hospital, I saw Billy lying in bed, hooked up to all these wires and oxygen tubes. He looked so much thinner and older than the last time I'd seen him. But weirdly, I didn't feel much of anything. I didn't really care about Billy in that moment—it was Mum who looked completely shattered.

When we got home, Mum asked me to sit with her in the living room. She seemed like she wanted to say something but kept hesitating, pacing back and forth. In the end, I had to be the one to break the silence.

"Is there something you want to ask me, Mum?" I said gently.

"Ah... no, forget it," she replied, her voice nervous.

"Mum, we only have each other right now. Just say what's on your mind."

"Hmmm... first, I want to make it clear that I'm not forcing you into this, but... how would you feel about helping me earn some extra money?" Mum looked down, embarrassed. "Ah, it seems Billy's gone and got himself into debt with some shady moneylender—probably to fund that blasted habit of his. And now, wouldn't you know it, they've got hold of our details and are hounding me to pay up. Yesterday, while you were out, a few rough sorts turned up at the door, demanding their money and threatening to come back if I didn't cough it up. Even hinted at getting nasty about it, too. Honestly, I'm at my wit's end—I can't deal with this on my own."

"Earn money how?" I asked calmly, though I was a bit surprised by the request.

"One of my clients mentioned they need extra help cleaning their house. It's only 4 to 6 hours of work, and you could do it after school each day... but... I'm not forcing you, okay?"

"I'll do it," I said with a casual shrug, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

"Really?" Mum's eyes widened, like she hadn't expected me to agree so quickly.

"Yeah, why not? I'll give it a go," I replied, forcing a small smile. 

Mum's face crumpled, and she started crying again, but this time there was a hint of relief in her tears. She pulled me into a tight hug, her hands trembling slightly. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Thank you, love."

****

I didn't expect things to move so fast, but that same afternoon, Mum took me to the client's place. The apartment was in Upper Addison Gardens, one of those fancy parts of London that felt like a completely different world from where we lived. It took us about 40 minutes on the bus, and by the time we got there, I was already feeling out of place. The building wasn't massive, but it had this air of money about it—polished doors, perfectly trimmed hedges, and a quiet that felt almost unnatural.

Mum rang the doorbell, and after a moment, a woman with sleek red hair and a sharp bob cut opened the door. She looked about Mum's age but was dressed in this effortlessly chic way that made me feel even more awkward in my scuffed trainers and second-hand jeans. "Oh, hello!" she greeted us with a bright smile, her voice warm and posh. "Come in, come in. There's not too much to do today—just finishing up what you started yesterday," she said, waving us inside.

We followed her through the apartment, and I couldn't help but gawk at how clean and modern everything looked. The walls were lined with art, and the furniture looked like it belonged in a magazine. But the real showstopper was the indoor garden at the side of the house. It was lush and green, with plants spilling out of every corner and a small fountain trickling in the background. Mum had clearly been taking care of it—it looked pristine.

The red haired woman sat down on a sleek bench in the garden, crossing her legs elegantly. Mum set down her gardening tools and then turned to me, taking my hand and pulling me forward like she was presenting me at a job interview.

"Miss. Horton," Mum began, her voice hesitant but hopeful, "you mentioned you needed someone to help clean the house. I was wondering... could my daughter take on the job? She's hardworking, and I'll make sure she does a good job."

Miss. Horton tilted her head, studying me with a curious smile. "Well, aren't you full of surprises," she said, her tone light but her eyes sharp. "How old are you, dear?"

"Sixteen," I answered quickly, trying to sound older than I felt.

"Oh my... are you sure you want to work?" she asked, her smile warm but her tone laced with a hint of doubt.

"It's fine, I can handle it," I said, forcing a confident tone even though I felt anything but.

Just then, I heard footsteps approaching. I glanced to the side and saw a tall, middle-aged man with a sharp nose and an air of confidence. He walked over to Mrs. Horton, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. "Here you are, darling," he said, his voice deep and heavy. There was something about him that felt familiar, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. "I miss you.."

Miss Horton giggled, running her hands over him playfully. "I was just talking to the gardener honey. I'll be back inside in a minute, okay?"

"Fine, but don't take too long," he replied before heading back inside.

She turned her attention back to us, her lips curling into a hesitant smile. "Sorry, but I think I forgot to mention the details earlier. It is true we'd only need about 4 to 6 hours of work each day, but we're looking for a live-in maid. You see, mornings can be quite hectic for us, so it might not be suitable for someone still in school," she explained gently.

I glanced at Mum. Her face looked like she'd just seen a ghost. She probably didn't know what else we could do to make money besides this opportunity. My own mind was racing—not because I cared about Billy, but because I hated seeing Mum so stressed. "I can stay here," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "My school doesn't start until 9, and it's actually closer from here than from our house."

Mum's eyes widened, and Miss Horton raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Are you sure, dear?" she asked, her tone softening.

I nodded, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "Yeah, I can make it work." 

Mum looked at me, her expression a mix of relief and guilt, but she didn't say anything. Miss Horton studied me for a moment, then smiled. "Well, if you're certain, we can give it a try. Only if your mum gave the permission..."

I turned to Mum, her face a mix of confusion and hesitation, like she was wrestling with what to say. "Ehm... sorry, I think we need to think about it first," Mum finally said, her voice wavering.

"Mum..." I whispered urgently, "it's okay, we need this job... and I'm sure I can handle it."

Mum looked at me deeply, her eyes filled with regret but also a glimmer of hope. "Are you sure?" she whispered back, her voice barely audible.

"Of course..." I tried to sound confident, even though my stomach was in knots.

Mum took a deep breath, then turned back to Miss Horton. "Alright, Miss Horton, she'll take the job. Thank you so much for giving us this opportunity."

****

The next day, after school, I found myself standing on the doorstep of my new employer, clutching a single suitcase stuffed with a few clothes and my schoolbooks. My heart was pounding as I pressed the doorbell. Miss Horton opened the door with that same warm smile and waved me inside.

I followed her through the house, trying not to gawk at how fancy everything was. We passed a couple of rooms, and then I saw him—the guy from yesterday. He was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone, looking all serious and important. Miss Horton noticed me staring and grinned. "Don't you recognize him, dear?"

I shook my head. His face was *so* familiar, but I couldn't figure out where I'd seen him before. It was driving me nuts.

"That's my partner, Alan Rickman," Miss Horton said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "I'm surprised a teenager your age doesn't know who he is."

My jaw practically hit the floor. "A... Alan Rickman?" I stammered, my voice squeaking a little. If it was really him, then I'd just seen him in that movie—the one where he played with Hugh Grant, as a father who accidentally, well... let's just say the plot was super awkward. I felt a weird mix of cringe and excitement bubbling up inside me. Alan freaking Rickman. In the flesh. And I was going to be living in his house. What even was my life right now?

Is it possible that one day Hugh Grant might come over here? And maybe I'd get to see him in person? Maybe... maybe even shake his hand or get an autograph? My mind was racing, and I started debating with myself—should I even tell Vicky and Cassie about this? They'd freak out.

I snapped out of my daydream when we finally reached the room they'd set up for me. It was tucked away at the back of the house, kind of hidden from the rest of the place. The room was surprisingly nice—honestly, it was almost better than my room at home. There was a decent-sized bed, a small desk, and even a window that let in a bit of natural light. It wasn't huge, but it felt cozy. 

As I set my suitcase down, I couldn't help but wonder if this was really happening. Living in Alan Rickman's house, working for Miss Horton, and maybe, just maybe, catching a glimpse of Hugh Grant someday. It all felt like something out of a movie. And for the first time in a while, I felt a tiny spark of excitement about what was coming next.

****

The next day, I started my day with the work schedule I had to follow. First, prepare tea for Mr. Rickman or help him get ready, then I'd head to school and return at four to continue washing dishes and cleaning the house. After that, I was given free time for the rest of the night.

Alright, first job of the day: make tea for Mr. Rickman. I dragged myself out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and got cracking in the kitchen. Once the tea was ready, I bolted to his office, trying not to spill it everywhere. I found him at his desk, scribbling away in some notebook. "Mornin', Mr. Rickman," I said, hovering in the doorway.

His dirty blonde hair was a proper mess, like he'd just rolled out of bed. He glanced up, and when he spoke, his voice was like melted honey—deep, smooth, but with this edge that made my stomach do a little flip. "Good morning, dear. Come in. How did you sleep?" he asked, all calm and warm, but with that faint hint of something sharper underneath.

"Uh... well, it's alright. Anyway here's your tea mr. Rickman. I'll, um, crack on with the cleaning now," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks go bright red. Why did he have to sound like that? It wasn't fair.

Then he chuckled. Not a normal laugh, but this low, purring sound that made me feel like I'd missed some inside joke. Was he taking the mick? Did I have toothpaste on my face or something? My brain was going a mile a minute.

"Sit down for a bit. No need to rush," he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice all velvety. It was hard to tell if it was a suggestion or a proper order, but either way, it made me stop in my tracks.

"Sorry, but I've got to get the cleaning done before school. Plus, I don't fancy getting an earful from Miss Horton," I said, trying to sound dead certain. I mean, it was true—I didn't want to mess this up already. But still, sitting there for a minute didn't sound that bad. Ugh, why did he have to make everything so bloody complicated?

"What exactly needs cleaning? From what I can see, the house is already spotless," Mr. Rickman said, his gaze fixed on me with this... playful? teasing? look. "Besides, Rima left for the council at the crack of dawn," he added, like he was trying to reassure me. 

I honestly didn't know what to do, but he is technically my boss, so... maybe it was fine? Reluctantly, I sat down on the sofa in his study, still confused about what he actually wanted from me. But, honestly, I couldn't help it—I was too busy staring at him. His hazel eyes, that big nose—I mean, come on, he's Alan Rickman! How could I not?

"I've actually heard a lot about you from your mum. It's nice to finally meet you," he continued, his voice smooth and warm. "What year are you in, by the way?"

"Uh... I'm at the first year on high school," I answered shyly, feeling my cheeks heat up again.

Chapter Text

Mr. Rickman nodded, then took a sip of his tea. “Alright, cheers for keeping me company,” he said, standing up and heading out of his study. Wait, that’s it? He made me sit down just for that? Or did I mess up and annoy him? Ugh, I hope not.

I got up too and followed him out of the room. But he suddenly turned around, making me stop dead in my tracks. He looked me up and down for a few seconds, then reached out and ruffled my hair before heading upstairs to his room. I just stood there, gobsmacked. What was that? The way he looked at me was so… well, now that I think about it, he’s around the same age as my mum. Without realizing it, I cracked a small smile, thinking that if I had a dad, it might feel something like this.

Then it hit me—I still had to clean the house and get to school. Miss Horton said I should start in the kitchen. From what I remembered earlier, it wasn’t too messy, just a few stains and some dishes left behind from when she whipped up breakfast.

****
By the time I got to school, I was proper knackered. My body clearly wasn’t used to this new routine yet. I shuffled down the locker-lined hallway, glancing around. A few people gave me a nod or a “Alright?” as I passed—I guess you could say I’m kind of popular. Maybe it’s because I’ve managed to keep my family situation on the down-low and act like everything’s normal. Thank god this school has uniforms, though. If it didn’t, I’d probably get ripped on for wearing second-hand gear every day.

Only my best mates, Victoria and Cassandra, know the real deal about my life. They mean the absolute world to me—no question about it. Well, speaking of the devil, I finally spotted them chatting away in the classroom.

Cassie was leaning against a desk, flipping through some magazine, probably one of those glossy ones with Hugh Grant on the cover— honestly, she’s even more obsessed to him than me— Vicky was animatedly talking about something, her hands flying everywhere like she always does when she’s excited. They both looked up when I walked in, and Vicky immediately shot me this cheeky grin. “Oi, look who decided to show up! Thought you’d bailed on us,” she said, tossing a scrunched-up piece of paper at me. I dodged it, rolling my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. No matter how chaotic things got at home, these two always made me feel like I belonged somewhere.

I flopped down next to Vicky and dropped my head onto the desk with a massive sigh, like I’d just run a marathon or something.

“What’s the matter with you?” Vicky asked, raising an eyebrow like I’d just said something properly daft.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Sort your face out, yeah?” Cassie chimed in, already rummaging through her makeup bag like it was a treasure chest. “Quick, before Sir comes in and catches you looking like death warmed up.”

I wasn’t exactly buzzing to slap on a full face of makeup, but I gave in, swiping on some mascara and borrowing Cassie’s new Heather Shimmer lipstick. “Better?” I asked, forcing a half-smile.

“Well, you don’t look like you’ve been hit by a bus anymore,” Vicky said with a snort, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Oi, look who’s here—it’s Daniel.”

I glanced over at the doorway, and there he was, the blond boy with blue eyes grinning at me like he’d just won the lottery or something. Dan’s alright—we’re pretty close—and let’s be real, it’s not exactly a secret he’s got a crush on me. Not that I don’t like him or anything—he’s sound—but lads like him just aren’t really my type, y’know?

****

School was finally over, and so far, I’d managed to keep my mouth shut about who I was living with right now. I bolted toward the exit second after the bell rung, but Daniel caught up to me from behind. “Hey… wait up,” he called out, walking briskly to keep pace.

“Sorry, Dan, I’m in a rush—uh, for my part-time job,” I said, hesitating a bit.

“Oh, you’ve got a part-time job? That’s so cool! Haha,” he laughed awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood. “No mobile yet? Still saving up? Or are you taking a part time to buy one?” he asked, making small talk.

“Dan, I really don’t have time,” I said, a little frustrated. “I’ll give you my number when I finally get a mobile, okay?” I added, trying to sound friendly.

“Alright, gorgeous, take care on your way,” he replied with a cheesy grin.

I smile back at him, then hurried off, practically running to make up for lost time. I was in such a rush that I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Cassie and Vicky, though I could faintly hear them shouting my name as I sprinted away.

****

The distance from my school to Mr. Rickman’s place wasn’t too far, but I was dead scared of running late and letting Miss Horton down on my very first day. Luckily, I made it just in time to catch the bus without having to hang around waiting.

For some reason, they’d handed me a key to the house on my first day, but I suppose it’s not that shocking. My mum’s been working for them for nearly four years now, after all.

I let myself in and swapped my uniform for a yellow t-shirt and the polka-dot skirt Mum gave me what feels like a lifetime ago. I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror they’d put in my room. The yellow of my favourite top was starting to look washed out, and the skirt seemed way shorter on me now than it used to. God, I wished they’d given me a uniform like at school. I shrugged, trying to push those thoughts aside and focus on the job.

The apartment was massive—not just posh, but full of artistic touches that made it feel like a proper artist lived here. It was a shame such a big place was only home to Miss Horton and Mr. Rickman. I couldn’t help but wonder why they’d chosen not to have kids. I grabbed the vacuum from the storage room, deciding to start dusting from the front of the house. Honestly, I’m not exactly a pro at cleaning, but Mum’s had me doing chores since I was little, so I guess I know the basics.

I’d only been cleaning for about ten minutes when I heard that voice again—deep and resonant, echoing through the empty walls of the house. I turned my head and spotted Mr. Rickman in his study, reading a script aloud, probably rehearsing for some role.

I quickly moved past the door, hoping I wouldn’t disturb him. But, of course, his awareness of his surroundings seemed sharper than my ability to stay unnoticed. Haha. I realised this when he suddenly stopped reading, walked briskly to the door, and poked his head out. “Ah, you’re back already,” he said with a bright smile, looking like a golden retriever who’d just found his favourite toy.

“Yes, sir, I’m back. Is there anything I can help you with?” I replied politely.

His smile widened, and he stepped out of the room. I thought he was coming toward me, but instead, he turned toward the living room, plopped down on the sofa, and turned on the TV. “Could you make me a cup of tea, please?” he asked lightly.

I smiled and nodded, leaning the vacuum cleaner against the wall and heading to the kitchen.

“Not too much milk, and bring some sugar too,” he called out loudly from the living room.

I did my best to follow his instructions, carefully balancing a tray with a cup of tea and a few sugar cubes. When I walked into the living room, there he was, smiling again—so warm it felt like I was standing too close to a radiator. My hands were shaking a little. That smile made me nervous. I’d never been around men much in my day-to-day life, and now I had to get used to this. 

And of course, just as I was about to set the tray down, the teaspoon slipped off and clattered to the floor, skidding under the TV cabinet. I shot a quick glance at Mr. Rickman, who looked just as surprised as I was. Without thinking, I dropped to my knees and scrambled after the spoon, crawling under the cabinet to grab it. Bloody hell, what if it was broken? It probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

I was bent over, reaching desperately, accidentally knocked my head under the TV cabinet then I suddenly realised my old skirt had slipped down to my waist, exposing my white knickers like some kind of mortifying stage show. I finally grabbed the spoon and quickly sat back on the floor, yanking my skirt back into place. But my panic about the spoon was instantly replaced by a wave of pure embarrassment. My cheeks were on fire, and I could feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Mr. Rickman just sat there, and I could see him trying to hold back a laugh. He wiped the smile off his face with the back of his hand, then stood up and walked over to me, offering his hand to help me up. I looked up at him for a moment—his face was calm, no sign of anger, so I figured I could breathe a little easier. “S-sorry, let me get you a new spoon,” I stammered, clutching the tiny engraved teaspoon in my hand.

He raised an eyebrow, gesturing for me to get up. So I took his hand and stood, but he didn’t let go afterward. Instead, he led me over to the sofa. “Sit down,” he said simply.

“My clothes are dirty,” I blurted out.

He frowned slightly, then gently pushed me until I sat down on the sofa. He smiled again—oh no, he was laughing… he finally let out a laugh after making sure I was okay. “Are you sure you can handle this job?” he asked between chuckles.

But that question sent a chill through me. Did he think I couldn’t do the job? Was I about to get fired on my very first day?

“Relax, Rima and I aren’t exactly tyrants. I get that you need time to adjust to working here,” he added, sitting down beside me.

“So… should I get back to work, then?” I asked, starting to stand up from the sofa. He reached out to stop me, but his eyes were already glued to the TV.

“Just sit down and keep me company while I watch TV. Rima won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, so you’ve got all night to clean the house.”

His words caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure if he was serious or just messing with me. But he patted the spot next to him on the sofa, his expression calm and inviting. “Come on, take a break. You’ve been running around all day.”

I sat back down, still a bit wary, but the idea of a break sounded too good to pass up. He handed me the remote, his deep, silky voice breaking the silence. “Pick something. I’m easy.”

I glanced at him, trying to figure out if this was some kind of test, but he just smiled—that warm, golden retriever smile again. So I flipped through the channels, my nerves slowly easing as the sound of the TV filled the room. I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could get used to this.

As we sat there watching some mindless entertainment, a silence fell over the room. It wasn't an awkward silence, but rather a comfortable one. Mr. Rickman was sipping his tea, his gaze shifting from the TV to me from time to time.

He seemed relaxed, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. Every time I caught a glimpse of him looking at me, my cheeks would flush ever so slightly. I tried to focus my attention back on the TV, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that Mr. Rickman was so close to me. I couldn't help but wonder why he was being so friendly. Shouldn't he be stricter, you know, like a normal boss?

Mr. Rickman must have noticed my awkward glances because he suddenly chuckled and said . “You don't need to look so nervous, doll” his deep voice slightly playful. “I'm not going to bite.”

I let out a soft laugh at his words. Whatever he’d just said, it felt oddly comforting, like a bit of warmth I hadn’t realised I needed. And when I thought about it, it made sense—living in this big house must get lonely without any kids around. So, alright then, I’d keep him company for a while. If it made him happy, why not?

His smile widened. And somehow, I found myself smiling back at him, the tension in my chest starting to loosen. He must have noticed the change in my demeanour, because he let out another chuckle, this one a little deeper than the last. “There it is,” he murmured softly. “A smile suits you."

Chapter Text

It’s been six months since I started working at Mr. Rickman’s place, and honestly, it’s been going pretty well. Mr. Rickman’s been off filming for about three weeks now, so I’ve basically had the house to myself. Weekends are the same as always—Mum comes over to sort out the garden, and I head home with her, then come back on Monday. Easy.

But today? Today was a proper disaster. School let us out early because of some electrical issue (probably just an excuse to give the teachers a break, if you ask me). I got to the house and stood at the front door for a solid ten minutes, digging through every pocket and corner of my bag for the key. No luck. 

Miss Horton wasn’t due back until late, so waiting for her wasn’t an option. Then I remembered—the side gate was lower than the others and led straight into the garden. Perfect. 

I walked over, took off my blazer, stuffed it into my bag, and chucked the bag over the fence. Then I went full-on ninja mode, finding a foothold and hauling myself up until I was perched on top of the fence. But before I could even think about balancing, I felt myself tipping over, and—bam!—I landed flat on my back in the garden. I just lay there for a second, staring at the sky, trying to figure out how my life had come to this. And then, of course, the sprinklers decided to join the party. At exactly 3 p.m., they burst to life, absolutely drenching me. I scrambled up, trying to save my schoolbooks, which had spilled everywhere. Most of them were fine, but my uniform? Completely ruined.

The white blouse was already paper-thin from years of wear, and now, soaked through, it was basically see-through. My cream bra with its little floral pattern was on full display, and let’s just say, I’m not exactly blessed in the chest department yet. It was mortifying. Thank God no one was around to witness this absolute trainwreck.

But just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, I heard the sliding door to the living room open. Mr. Rickman stepped out, phone glued to his ear, some loud voice blaring from the other end.

“Yeah, yeah… I get it, I’ll call you back later, haha, no… I’m not lying,” Mr. Rickman said, his voice all smooth and calm like always. Then he hung up and turned to me.

Cue the record scratch. 

He froze, his eyes scanning me from head to toe like I was some kind of abstract art piece he couldn’t quite figure out. Meanwhile, I was standing there, dripping wet, my school blouse basically see-through, and my dignity nowhere to be found. My body started shivering as the wind hit me, and that’s when he gestured for me to come inside.

I shuffled in, but I didn’t dare move too far. Water was pooling around my feet, and I didn’t want to ruin his fancy floors any more than I already had. Mr. Rickman disappeared for a second, then came back holding a bathrobe like some kind of knight in shining armour—except, you know, less armour, more fluffy terry cloth.

“You alright? Why didn’t you just knock on the door?” he asked, his voice soft but with that hint of amusement that made me want to melt into the floor.

I was beyond embarrassed. I must’ve looked like a total disaster—soaked, shivering, and probably red as a tomato. My cheeks were on fire, and I couldn’t even bring myself to look him in the eye.

Then, out of nowhere, his fingers gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His hand brushed against my forehead, and it stung a little.

“You’ve got a scratch there,” he said, letting out a sigh. “Go change into this. I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Great. Just great. Not only did I look like a drowned rat, but now I had a scratch to complete the look. Could this day get any worse?

I took the robe from him, still avoiding eye contact like it was my job. It was one of those fancy ones—white microfiber, the kind you’d find in a posh hotel. I quickly peeled off my soaked clothes after he leave the living room, then wrapped the bathrobe around myself. Finally, some relief. The fabric was soft, warm, and dry—basically heaven after the sprinkler disaster.

But then I glanced toward the corner of the room and—oh, brilliant—there he was, Mr. Rickman himself, standing there like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make this even more awkward. How much had he seen? Stupid! Stupid! I’m such an idiot! I could hear him clear his throat, trying to act all casual, but his cheeks were definitely redder than usual. Like, noticeably red. 

He walked over and carefully stuck the plaster on the cut on my forehead. Then, awkwardly, his hand landed on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before he finally disappeared into another room. At this point, I just wanted to vanish into thin air. The embarrassment was too much.

I picked up my soaked uniform and tossed it into the washing machine. For a moment, I just stood there, feeling guilty about the whole mess I’d caused. Without thinking, my feet carried me toward his study, like I *had* to apologise. I knocked lightly on the slightly open door, and it swung open a bit more from the force of my knock.

Mr. Rickman was sitting there, reading a thick book—probably a novel. He looked up at me and smiled. “Need something?” he asked warmly.

I shook my head, my cheeks burning again, trying to force the words “I’m sorry” out of my mouth.

“Come here…” he called me over.

I nervously stepped closer, and when I was near enough, I finally gathered the courage to speak. “Sorry for the mess… I didn’t know you were back home,” I mumbled, almost whispering, my eyes fixed on the floor.

Suddenly, I felt his large hand on my back, pulling me closer, and… he guided me onto his lap. Then, he hugged me. “You’re absolutely adorable. I can’t handle how funny you are,” he said, ruffling my hair a bit too hard, his laughter ringing out—crisp and warm.

I was totally caught off guard, but for some reason, I didn’t try to pull away. My freezing body felt weirdly cozy in his arms, and before I knew it, I was shifting around, trying to get comfy on his lap. My arms just kind of… went around his back, hugging him back without me even thinking about it.

He stopped ruffling my hair, and instead, his fingers started gently pushing the strands out of my face, like he was trying to get a proper look at me. It was so awkward but also kind of… nice? I don’t know. My brain was a mess.

“Such a clumsy girl,” he chuckled, his voice warm and teasing. “Next time, try not to wreck my house, alright?”

His hands continued to brush through my still damp hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle. My body seemed to sink into his as he held me in his lap. I felt small, almost fragile against his broad chest.

He was so warm.

Despite the humiliation I felt earlier, being in his arms now weirdly felt... nice. His teasing words were tinged with a hint of affection.

I finally mustered the courage to look into his eyes. Those hazel eyes were stunning, catching the sunlight that slipped through the gaps in the closed curtains. Deep down, I knew I shouldn’t be in this position—that it wasn’t proper, and I didn’t belong here. But I didn’t want to move. Not yet. At least not until I felt his body grow warmer, especially where I was sitting, if felt like something in there is growing.

His breathing grew heavier, his cheeks flushed again, and he kept clearing his throat like he was trying to distract himself. I could feel his hand rubbing my back through the bathrobe I’d borrowed from him. I figured he was probably starting to feel uncomfortable, so I loosened my grip and tried to pull away. He didn’t stop me, just let me slip out of his arms like it was nothing.

I ran out of the room and quickly changed my clothes. I took a moment to calm myself before deciding to start working.

****

Since that day, weirdly enough, Mr. Rickman seemed to get even chummier with me. Like, he’d randomly start teaching me acting tricks while I was mopping the floor or dusting the shelves. One minute I’m cleaning, the next I’m in some impromptu scene where I’m a dramatic Victorian lady or something. If I messed up my lines, he’d just laugh—like, full-on laugh—and I’d be standing there with a duster in one hand, trying not to die of embarrassment. He also started calling me “beautiful,” which, okay, flattering, but also? Sir, I’m literally holding a mop right now. He even said with a bit of practice, he could probably get me some extra roles in films or commercials. I mean, yeah, that sounds amazing, but let’s be real—I’m not exactly ready for my close-up yet. Still, a girl can dream, right?

Somehow, I’d managed to get the hang of balancing school and this job. I told Vicky and Cassie I was staying with relatives now, and they were cool with only hanging out on weekends. Mum had also been keeping up with Billy’s debts to the loan sharks, paying them off bit by bit on time. Life was… complicated, but at least things were moving in the right direction.

Mr. Rickman was usually home for a bit, then off filming for weeks or even months. Miss Horton, though, was a total powerhouse—always working, always busy at the council or teaching on the university. They were this super busy couple, but somehow they made it work, and being around them felt… nice.

Miss Horton was awesome, even though she was hardly ever home. She made sure there was always food in the house and even gave me some of her old clothes. The best boss ever! Honestly, she feels like a second mum to me.

****

But of course, even the happiest couples always have their moments. Lately, I’d been hearing them argue more often, and since then, Mr. Rickman had also been keeping his distance from me.

Today felt especially cold—the rain had just stopped, and winter seemed to be creeping in. I was in my room, wearing an oversized t-shirt that used to belong to Billy as pajamas, trying to focus on my homework while the couple shouted at each other in the kitchen. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but their voices were loud enough to carry through the house.

“You should understand my situation, Alan. I’m busy and exhausted, and I can’t keep trailing after you to the red carpet events just to watch you cosy up to some other women,” Miss Horton said, her voice desperate.

“You know perfectly well they’re my co-stars, and I really wanted you there with me,” Mr. Rickman shot back, just as angry. “You’re always making excuses. I’m a man with needs, you know… our bed feels even colder every night.”

I heard Miss Horton break into sobs. “Oh?! How can you say you miss me when you have plenty of women in your life to keep you company? Alan, I’m just trying to stand on my own two feet, get my name to be someone by my own efforts.”

I heard quick footsteps pass my room and head upstairs, followed by the other person not long after. Then, everything grew quieter with each passing second.

I let out a long sigh, closed my book, and climbed into bed. I stared at the ceiling, feeling a bit unsettled and finding it hard to sleep. Suddenly, it was 2 a.m., and I really needed to close my eyes. But, as if struck by a meteor, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when my door suddenly swung open. I never locked it because I always felt safe in this house. But tonight, I saw Mr. Rickman step into my room, his eyes bloodshot, a glass of whiskey in his hand, reeking of alcohol.

I froze, too scared to say anything. He just stood there, staring at me for what felt like forever, silent. I understood his state, but I desperately hoped he’d leave my room soon. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on my side. I sat up in bed and slowly inched toward the wall as I watched him step further inside, closing the door behind him.

He walked over to me and sat on the edge of the bed, taking another swig of his drink. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out—it felt like a nightmare or some horror movie. Mr. Rickman glanced at me, then looked around the room. I always kept my room tidy to avoid getting scolded, but I’d decorated it a bit to make it feel more like my own. His eyes stopped on the posters and photos of Hugh Grant I’d stuck on the wall near my desk. He snorted, then giggled a few times, looking back at me with a smile I’d never seen before. That golden retriever smile I was used to was nowhere to be found.

“You fancy Grant, huh?” he asked in a low tone, his voice husky, still with that unsettling giggle.

I just nodded, still curled up on the bed in the corner of the room, scared.

“Can’t say I blame you. He’s a handsome lad, that one. But…” He took another gulp of his drink before speaking again, “What about me then? Don’t you like me a little bit?”

I didn’t say a word, but my nervous gulp couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. He chuckled, and his hand landed on my calf, making me flinch.

“Not talking, huh? Hmm… alright,” he shrugged, “but you know Grant’s my age, right? Wouldn’t he make a better dad for you?” He laughed again.

My cheeks burned. I felt embarrassed because, well, he wasn’t wrong. Finally, I found my voice, even though my body was trembling as I tried to speak. “Sir, you’re drunk. Shouldn’t you go back to your room?” I said softly, trying to stay calm.

“Am I not as handsome as Grant? Is that why you don’t want me here either?” He sounded serious, his eyes locked directly on mine.

I took a deep breath. After thinking about it, it didn’t seem like he was trying to be violent. So I slowly moved closer, carefully reaching for the glass in his hand.

He caught my wrist. I looked up and realized his face was now so close to mine. His expression looked sad, and I couldn’t help but feel sympathy. Eventually, he let me take the whiskey glass from his hand, but he never took his eyes off me. I placed the glass on my bedside table, finally getting a chance to really look at his face. His hazel eyes looked tired, his big nose that was so distinctive, and the faint lines that came with age. “You’re handsome too,” I said quietly, unsure if speaking up was the right move. “You’ve got so many fans. All those girls out there fancy you, don’t they, Mr. Rickman?” I added, trying to reassure him.

“But you don’t fancy me, do you?” he asked again, and honestly, it didn’t make things any easier.

“I… uh…” I stammered, completely thrown off by why he was asking me this, especially after his explosive row with Miss Horton. Was he… feeling insecure? My mind raced as I tried to make sense of it all. I let out a shaky breath. “Of course I like you. I don’t have a dad, and having you around feels… nice.” It was the best answer I could muster, even though it felt woefully inadequate.

He went quiet again, his expression shifting to something unreadable—part disappointment, part something else I couldn’t quite place. “I’ll never have kids,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “Rima doesn’t want them. No matter how many times I’ve asked, no matter how many times I’ve tried to talk about it… she won’t budge. So I can’t be your dad either.” His words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, before he suddenly closed the distance between us.

I didn’t even have time to react, to process what was happening, before I felt his lips press against mine. It wasn’t gentle or hesitant—it was desperate, almost like he was searching for something he couldn’t find anywhere else. My mind went blank, my body frozen in place, caught between shock and something I couldn’t name. The room felt like it was spinning, the weight of his words and the heat of his touch colliding in a way that left me breathless.

His hand on my upper back, pulling me closer until I was practically on his lap. I tried to pull away, wanting to make sense of this moment, but his strength was unyielding. His arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me even closer, his free hand cradling my chin, guiding my lips back to his.

His fingers were strong, yet delicate as they roamed my face, tracing my jawline, my cheeks, down my shoulders and arms, as if he was trying to burn my skin to memory. His hands felt like an artist's, creating an intimate dance across my body. His touch was addictive, sending jolts of something new through my body.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was hot and heavy, mixed with the smell of whiskey and something more, something that made my head feel lighter. His eyes locked on mine, deep and intense, but with a vulnerability that I’d never seen in him before.

He looked... desperate.

“Are you scared?” he asked, his voice rough and low, his eyes intently searching my face for some sort of answer.

I nodded slightly, my body frozen in place, like a small animal that’s caught a predator’s attention. I was scared in a way I’d never felt before. But it wasn’t the kind of fear that came with outright danger. It was more like a strange mix of curiosity and excitement, a feeling I couldn’t quite understand.

This wasn’t my first kiss, but I never imagined that something like this would happen to me. At least, not with him—someone who felt so much like a father figure to me. I was a little disappointed, but for some reason, not as much as I thought I’d be.

His hands were still roaming my back, like he was searching for something. Oh no… was he looking for…? No, I never wore a bra to bed, or even underwear, and I suddenly realized that, aside from the oversized shirt I had on, I was practically naked in front of him.

His fingers moved to the edge of my shirt, slowly tugging at it, pulling it up, up, revealing my bare skin bit by bit. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure he could hear it, and my face was probably as red as a tomato. But he didn’t even seem to notice. He was focused on me, every movement so deliberate, as if he was exploring uncharted territory. And frankly, for me, it was uncharted territory. I’d never dared to think of Mr. Rickman in this way before, and yet… here he was. Taking control, making my body feel something I couldn’t imagine before.

Tears began to stream down my face before I even realized it, my chest tightening with a mix of fear, confusion, and something else I couldn’t name. I wasn’t ready for this—not for any of it. Thankfully, he froze, his hands stilling against my back as if he’d suddenly come to his senses. He let out a long, shaky sigh, his breath warm against my skin. “I’ve gone too far, haven’t I?” he murmured, his voice barely audible, laced with regret. A nervous, almost apologetic giggle escaped him, but it did little to mask the tension in the room. “I’m sorry…”

I shook my head, my mind still reeling, my emotions a tangled mess. “It’s okay…” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m just… really tired.” The words felt hollow, but they were all I could manage.

He fell silent again, his gaze dropping to where I still sat on his lap, my legs curled awkwardly beneath me. For a moment, he didn’t move, his expression unreadable—part guilt, part something darker I couldn’t quite place. Then, with a gentleness that surprised me, he carefully lifted me off his lap and set me down on the bed. The loss of his warmth was immediate, leaving me feeling strangely exposed and vulnerable.

He stood up abruptly, his movements stiff, like he was forcing himself to step away. The room felt heavier now, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. I watched as he turned toward the door, his shoulders tense, his head bowed slightly as if weighed down by the weight of what had just happened. He paused for a moment, his hand resting on the doorknob, but he didn’t look back. Without another word, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

I sat there, frozen, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. My heart was still racing, my mind a whirlwind of emotions I couldn’t begin to untangle. The room felt colder now, emptier, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

****

The days that followed were unbearably awkward. How could I possibly act like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t just been kissed by Alan Rickman himself? My emotions were all over the place—confusion, guilt, and something else I couldn’t quite name. Every time I saw Miss Horton, I felt this heavy knot of guilt in my chest, like I’d done something wrong, even though I hadn’t asked for any of it. I couldn’t even look her in the eye without feeling like I was hiding some terrible secret.

Mr. Rickman, on the other hand, avoided even glancing at me, let alone speaking to me. Every time I caught sight of him, I could see a mix of guilt and shame lurking in his eyes before he averted his gaze. It felt like we were both trapped in this strange, uneasy atmosphere we couldn’t escape from.

Every night, I went to bed mentally and physically exhausted, but sleep, unfortunately, was elusive. My mind was plagued with thoughts that buzzed around my head, refusing to let me find peace.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were unbearably awkward. How could I possibly act like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t just been kissed by Alan Rickman himself? My emotions were all over the place—confusion, guilt, and something else I couldn’t quite name. Every time I saw Miss Horton, I felt this heavy knot of guilt in my chest, like I’d done something wrong, even though I hadn’t asked for any of it. I couldn’t even look her in the eye without feeling like I was hiding some terrible secret.

Then came Miss Horton’s father birthday. They invited a few guests over for dinner, and I was asked to help the personal chef they’d hired. I knew I wouldn’t be much use in the kitchen, but at least I could help serve the food and wash the dishes. Lately, I’d been lost in my thoughts a lot. I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling anymore, but I’d even started thinking about quitting this job. Of course, that wasn’t an option with Billy’s mountain of debt still hanging over us.

Miss Horton even bought me a new outfit—a light blue dress with a modest skirt that fell just below my knees, paired with a white apron embroidered with tiny flowers. Such a perfect maid to present for the guests. But it’s okay… honestly, I felt pretty wearing it, and I couldn’t help but think that this was how Miss Horton might dress her daughter if she had one.

I was polishing the silverware when I caught a glimpse of Mr. Rickman walking past the kitchen. He was wearing a suit, going full black with a touch of purple in his tie. I could smell his cologne from a distance, and it instantly brought me back to that night. That expensive, musky scent, though thankfully, there was no trace of alcohol mixed in this time.

He glanced into the kitchen, his eyes lingering on me for a moment—sharp, intense, like he could see right through me. But he didn’t say a word, just looked away and walked toward the dining room.

I couldn’t shake the disappointment that suddenly washed over me, though I wasn’t even sure where it came from. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore—I missed him. His smile, his laugh, his dramatic flair when he practiced his lines, and… that warmth I couldn’t quite explain. I… I think I wanted it again.

I quickly shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind. I had to focus on not dropping this tray of posh food—no tripping, no spills, no disasters. I walked into the dining room with my best polite smile, nodding at the twenty-four guests sitting around the table. There were a few oldies who were probably Miss Horton’s family, some professors from her uni, and even a bunch of famous British actors and actresses. No pressure, right?! If someone asked for water, I was on it. Salt? Coming right up! Then, out of nowhere, there was a knock at the door. I was holding a teapot and about to put it down to answer it, but Miss Horton stood up instead. “I’ll get it,” she said, all calm and collected, brushing the napkin off her lap.

Two minutes later, the room was buzzing, so I figured it had to be someone important. I looked up and nearly dropped the teapot. HUGH GRANT? is it really him?! someone please give me a proper slap!

Emma Thompson was already on her feet, grinning like mad, chatting away with Hugh Grant and the woman he’d brought along. “Oh, you made it!” she said, sounding proper chuffed.

“Yeah, course I wouldn’t miss a party that Alan invited me. Oh, and happy birthday, mr. Horton sir! Looking sharp as ever, hahaha,” Hugh Grant said, all charm, before plonking himself down in the empty chair.

I just stood there, frozen, staring like an idiot. Hugh Grant. In the flesh. He was even more fit than in the films—like, how is that even possible? My brain short-circuited for a second, and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. This was not the time to turn into a fangirl.

Grant caught me staring and flashed me this cheeky grin. “Hey, what’s up with you, darling?” he said, his voice all smooth and teasing.

Someone help me, I’m about to faint!

“Oh, Hugh,” Miss Horton chimed in, laughing, “she’s absolutely mad about you. If you saw her room, you’d find a proper shrine dedicated to your photos.” She totally outed me, and the whole table erupted into laughter.

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, I was that embarrassed. But at the same time, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. This was Hugh Grant, standing right in front of me, and I wasn’t about to waste a single second of it.

“Come here, lassie…” Grant called me over, his voice warm but with that trademark twinkle in his eye. My legs felt like jelly as I shuffled toward him, trying not to trip over my own feet.

The whole table was giggling, watching me like I was some kind of circus act in the middle of this posh dinner. Great. Just what I needed—more attention.

As soon as I got close enough, Hugh Grant grabbed my hand and started stroking the back of it like he was auditioning for the role of “Most Charming Man Alive.” 

“Aren’t you gorgeous… such a pretty baby. Let me guess, Rima must be dressing her doll all out tonight,” he said, his voice all smooth and theatrical, like he was in a rom-com or something.

“Y-yes, Mr. Grant, sir,” I stammered, trying not to shake like a washing machine on spin cycle.

“Why so tense, love? And don’t ‘Mr. Grant’ me… just call me Hugh,” he said, flashing that million-pound smile. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if he was acting or if he was just naturally this ridiculously charming. Either way, my brain was basically a puddle at this point.

“You want a photo with him, love?” Miss Horton suddenly cut in, practically bouncing over to the showcase where she kept her Polaroid camera. “Go on, girl, get in closer,” she called from across the table, holding the camera up like she was some pro paparazzi.

Before I could even blink, I felt Hugh’s fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me closer. Next thing I knew, he had me in a proper hug, his arm slung around me like we were best mates or something. My brain just… froze. Like a VHS tape stuck on pause. Hugh Grant was hugging me. Like, actually hugging me. This was not how I thought my evening was going to go. Not even close, but who am I kidding, I LOVE IT!

With a bright flash, it was done. Suddenly, there was a Polaroid picture of me and Hugh Grant in Miss Horton’s hand. I was so over the moon I could’ve stared at it all night, but since I was technically on the clock, I had to shove it in my pocket and wait until dinner was over. Honestly, tonight felt like something out of a Cinderella story—where the scullery maid meets her handsome prince. Except, in this version, Cinderella didn’t get to dance with the prince, and the prince had already brought a date to the ball. Haha, talk about irony. But still, I was thrilled to have met him. He was so lovely, and the woman he brought was really nice too—probably used to dealing with Hugh Grant’s fans.

****
Dinner was over, and here I was, still scrubbing dishes from the party, even though all I wanted to do was bolt to my room and stare at my new treasure. But hey, I was already lucky enough to have met him, so I couldn’t complain.

The clinking of silverware snapped me out of my thoughts, and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I realized Mr. Rickman was standing right next to me, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in his hand. His gaze was intense, but for some reason, I couldn’t be bothered to feel scared anymore.

“Can I help you?” I asked flatly, my hands still busy and covered in soap.

"Nothing. Just noticed you seemed quite enthusiastic about meeting Grant," he muttered, eyebrows knitting together in a way that suspiciously looked like - wait, was that jealousy?

"Oh completely I was excited," I shot back, scrubbing a plate with extra energy. "You know I've fancied him since I was nine. I can't wait to show this photo around school tomorrow." I gave him a deliberately casual shrug. "Got a problem with that, Mr. Rickman? Hmm?"

The way his jaw tightened was extremely telling. Bloody hell. Was Alan Rickman actually sulking over Hugh Grant? This night just kept getting stranger.

“Just curious,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “if the man you idolize kissed you, would you run away and ignore him too?”

I let out a long sigh. This was beyond ridiculous coming from someone like Alan Rickman. I stopped washing the dishes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Wasn’t it you who ignored me? And acted like nothing happened?” I shot back, my voice sharp.

He looked stunned, blinking a few times like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really,” I retorted, my hands back to scrubbing dishes, more aggressively this time. “You’ve been avoiding me like the bloody plague, so don’t come here acting all wounded.”

Mr. Rickman let out a soft laugh, the glass of water nearly slipping out of his hand. “My, my, what a mouth you’ve gotten on you. When did you get so cheeky?” he said, his voice slightly playful, but with a hint of annoyance behind it.

I sighed, “You don’t seem very sorry about what happened.” I said, my voice softer. But inside, I was melting. I could feel his eyes burning into me, my brain struggling to form a proper sentence. This was so absurd. I was standing here, arguing with Alan Rickman, as if arguing with the Alan Rickman was a normal everyday thing. It was so weird, but needed to be like this.

“Maybe because I don’t feel sorry about it…” He shrugged again, his expression kind of amused.

I raised my eyebrows, my hands paused and still covered in soap. “Seriously?” I said, my voice a mix of disbelief and anger. “No apologies, no explanations…are you mad mr. Rickman?”

He leaned a bit closer, his arm just barely brushing against mine, making me flinch. “I don’t remember hearing any complaints that night either…” he added, his voice a teasing whisper.

I fell silent, glancing at him with flushed cheeks. I couldn't lie - his kiss had felt so good I'd almost ask for more. But of course I tried to deny that truth, deflecting instead. "Let it go...it's clearly no big deal for you. You're used to kissing hundreds of beautiful women."

My voice came out softer than I intended. The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, the silence between us too heavy. I turned back to the dishes, scrubbing at an already-clean plate just to have something to do with my hands.

He set his glass down with a quiet clink. "Not like that," he murmured. "Never quite like that."

The rawness in his voice made my breath catch. When I dared to look up, his expression was unguarded in a way I'd never seen before - vulnerable, almost boyish despite the lines on his face. The great Alan Rickman, looking at me like I was the one who'd done something extraordinary. 

Bloody hell. This was getting dangerously real.

I can’t help but blush. The truth is, I do miss him. And who am I kidding? He has that kind of charisma not everyone possesses. In fact, at that moment, I almost forgot the fact that I had just met Hugh Grant. My focus was entirely on how close he was standing, and I couldn’t help but think—if Miss Horton saw this, I’d surely be in trouble.

I managed to wash the last glass and place it on the drying rack. Quickly wiping my hands, I turned and walked away, leaving him there without another word. I left Mr. Rickman standing frozen in the kitchen.

****

 The next morning, I practically floated to school. How could I not? I was desperate to show Cassie and Vicky my photo with Hugh Grant!  

And yes, their reactions were exactly what I expected. Vicky started jumping around like an excited puppy while Cassie’s shriek echoed down the hallway. "This is SO unfair! How could you meet him without us?"  

"I was... I just..." I froze mid-sentence, suddenly realizing I'd have to explain my job.  

"Were what? And why are you dressed like that? You look like a bloody american doll." Vicky pressed, eyeing my outfit suspiciously.  

Thank goodness I spotted the bathroom. I dragged them both inside before anyone could overhear. They looked confused but waited silently for my explanation.  

"Okay, truth time... I'm not staying with relatives this whole time. I'm working as Alan Rickman's housemaid," I confessed in a rush, squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for impact.  

Silence.  

Then—  

"YOU WHAT?" they shrieked together.  

Vicky grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "You've been living with Alan Rickman and didn't TELL US?"  

Cassie clutched the Hugh Grant photo like it was priceless. "Wait—does this mean you see celebrities all the time?"  

I groaned. This was going to be a very long day.  

“Well, not all the time… but Mr. Rickman does sometimes have guests over for dinner. Trust me, this was my first time meeting Hugh Grant!” I said, trying to calm them down.

“Alright, Cassie, deep breaths,” Vicky said, guiding her through exaggerated inhale-exhale motions. “Now, tell me – is he as handsome in person?”

“Hugh Grant? Oh, absolutely! Even more so!” I answered without hesitation.

Vicky rolled her eyes. “No, you muppet, I meant Alan. You know? His face is so… distinctive. Don’t you think he’s quite fit? And… is he nice to you?”

My cheeks flushed instantly. Why was this so hard to answer? Memories of that night—the impossible-to-forget night—rushed back, completely uninvited. “Uh… yeah, he’s nice. Decent looking. His nose is a bit… big? But, like, in a good way. Kind of attractive, actually. And he smells really good…” I trailed off, feeling like I’d just revealed way too much.

Vicky smirked knowingly. “That’s it? You’ve been living in his house for months and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Well, he’s rarely home,” I said quickly, desperate to steer the conversation away from Alan Rickman’s appeal. “Always off filming somewhere, you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” Cassie cut in, clearly not buying my excuses. “He must be loaded though. And his house? Bet it’s massive.”

Vicky giggled, her eyes practically turning green. “Right, and does it have one of those fancy loos with heated seats?”

I laughed nervously, not wanting to fuel their fantasies. But before I could say anything, Cassie crossed her arms. “Speaking of cash, have you two sorted the homecoming yet? Dresses, makeup, the whole lot?”

Vicky was ready with an answer. “Already got the dress,” she said smugly. “And my sister’s taking me to the salon for hair and makeup. Sorted.” It made sense—she had a boyfriend now. Some upperclassman from the basketball team. Of course she’d been planning this for a while .

“What about you?” Cassie turned to me, looking genuinely concerned. “Have you got your dress? And who’s taking you? Please tell me Daniel’s asked.”

Before I could answer, the sound of a stall door creaking open broke the moment. A girl sauntered out, making her way to the sink with a smug grin plastered across her face.

“Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not only are you the daughter of a checkout lady, but now you’re saying you’re maid too?”

Of all people, it had to be Angel. Honestly, she was more like the devil. Her words landed like a slap, and I froze.

Angel flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and smirked at my reaction. Her dad worked with Cassie’s at some big corporate firm, and the two of them had been mates for years— best friends, until Angel ruined it. She’d once told Cassie’s church crush that Cassie still wet the bed in Year Seven. Cassie was so humiliated she never went back to that church.

Angel was spoiled rotten. Like, three times worse than Cassie, if that’s even possible. If Angel couldn’t have something, she made sure no one else could. And right now, everyone knew she had a thing for Daniel.

“Seriously,” she continued, inspecting her nails like she was bored already. “Bet homecoming gonna be so embarrassing for you lot. You can’t just show up in a charity shop dress, you know. And too bad you can’t borrow one from Cassandra,” Angel added with a cruel smile as she dried her hands. “She’s getting a bit chubby, isn’t she? It’s not going to look good.” With that, she strutted out of the bathroom, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume and venom behind.

“I’ll kill that bitch!” Cassie growled, fists clenched at her sides. Her face was a picture of restrained fury, but somehow she managed to keep herself from storming after Angel. Instead, she turned to me, her expression deadly serious. “You have to go to the dance with Daniel and look ten times better than her. Got it?”

“What? Why me?” I asked, blinking in confusion. “She can go with Dan if she wants. I don’t care!” I shrugged, shaking my head as if the idea was utterly ridiculous.

Cassie narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger in my direction. “If you don’t, then she’s won. She’s done beat you! and she’s done beat me! Do you get that?”

I stared at her, still trying to process how my life had turned into some bizarre high-stakes competition I never agreed to enter.

⸻

When I got back to the Rickman house, my stomach was in knots. I briefly considered wearing one of the old dresses Miss Horton had passed down to me. But who was I kidding? Even though it was expensive, the style was way out of date.

I let out a long sigh and tossed my bag onto the bed. Then, I picked up the photo of me and Hugh Grant from my bag and placed it back on the wall, next to the other snapshots of my life. It felt strange to be back in my room after everything that had happened today.

I changed into more comfortable clothes and stepped out, my face still clouded with worry.

I started cleaning Miss Horton’s Swarovski collection, meticulously polishing everything from the large decorative bowls to the tiny, intricately carved swan figurines. The irony hit me hard—something as small as this swan could easily cover all my prom expenses.

And then, the thought came, dark and unbidden. If this swan went missing, no one would even notice. I mean, they’re so wealthy—this wouldn’t even be a drop in the ocean for them.

I glanced around the room, making sure no one was nearby. Slowly, almost hesitantly, I closed my fingers around the tiny crystal swan, its smooth surface cold against my palm. My hand drifted toward the pocket of my skirt.

“You’re not seriously going to do that.”

The voice behind me made me jump, my heart hammering in my chest.

I turned, and there he was—Mr. Rickman. He’d been standing in the garden all this time, hidden behind the sheer curtains of the sliding door. How long had he been watching? His gaze was steady, piercing, and utterly unreadable.

“I, uh… what? I just… my hand was tired, that’s all. I wasn’t doing anything!” I stammered, my voice trembling as cold sweat gathered on my forehead.

Mr. Rickman stepped inside, folding his arms across his chest. He took a long, measured breath before letting himself fall into the sofa. “Put it back. Then come here,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I carefully placed the tiny swan back into the cabinet, my hands shaking slightly. Then, with my head bowed, I walked toward him, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it—I was going to lose my job. How would I even tell Mum? She’d be devastated.

“You like that swan?” he asked, his voice calm but completely unreadable.

“No…” I shook my head, still staring at the floor, bracing myself for what would come next.

“No?” His voice held a hint of something—amusement, maybe? “But it is quite pretty, isn’t it? So pure, delicate… crystal clear.”

He spoke slowly, each word measured. The way he said it, so steady and deliberate, made my heart beat faster for reasons I didn’t quite understand.

“No, sir,” I said shakily, my voice barely above a whisper. “I… don’t like it.”

“Hmm. I see.” He leaned back in the sofa, his gaze still fixed on me. “So, you need money,” he said, almost to himself, before letting out a quiet, sharp exhale that was somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

I froze, completely unable to speak.

“Lift your head and look me in the eyes,” he commanded, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, I raised my gaze, locking eyes with those hazel ones once more—eyes that had always seemed so kind, now swirling with emotions I couldn’t read. “I’m sorry…” The words barely escaped my lips, a fragile whisper.

He rose from his seat, stepping closer until he was towering over me. His large fingers tilted my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze. The furrow in his brow deepened, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced. “What do you think would happen if Rima found out about this?”

“I’m sorry…” I whispered again, this time looking directly into his eyes. It was all I could manage.

He let out a scoff, his lips curling into something between amusement and disbelief. “Not just stealing my attention, now you’re literally trying to steal from me, young lady?”

“Huh?” My brain stalled, unable to process his words. All I could focus on were his lips—closer now than they’d ever been before. There was something about the way they moved, something that made me forget how to breathe.

Before I realised what was happening, he leaned in closer. And then it happened—he kissed me. Not like the first time, when he was tipsy and impulsive. No, this time he was fully aware of what he was doing. And so was I.

It was completely unlike the first time. His lips were so much warmer, his body so much closer. One hand grasped my chin, the other slid down to find its place on my waist, fingers curling possessively around my hip. I just stood there, too stunned to move as his lips moved over mine, gently at first but quickly growing more frantic. His tongue traced my bottom lip, before pushing deeper, exploring every inch of my mouth. The hand that had been on my hip was now on the small of my back, pulling me against him, so close I could feel every contour of his body.

He guided me toward the sofa, our lips still locked in a kiss that sent my thoughts spiraling. As he pulled me down to sit on his lap, his hand grazed my thigh, making it impossible to think of anything else.

But then, suddenly, he broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

“You want money, lass?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, the words vibrating through me.

Still perched on his lap, I didn’t know how to respond. His fingers slid gently through my hair, and I could only look at him, my chest rising and falling as I struggled to catch my breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. “So sweet… like honey sugar. Don’t you get it? I want you.”

“But… but, Miss Horton?” I stammered, my voice shaky as I clung to the one thread of reality I could grasp. I had to say something, anything, though even I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward him. Despite the years between us, despite the fact that he’s old enough to be my father, there was a warmth, a comfort in being near him—in his touch, his scent, the way the lines on his face deepened when he looked at me.

“Rima doesn’t need to know. Just like the swan,” he replied, his tone light but loaded with meaning.

Before I could even process his words, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a £50 note. He placed it gently into my hand, the gesture somehow casual yet electrifying.

I stared at the crisp note in my hand, my mind reeling. His gaze was fixed on me, unwavering and intense, as if daring me to say no, to refuse him. But the weight of his words—and his touch—had already unraveled me. I could feel the heat of his hands still resting lightly on my waist, steady and sure, anchoring me in a moment that felt both surreal and inevitable. The £50 note trembled between my fingers as the line between right and wrong blurred into nothing.

“You deserve more than this,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against my cheek, trailing down to my jaw. His voice was low and smooth, almost hypnotic. “But I need to know… you’re not just taking the money. You’re taking me, too.” There was a challenge in his words, a vulnerability hidden beneath the confidence that made my chest tighten. My heart pounded as I tried to find my voice, but the truth was, I didn’t even know what I wanted—or maybe I did, but I was too afraid to admit it.

He watched me, his eyes burning into mine, as if willing me to speak. But words failed me, leaving me breathless and trembling on his lap, the £50 note still clutched in my hand. Before I could protest the money, his hand slid beneath my chin, tilting my face up to look at him.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my neck, his lips just barely brushing against my ear. “Don’t you want more?” he whispered, his voice low and heady. “I’ll give you more.”

I nodded, my breath hitching as his lips trailed down the sensitive skin of my neck. His hands moved with a newfound urgency, sliding up to cup my breasts through the thin fabric of my shirt. The sensation was electric, sending sparks racing along my nerves. "What are you doing, Mr. Rickman?" I gasped, my voice barely above a whisper. Part of me was screaming for me to stop this, to run away and never look back. But the rest of me? The part that throbbed with desire and need? That part was urging me on, desperate for more.His chuckle vibrated against my skin, sending goosebumps racing down my arms. "Alan," he corrected, his hands squeezing my breasts in a way that made my knees weak. "Should I stop, sweetheart. My pretty little thief," As his fingers found their way beneath my shirt, sliding over my heated flesh.

I knew I was beautiful, though I never liked to boast about it. But I never imagined that someone as famous and accomplished as him would take an interest in me. I mean, I was just a high school girl working as his housemaid.
And then there was the glaring fact that he'd been in a long-term relationship with Rima Horton for nearly twenty years. The thought of it only added to the confusion and guilt swirling in my chest.

Miss Horton had always been kind to me, treating me with the warmth of a parent. I cared for her deeply, almost like my own mother. And yet, here I was, perched on the lap of the man she loved, surrendering to his touch. It felt like I was betraying her trust, breaking every moral I thought I had. But my body told a different story. It didn’t want this moment to end, didn’t care about the consequences. Tonight, this handsome, old man wasn’t hers—he was mine.

I let him touch me, his hands moving with this steady confidence that sent shivers up my spine. Every movement felt deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and I couldn’t deny how good it felt. My heart was racing, my skin practically buzzing, and I couldn’t figure out why he suddenly looked so much more attractive. Maybe it was the way he made everything feel so… easy, like he’d done this before, but somehow it was still just for me.

I caught the soft laugh that escaped his lips, and my stomach flipped. He was watching me like he’d just discovered something new to play with, like he couldn’t get enough of my reactions. It should have annoyed me, but instead, I felt myself leaning into him, my face heating at the thought. Was I just some kind of game to him? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed—but either way, I didn’t want him to stop.

I could feel his arousal pressing against me where I sat, hot and undeniable, a stark contrast to the restraint he was showing now. There was a hint of vulnerability in his gaze, a glimmer of genuine concern that struck something within me. It was the first time he looked human, the first time I realized he was a man. I took in a shuddering breath, torn between reason and desire.

I knew this was wrong, knew I ought to protest, ought to get up, ought to walk away. But the words caught in my throat, unable to form a single sensible excuse. What came out, instead, was a quiet plea. “Please… don’t stop...”

He gave me a small, knowing smile before pulling me up, settling my face against his chest. He began to lower his clean pants, extracting his manhood. I could feel its length pressed against my back, hot and throbbing. I felt nervous and panicked, unsure if I was truly ready for all of this. Not even with a boy that took me to prom, but rather a man twice my size in years and body.

He stared into my eyes—my drowsy, glassy eyes. He saw the conflict there, the uncertainty, the flickers of fear. Each second, it felt like he was diving deeper into my soul, searching for something, maybe even trying to think clearly himself, to reconsider what he was doing.

“You’re scared,” he whispered, his hand stroking his member gently down my back. Then, with a slight raise of his eyebrow, he added, “Don’t tell me… you’re still a virgin?”

I nodded hesitantly, my fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt at his waist—as if afraid he’d change his mind and pull away. His lips curled into a faint smirk, though his eyes still held something unreadable. Slowly, he adjusted his position, then I was panicking, and quickly stand up on the sofa, taking off my white knickers.

His face contorted in a mix of shock and titillation as he beheld the provocative scene unfolding before him. My cheeks, ablaze with crimson, served as a vibrant canvas for the embarrassment I felt. Yet, a current of desire coursed through me, causing my body to move of its own accord. Gradually, I sank back onto the plush sofa, my hand instinctively reaching out to wrap around his imposing manhood.Its girth and length were staggering, leaving me with doubts about my ability to accommodate it during our intimacy. He let out a low, husky chuckle, clearly enamored by my naivety and the naughty exhibition I was providing. His eyes gleamed with arousal, betraying his delight in the sensual spectacle before him.Moving with trepidation, I positioned the engorged head of his member at the entrance of my slit. My lips, puffed up in a deep berry pink, parted slightly, forming a moist, inviting haven. Steeling myself, I whispered the timid inquiry, "Am I doing this right?" The words tumbled out in a breathy hiss, heavy with uncertainty.

He nodded, then placed his hands on my hips, guiding me through our first penetration. "Relax, my dear, it might hurt a bit at first. But I know you can handle me," he reassured, his warm breath tickling my ear.

As his member slowly slid into my opening, my body tensed up, the discomfort heightened by the strange sensation as I struggled to adjust to his size. I let out a little growl, sweat beading down my brow as my breath quickened, each pant heavily filling my lungs with humid air.

A murmur of encouragement escaped his lips as he felt my walls clenched around him, the initial sting a natural response to the unfamiliar intrusion. His large palms slid soothingly along my hips, fingers splaying wide to provide gentle pressure and reassurance. "You're doing great, just breathe through it," he whispered, his words muffled by the growing mist of sweat clinging to our skin. With each measured thrust, he coaxed my body to relax, his girth gradually working its way deeper inside me as I gradually adjusted. The ache gave way to a dull, persistent throb, a reminder of his presence within me.

"Such a good girl, taking me so bravely." His deep, velvety voice vibrated against my skin, heightening my senses with each sensual syllable. His praise dripped with seduction as he echoed. The gentle, encouraging pressure of his hands continued to soothe any residual tension, while his hips maintained a slow, deliberate rhythm, easing me into this unknown, intimate territory. With each deliberate slide of his manhood, he claimed more of me, the pleasure-edged pain mingling into a heady, intoxicating sensation that left me breathless and pliant in his arm.

As the seconds ticked by, he picked up the pace, bouncing me up and down faster with each pass. The sudden acceleration pushed me closer to the brink, my mind fogged by the intense pleasure pounding through my veins. I clutched his shirt tighter, fingernails digging in as I arched against him, desperate to deepen the connection.His steady hand shifted from my hip to cup my ass, squeezing and pulling me onto his throbbing length with each downward thrust. The lewd sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the heavy air, a primal symphony that only served to heighten the madness consuming me. With every plunge, he hit a new depth, stirring unfamiliar feelings within me - cravings I was helpless to resist. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of sensations overwhelming my senses until all that existed was the pulsing heat of his cock and the desperate need for release.

At that moment, I mustered the courage to look up at his face again. His expression wasn't far removed from the look he'd sported during love scenes in his movies - intense, focused, and utterly consumed by his ardor. He nibbled his lower lip, his gaze drifting off into some faraway realm as his breathing grew more ragged, each inhalation a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down my spine. My body quaked with every labored breath he took, each one a testament to his growing need. The air was thick with the sounds of our joining - skin slapping against skin, the creak of the sofa, and the symphony of our ragged breathing. I sensed I was on the precipice of something momentous, a shift from innocence to experience, with him as my guide into the unknown depths of pleasure and desire.

Then, I felt it, the sensation every teenage girl longs for. I hadn't been lying when I said I'd been touching myself for two years, but nothing had prepared me for the intensity of what I was experiencing now. My knees trembled, my body felt like it was on fire, and then, a loud, harsh moan tore from my throat, nearly a scream if I hadn't clamped my own mouth shut in time.

Again, the sight seemed to thrill him, for he laughed at me, unashamed, right in my face. Before I could react, he sped up, burying his face in my neck as I felt his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, with both hands, he lifted me off him, setting me on his chest. I didn't even realize it until then, but I felt a warm, slick fluid trickling down my back. I sensed he was finished, his climax reached.

Chapter Text

“I really enjoyed that, Love. Thank you…” his voice murmured in my ear, each word sending a hypnotic shiver down my spine. I froze, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhilaration.

“I… I did too,” I managed to whisper, my cheeks instantly flaming. Ugh, why did I say that? Couldn’t I have just nodded like a normal person?

He brushed a hand through my hair, his hazel eyes locked onto mine. For a moment, the world went eerily quiet, and I was certain I could hear his heartbeat—or maybe it was my own. His gaze seemed to peel away my thoughts, leaving me vulnerable yet strangely grounded in his presence. He said something then, but my mind was too dazed to comprehend it at first.

“So,” he repeated, his tone measured, “what do you need the money for?”

I blinked myself back to reality, shaking my head as though to clear it. “Uh… homecoming. You know, a dress, makeup? My friends want me to go shopping tonight, and you know what I make here—it barely covers the bills I help Mum with.” I huffed, the words spilling out before I could stop them. Oddly enough, it felt good to complain.

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “We should probably clean ourselves up now,” he said with a soft chuckle.

I nodded and slid off his lap, wincing slightly at the soreness in my legs. My steps felt shaky as I moved away, but I caught him smiling faintly, a look that I couldn’t quite decipher. Was it genuine? Or was my imagination running wild? I didn’t dwell on it; instead, I hurried to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Inside, my chest tightened, and panic began to set in. My breathing hitched as I stared at my reflection, feeling a wave of regret mixed with confusion. What had I done? Not only had I just lost my virginity, but I’d done it with someone old enough to be my dad—someone who wasn’t even single. This was madness, absolute madness.

Stripping off my skirt and underwear, I noticed the crumpled £50 note fall out of my pocket. I stared at it like it was judging me. Fifty quid? Seriously? I mean, yeah, it’s decent money, but it didn’t exactly scream “worth ruining my morals over.” Then again… I did kind of enjoy it. Ugh, shut up, brain.

I hopped in the shower, determined to wash off the weird mix of guilt, shame, and whatever lingering affection I didn’t want to admit was there. Afterward, I threw on some fresh clothes and spent a good half-hour pacing in my room, trying to figure out my life. Spoiler: I didn’t. So I can’t just lock myself in my room, who do I think I am? a princess?? I’m a bloody maid in this house. So by five, I had to face reality—Miss Horton was back, and she’d definitely notice if I just disappeared. With a sigh, I shuffled out, bracing for her to tear into me about all the things I hadn’t done today. Like polishing her shoes, which was still on my very neglected to-do list.

I headed toward the wardrobe room, only to stop dead in my tracks. There they were—Miss Horton and him, snogging like they were in a bloody rom-com themselves. Her hand was on his tie, all flirty and giggly, and I just… froze. Normally, seeing them like this didn’t faze me. They’d been together forever, so it was just a thing. But today? Oh, today it felt like someone had drop-kicked me in the stomach.

They broke apart, laughing softly, and Mr. Rickman straightened his tie like nothing had happened. Remarkably, he carried himself as if he hadn’t just spent the entire daylight making love to me. It seems there’s some merit to having his knack for acting. He probably deserved an award for this level of emotional compartmentalization.

“You’re looking sharp, Mr. Rickman,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “Off somewhere fancy?”

They both turned to me, Miss Horton blushing like a teenager caught sneaking out. Great, now I felt like the intruder. Like I had any right to feel wronged after what I’d done.

“Meeting my producer,” he said casually, brushing some imaginary lint off his shoulder. “At that restaurant near the mall.”

Hmm… Mall? Oh crap! I was supposed to meet Cassie and Vicky there at eight. And let’s not forget my mountain of unfinished chores here. Perfect. They were going to absolutely murder me tomorrow.

“You all right, love?” Miss Horton asked, clearly noticing the mild panic attack I was trying to hide.

“Uh, yeah, just worried you’ll be mad about the shoes,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I, uh… didn’t polish them yet.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Another day won’t kill them,” Mr. Rickman chimed in, waving a hand like it was no big deal. Then, he turned to Miss Horton. “Rima, mind if I take her with me? I could use some help picking up groceries after the dinner.”

My eyes widened. Was he serious? Could my day actually be saved? If she said yes, I might be able to sneak off to meet the girls at the mall.

Miss Horton raised an eyebrow, clearly debating it. After a moment, she shrugged. “Sure, just don’t keep her out too late. She’s got school tomorrow.”

I could’ve kissed her. Instead, I just nodded like a responsible adult (hah!) and tried to keep my cool. Inside, though? I was buzzing. Today might just turn around after all.

****

As I settled into the black BMW, I couldn’t help but feel ridiculously out of place. The car screamed class, with its sleek leather seats and spotless interior. Meanwhile, I felt like a scrappy little cockroach stealing crumbs off its fancy carpet. Alan Rickman’s car, ladies and gentlemen. And me? Just the maid awkwardly tagging along to lug groceries. Iconic.

He glanced at me a couple of times as we pulled out of the driveway, but he didn’t say anything for the first ten minutes. Just the hum of the engine and my internal monologue keeping me company. Finally, he broke the silence.

“You seem uncomfortable. What is it? Is my car not posh enough for your liking?” His tone was playful, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief.

I snorted, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Mr. Rickman? The only other car I’ve been in is a bloody cab.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich like the perfect bowl of tomato soup. Annoyingly, I couldn’t stop thinking about him since, well… this afternoon. Ugh, brain, behave.

“Alaaaan,” he corrected, dragging out his name for emphasis. The cheek of him.

“I’m not calling you Alan. I’m your maid sir. Miss Horton would have my head if I wasn’t polite,” I replied, crossing my arms and pouting like a kid.

“Just give it a go, love,” he teased, eyes still on the road but clearly enjoying himself.

“Nope,” I said, shaking my head with mock determination as I turned to stare out the window. London streets buzzed with their usual chaos, but I couldn’t focus on anything outside for long.

After a thirty-minute drive filled with his occasional chuckles and my stubborn silence, we pulled up outside a swanky restaurant near the Shopping Centre. The place looked fancy enough to make me want to adjust my (definitely not fancy) outfit. Vicky always said if a restaurant was dimly lit but didn’t smell like old frying oil, the food was guaranteed to cost a fortune. She’d be losing her mind knowing I was here—with him, of all people.

As we approached the entrance, I tugged on his coat sleeve, stopping him mid-stride. He turned to me, one brow arched in curiosity.

“Can I go to the mall instead, Mr. Rickman? Just for a bit? I could start grocery shopping early and meet you back here. It’ll save time!” I tried my best to sound confident, flashing him my most innocent smile. Surely, after today, his mood was good enough to grant me this one favor.

“Absolutely not,” he replied without hesitation, a soft scoff escaping his lips. “We’re here to have dinner, darling. You can’t just leave me.”

“But I don’t want to interrupt your meeting with your producer,” I countered, desperately trying to reason with him.

He curled his lips, clearly unimpressed, before stepping aside and pulling out his Nokia 9000 Communicator—the shiny, brand new phone he’d been parading around all week. Cassy would’ve fainted on the spot; she’d been begging her parents for one since it was release. Honestly, though, what was she even planning to do with it? Gossip with herself? Hardly anyone at school had phones.

He put the call on speaker, and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“Hello, Alan. Any good news?” came a friendly male voice from the other side.

“Oh, yes, David. Just a quick update… simple, really. You know what? I’ll take the role,” Alan said casually, like he wasn’t just confirming a massive career decision in the middle of our awkward standoff.

“Really? That’s fantastic! I’ll have the script sent over immediately. Call me later, mate!” the man—David, apparently—replied enthusiastically.

“Of course, of course. Looking forward to it,” Alan said smoothly before hanging up. His eyes flicked back to me, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There, all done. Now, let’s go in,” he said, striding toward the restaurant entrance as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And me? I stood there for a second, trying to decide whether I admired his audacity or was just completely baffled by it. Maybe both. With a sigh, I followed him in, mentally prepping for whatever awaited me next.

****

So here I was, sitting across from a man who practically commanded the attention of the entire restaurant just by existing. Thankfully, rich people seemed to have some unspoken code about not bothering other rich people while they’re dining. The stares were there, sure, but no one dared to approach.

The menu in my hands felt more like a riddle than a list of food options. Everything was in French, and the only word I actually recognized was “spaghetti.” Of course, there were no prices listed next to the dishes—because why would they be? But I had a sinking suspicion that one plate here could probably fill my mum’s fridge for a solid month. A pang of guilt settled in my chest.

“So, what’ll you have?” Alan asked, his tone casual, but his gaze was soft—almost amused. He looked at me like I was some stray kitten lapping up milk he’d left out.

“Uh… spaghetti, maybe?” I mumbled, feeling a bit like an imposter just sitting here. My voice wavered with nerves.

“Spaghetti what, darling?” he pressed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes twinkling.

“How many millions of types of spaghetti can there be, Mr. Rickman?” I shot back, trying to hide my embarrassment with a bit of sass, though my cheeks betrayed me by flushing red.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, love. Take your time. It’s just a simple date.”

Date?! My heart skipped several beats, threatening to leap out of my chest and sprint right out of the restaurant. Did he just call this a date? I mean, sure, he’s said he likes me before, but this? Taking me on a date in public? I wasn’t stupid; I knew I was way too young to be anyone’s mistress—or at least, I should know better.

Before I could process it further, our waiter appeared, asking if we were ready to order.Mr. Rickman glanced at me briefly, but I was still staring blankly at the menu, drowning in my own thoughts.

“We’ll have Soupe à l’Oignon for the starters, Canard à l’Orange for myself, and spaghetti carbonara for the lady. For dessert, two Soufflé au Chocolat, please,” He said smoothly, taking complete control of the situation. He sounded like a character out of some posh movie, and it was… intimidating. His ease reminded me of just how far apart our worlds really were. It wasn’t a matter of if he’d get bored of me—it was just a question of when.

“And would you like to try our recommended wine pairing for the evening, sir?” the waiter asked politely.

“Sure, why not,” he said with a shrug, letting the waiter pour a splash of red wine into his glass. He swirled it around like he was in one of those posh adverts, took a sip, and paused for a moment, clearly mulling it over. I watched him with wide eyes, half expecting some dramatic verdict like he was a wine critic on telly. Instead, he gave a casual nod and said, “Yeah, that’ll do. I’ll take a bottle of those, thanks.” He glanced at me, catching the surprised look on my face. 

“What?” He said like do nothing wrong, leaned back in his chair, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, looking more like a man planning a casual picnic than someone about to share wine with a girl half his age. I swallowed hard, feeling a strange mix of excitement and unease. “I’ve never… I mean, I don’t usually…” I stammered, but he cut me off with a smirk. “There’s a first time for everything, love. Just don’t tell your mates I’m a bad influence, yeah?”

****

I swirled my fork around the overly posh pasta on my plate, barely eating it. Mr. Rickman poured a small splash of wine into my glass, the dark liquid looking so out of place in front of me. I glanced at him, hesitant, before picking up the glass and downing it in one go. To my surprise, it tasted… incredible. Of course it did—I’d overheard the waiter mention it cost 124 quid for the bottle. That was practically my wages for two weeks of scrubbing and dusting in his house.

He chuckled at my reaction, leaning back slightly as he swirled his own glass. “Easy, love,” he said, his tone teasing but smooth. “Take it slow, savour it like how I did.” He shot me a knowing glance before going back to his meal, like he hadn’t just dropped the world’s most casual proposition.

Was he… flirting with me?

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? That I was seriously considering it? That a part of me wanted to drop the stupid pretense and dive headfirst into whatever he was offering? But then, there was her. Miss Horton. The woman who’d been nothing but kind to me, who treated me like family. And now, here I was, sipping fancy wine across the table from the man she’d loved for decades, It was twisted, wasn’t it? Yet, the way he looked at me—like I was the only person in the room—it made it so hard to think straight.

“Gosh, you’re so pretty…” he blurted out, his eyes bored onto mine. “You’ll be all mine, sooner or later.”

I swallowed hard, his words landing heavy between us. My cheeks burned as I fidgeted with the edge of my napkin. “I… huh?” was all I could stammer, my mind struggling to keep up.

He sighed, his gaze softening. “You’re too young to realise what you’re doing, aren’t you?” His tone held something I didn’t expect—concern. His fingers brushed against my arm, and I felt a jolt of something unnameable. Panicked, I grabbed the wine bottle and poured myself another glass, drinking it quickly without thinking.

“Hey… Stop,” he said sharply, reaching for my glass and pulling it away before I could drain it completely. “That’s enough.”

I froze, startled by the sudden firmness in his voice. He set the glass down, his brow furrowed deeply as he studied me. “You’ll make yourself ill,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked genuinely worried, and for a moment, I do felt a little bit guilty.

Raising his hand, he signaled for the waiter. “I’ll take the bill, please,” he said tersely, his jaw tight as his eyes flicked back to me. He let out a quiet sigh and shook his head, his concern unmistakable.

⸻

Back in the car, my head felt like it was spinning in slow motion. I slumped in my seat, groaning softly as the alcohol coursed through me. Mr. Rickman leaned over, carefully fastening my seatbelt with a practiced ease, his face a picture of quiet worry.

“Should we just take you home?” he asked, his voice softer now, though the concern lingered in his tone.

I shook my head weakly. “No, no… we have to go to the mall. My friends are waiting, please…” I said, my words tumbling over themselves.

He let out a quiet sigh, resting his hands on the wheel. “Alright. we’re getting something to help sober you up there,” he said, his voice firm but gentle, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced this was a good idea.

Vicky and Cassie were waiting outside the ice cream stand, just as we’d agreed. I was twenty minutes late, and knowing Vicky, that was just enough time for her to start fuming.

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled, feeling their glares even before I got close enough.

But instead of their usual grumbles, both of them froze, their jaws practically hitting the floor as they stared at something—or rather, someone—behind me.

“Vicky, pinch me,” Cassie whispered, her voice barely audible.

Vicky obliged, giving her a hard enough pinch to make Cassie yelp in pain.

“Would you two stop?” I hissed at them, glancing over my shoulder nervously. The last thing I needed was to draw attention and end up on Mr. Rickman’s radar for the wrong reasons.

“I told you to bring money,” Cassie said, eyes still wide as saucers, “not… this!” She gestured dramatically at Mr. Rickman, who was standing a few paces behind me, looking effortlessly suave and ridiculously out of place among the brightly colored booths and teenagers loitering with their cones.

“Cassy, you’re embarrassing me,” I muttered under my breath, though I couldn’t blame her. If I were them, I’d probably be freaking out too.

“Why’re you stumbling around like that?” Vicky asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Oh my God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?” she added in a hushed whisper.

I gave her a sheepish smile, unable to deny it but not exactly confirming it either.

“For crying out loud! We promised our first drink would be together!” Vicky huffed, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Yeah, betrayal much,” Cassie chimed in, crossing her arms and pouting like a toddler denied sweets.

I glanced back at Mr. Rickman, who was surveying the area with a look that screamed business. His eyes flicked around the mall entrance, sharp and calculating. I couldn’t help but ask, “Something wrong, Mr. Rickman?”

“You’ll need to get used to this, love,” he replied, his tone as smooth as ever. “Sometimes there are paparazzi lurking about. Bit of a pain in the arse, really. But we look alright for now.” He chuckled softly, his gaze finally settling back on me. “Let’s not dawdle, shall we?”

The way he said it—so effortlessly commanding—made Vicky visibly swoon. I swear, I saw her knees wobble.

Linking my arms with Vicky and Cassie, I pulled them along, trying to regain some normalcy. Vicky immediately launched into a rant about how I absolutely should’ve warned her to bring a camera because obviously, she wasn’t about to let Alan Rickman walk past her life without a single photograph. Cassie, meanwhile, couldn’t stop sneaking glances over her shoulder, probably hoping he’d, I don’t know, propose marriage on the spot or something.

“Alright, stop whining,” I said, trying to keep them focused. “Let’s just pick a dress for the dance. Where d’you want to start?”

“How much money’ve you got on you?” Cassie whispered conspiratorially.

“’Bout sixty quid. That enough?” I asked, grinning awkwardly.

Cassie groaned theatrically. “Sixty? We’re skint!”

“New Look it is, then,” Vicky shrugged, already steering us in the direction of the shop.

I let out a sigh, but even I couldn’t help a small smile. Typical. Always a show with these two.

****

Before we even made it to New Look, I felt a hand press gently but firmly on my shoulder from behind. I turned around—only to find Mr. Rickman giving me a look that could only be described as… disapproving.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Rickman?” I asked, puzzled.

“I’m not letting you wear some dreadful dress to the dance,” he said casually, as if we were discussing weather. “We’re going to Chanel.”
He flashed a charming half-smile. “My treat.”

Cassie and Vicky’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. Mine probably did too. Even Cassie’s fairly well-off parents never bought her anything from Chanel. And here I was, a part-time maid barely scraping minimum wage, being offered a dress that could probably buy me a used car.

As a decent person, I should’ve said no. But the look my friends gave me said: decline and we’ll murder you slowly in your sleep.

“Are you sure that’s alright?” I asked feebly, mostly for show.

“Of course, darling,” he said with a breezy chuckle, already walking ahead. “Anything for my favourite girl.”

My legs went wobbly. If Vicky and Cassie weren’t clutching both my arms like bodyguards escorting royalty, I probably would’ve passed out right there on the tiled floor. This was it—my first time stepping into Chanel. My eyes sparkled as we walked in.

The boutique smelled like luxury itself. Clean white walls, soft lighting, sleek black accents on every piece of furniture and shelving. It looked like a scene out of a movie. The shop assistants glanced at us—three teenage girls—with a frown at first, but their expressions instantly shifted the moment they spotted Alan Rickman striding in with us.

“Good evening, Mr. Rickman,” said a sleek, well-groomed male attendant in a black blazer, hurrying toward him. “Shall I call your usual stylist?”

Mr. Rickman reached into his wallet and pulled out a few crisp banknotes, tucking them discreetly into the man’s front pocket. “You don’t see me here, alright?” he said with a wink, then added with a sly glance at me, “And get something for her homecoming.”

The shopkeeper nodded with a knowing smile and turned to me, gesturing politely. “This way, miss…”

A shiver ran down my spine. Everything about this felt like a deleted scene from Clueless. I could hardly believe it was real.

Cassie and Vicky, meanwhile, were spinning in circles with wide eyes, gawping at the boutique like Tarzan seeing the city for the first time.

As I was gently led past rows of glittering dresses and pristine shelves, I caught sight of my reflection in a mirrored column—hair slightly windswept, cheeks still flushed from the wine, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights—and I nearly laughed. What was I doing here? I wasn’t the kind of girl who shopped at Chanel. I was the girl who scrubbed other people’s kitchens and borrowed dresses for school dances. And yet, here I was, about to be fitted for a gown that cost more than my mum’s entire sofa set, while Alan Rickman stood in the corner chatting casually with a shop assistant like it was a normal Tuesday.

A woman shop assistant emerged from the back, holding up a black-and-white dress with a large bow cinched neatly at the waist—a classic Chanel number, the sort you’d see in glossy pages or on the telly worn by someone who’s actually got a driver, not just a bus pass like what I had. But all that nervous chatter in my head vanished in an instant the moment I laid eyes on the silhouette. My teenage instincts kicked in like, go on then, live a little.

“Holy maccarolly! Try it on right now!” Vicky squealed, mouth agape as she grabbed my arms and gave me a proper shake.

Cassie stood quiet for a tick, eyes fixed on the dress. I caught the tiniest flicker of envy flash across her face—who wouldn’t, really?—but it was gone as quick as it came, replaced with a bright smile. “You’re gonna look absolutely mental in that. In the best way.”

Two shopkeepers appeared like magic, all smiles and smooth movements, and before I could say a word, they were already ushering me gently towards the fitting room. My knees might’ve been knocking, but my heart? My heart was soaring.

I stepped out of the fitting room, clutching the edge of the silky skirt, suddenly shy despite the buzz in my chest. Vicky let out a dramatic gasp and clasped both hands over her mouth.

“Shut up—shut up!” she squealed, grabbing Cassie’s arm like she needed help staying upright.

Cassie blinked hard. “No, this—this is witchcraft,” she said, looking me up and down like I’d just transformed into royalty. “You’re not allowed to look this posh, it’s offensive.”

Their excitement filled the room, but then I caught Mr Rickman’s eyes from across the boutique. He hadn’t said a word yet, but he was smiling—softly, slowly, like someone genuinely pleased with himself. His gaze didn’t just look at the dress; it looked at me in it. There was something proud in it, something terrifyingly tender.

And then, of course, the shopkeeper from earlier broke the spell. “Oh. My. Word.” he cried, clapping his hands so loudly it echoed off the Chanel-white walls. “She’s an actual dream! I can’t—someone get a camera, a fan, a priest!”

He practically floated over, flapping his arms as if trying to summon a fashion miracle. “Darling, if you don’t wear this to the homecoming, I shall resign from retail and retreat into the woods like a sad little elf. You have to.”

I couldn’t hold it in. I let out a proper laugh, spinning in front of the mirror with the sort of dizzy joy you only feel once in a blue moon. The dress fit like it had been stitched for me and me alone. Every seam, every detail clung to my frame with this elegant confidence I’d never felt before. It was enough to make my tipsy head spin even more—was I drunk or just overwhelmed? Either way, I was certain of one thing: this couldn’t be real. Life didn’t just hand girls like me Chanel dresses and charming movie stars, did it?

And just then, Mr Rickman approached, smooth as ever. He leaned in close, his voice low, velvet-soft near my ear.
“This,” he murmured, “is only the beginning.”

Chapter Text

We got home rather late, and the house was quiet—Miss Horton must’ve already gone to bed. I hurriedly whisked my new dress into my room, not wanting to risk any questions or awkward explanations if she happened to wake up and see me sneaking in with a Chanel paper bag. That would’ve been fun to explain.

I came back out, meaning to help bring in the groceries we’d picked up earlier, but Mr Rickman had already stepped inside, arms full with three large grocery bags. Somehow, despite being clearly weighed down, he still waved off my attempt to help.

“At least let me get the door then,” I muttered, locking it behind us as he made his way into the kitchen.

I followed him in and found him half-buried in the fridge, rearranging things to make space. He was humming softly under his breath, sleeves rolled up, completely at ease.

“You really should’ve let me help, I’ve been quite a burden today.” I said, leaning against the counter, a bit too softly, a bit too pouty— I don’t even know why.

He let out a quiet laugh and stood upright, now towering over me again. “That’s the deal, isn’t it, love?” he murmured, brushing a kiss across my forehead with maddening casualness. “You let me be with you—and I take care of the rest.”

My heart did an ungraceful somersault. Before I could respond, he added, “But perhaps you can make me a coffee. We can sit for a bit before bed—unless you’re already knackered?”

He was already strolling into the sitting room, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, it felt that way.

****

We found ourselves curled up on the sofa again, replaying the same quiet ritual—but this time, I was nestled against his chest, completely enveloped by the weight and warmth of his arms. He held me with the sort of ease that came from knowing exactly where everything—and everyone—ought to be, like I’d simply slotted into place. The telly muttered on about something boring—politics or the stock market or whatever else men his age pretended to care about at night.

But I wasn’t watching the screen. I was studying the lines on his face—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the furrow that rested between his brows even when he was calm. I didn’t know why it made my chest tighten so strangely. There was something devastatingly peaceful about it all. Safe. But tinged with a kind of sadness I couldn’t quite name.

I longed for this feeling—being protected, cared for by a man who felt solid and certain in a way boys never were. But if I’m honest with myself… I didn’t want to lay down to get his attention. I just, wanted a father figure.

****

I woke up the next morning with a pounding head and absolutely no clue how I’d ended up in bed. Last thing I remembered was nodding off on the sofa, still wearing my day clothes and vaguely wondering if I’d spilt wine on myself. So either I’d developed sleepwalking superpowers… or Mr Rickman had carried me up like some sort of domestic Prince Charming. Great.

My head throbbed — not in a dramatic, swoony way, but in a someone’s-punching-me-from-the-inside kind of way. Ugh, that wine. I rubbed my eyes like a toddler avoiding school, cursing the sunlight sneaking through the curtains.

I glanced at the clock. Five bloody a.m. Brilliant. At least I was up on time — even if I felt like a half-deflated balloon. I dragged myself upright and noticed a small yellow post-it stuck to the corner of my nightstand. His handwriting. I didn’t even need to read the name at the bottom to know.

“Dunk your face in ice water if you’ve got a hangover. Love, A.”

Honestly. That man. I felt my cheeks go warm — whether from embarrassment or actual fever, who knows — and gave the note a little eye-roll-smile combo, like some awkward romcom character.

Anyway, no time to swoon. Miss Horton had an important council meeting and had already asked me to sort her some breakfast. Also, I still hadn’t polished her shoes for work, I need to be fast.

So there I was in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink like a hungover Victorian ghost, staring at the massive bowl of ice water I’d prepared. Just looking at it made my bones cold. Still, I dunked my face in anyway — no complaints, it worked. My soul briefly left my body, but my headache started to behave.

Next: breakfast. Miss Horton wasn’t exactly fussy. She knew full well that my culinary skills topped out at toast and sad-looking fried eggs, and she never complained. Still, I’d secretly practised a proper scrambled egg recipe the other day — with butter and a splash of milk. Revolutionary. I figured she might like it.

All the while, though, I couldn’t shake off this knotted-up guilt. I mean… I’d slept with her man. Which sounds dramatic when I say it like that — but it’s not like I planned it. Maybe it was karma for trying to steal from them. Or maybe Mr Rickman was still cross with her about their massive row the other day. Either way, I told myself it was a one-time thing. Done. Filed away. Never to be spoken of again.

And just as I was cracking the first egg into a bowl, I felt it — something heavy pressed up against my back, warm and definite. Then two big arms slid round my waist like it was the most natural— no, scratch that. Like it was something he’d definitely done before .

I froze.

“Mr Rickman… what are you doing?” I whispered, eyes forward, pulse somewhere in my ears.

He didn’t even flinch. Just hummed softly near my ear, sounding half-asleep and smug about it.

“Mornin’, darling. What’s for brekkie?” he mumbled, like we were some married couple on a lazy Sunday morning, and not… whatever this was.

His silk pyjama brushed against my back — smooth, satiny rubbing my old tee that felt suddenly ancient. His arms tightened a little, like he’d forgotten where he ended and I began.

And for a second, I didn’t know whether to elbow him in the ribs… or lean back.

Because honestly, I wasn’t sure what this meant .

“Scrambled eggs. Now get off…”

I muttered, properly annoyed.

He chuckled — like full-on giggled — while rubbing slow circles over my belly like I was some cold little kitten or something.

“Alright, alright, moody little kitten,” he said, cheeky as ever. “I’ll go wake Rima now.”

And just like that, he planted a kiss on my cheek and padded back upstairs to their bedroom — like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just… yeah.

I let out a long, frustrated sigh, still reeling. One second I was just a girl making eggs, the next I was tangled up in whatever the hell this was. Again I’d always seen Miss Horton as a mother figure — and now her husband was lowkey trying to keep me as his little mistress ?

I cooked on autopilot, my mind absolutely not in the kitchen. Somehow, miraculously, breakfast turned out edible. Toast: golden. Eggs: not raw. Crisis: averted.

Just as I was about to pick up the tray and bring it upstairs, a loud shout cut through the house — sharp enough to make me freeze mid-step. I quickly set the tray back down and dashed toward the sound.

It was coming from the upstairs walk-in closet. I barely got two feet in the room before — WHACK — a slap cracked across my cheek. I stood there, stunned, one hand flying to my face.

Miss Horton was standing in front of me, sobbing and shaking, holding a pair of shoes.

Not just any shoes — the Louboutins . The ones I was supposed to polish.

One of them had a deep scratch down the side, long and obvious.

“These belonged to my late mother ! You stupid girl! You ruined them and didn’t even bother to tell me? Just walked around like nothing happened?!”

She screamed so loud I thought the windows would shatter. And I just stood there like an idiot — because genuinely, I had no idea what she was talking about.

The scratch was clear as day, but I hadn’t even touched the shoes yet. Still… what was the point in arguing?

I dropped to my knees, bowing my head as I muttered apologies I wasn’t even sure I meant. I was angry. I was scared. And above all, I was so bloody confused . I’d never seen her like that. Not even close.

She hurled the shoe across the room, wiped her face furiously, snatched up her bag and stormed out of the house — tyres screeching as she drove off like a woman in a soap opera meltdown.

I stayed where I was, too dizzy with guilt, fear and everything in between to move.

Then — snap — next thing I knew, I was sat in Mr Harrison’s geography class.

Back to real life.

Well, boring life.

Cassy was filing her nails like she was in a salon, and Vicky had been asleep for, like, half an hour. The room smelt faintly of dry-erase markers and disappointment.

Daniel sat behind me. I could feel him twirling a bit of my hair around his finger, completely unbothered by the lads behind him whispering and making jokes. A few minutes passed, and he leaned forward and whispered near my ear.

“Wanna have lunch together? My treat.”

I nodded slowly, not really caring about anything anymore. Not the slap, not the shoes, not even the eggs.

Honestly, I just needed something — anything — that didn’t feel like the world was crashing in on me.

****

Dan plonked himself down in front of me, hotdog in hand, and his beloved Dr Pepper tucked under his arm like it was a sacred relic. Honestly, I still wasn’t sure why Dan kept trying with me. I’d never really given him much, if any, encouragement—so he either had a death wish or he really, really liked me. His boyish grin appeared in between hotdog bites, and when the sunlight hit his natural blonde hair, it nearly blinded me. Like some sort of angel with mustard on his chin.

“So, enjoying your chips?” he asked, voice casual but eyes watching me like I might float away.

I nodded, and let my eyes linger on his smile a bit too long.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling for something to say, and to be fair, I didn’t mind. I was actually… kind of enjoying this?

“Erm… so what sort of music d’you like then? Spice Girls, perhaps?” Dan leaned forward, hopeful like he’d just offered me a ring.

I let out a laugh and shook my head. “Spice Girls are fab, but that’s more Cassie’s thing. I’m more of an Oasis girl.”

“No way! Seriously?” His blue eyes lit up like Christmas, and he leaned back grinning like a madman. “Ugh, I could marry you already.”

I smirked, tilting my head. “Well, that’s probably a bit soon. Let’s start with a snog, yeah?” I add with a wink.

Boys will be boys when it comes to things like this. One second he was all innocent questions and fizzy pop, and the next thing I knew, he was sitting much closer—like, noticeably closer. But it wasn’t the chair that moved. It was him. Or maybe it was just his lips. Because suddenly, they were nearer to mine than any bit of plastic cafeteria furniture had any right to be.

I blinked once—maybe twice—and then I kissed him. Yep. I just did it . Right there in the middle of the cafeteria. Our trays still half full, his Dr Pepper bubbling like it was cheering us on. His mouth tasted like mustard and teenage desperation, and mine probably like salt and bad decisions. But honestly? It was kind of perfect.

His hand was on my cheek, mine fumbled awkwardly at the collar of his uniform blazer, and I could feel his pulse—fast and fluttery—just like mine.

And then—

“OH MY GOD!” A gasp. Not just any gasp—a dramatic, high-pitched, theatrical Angel gasp.

I opened one eye mid-kiss to see her, right there by the soda machine, clutching her fancy bag like it had personally betrayed her. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling, and without warning she turned on her heels and ran out of the cafeteria like she was auditioning for a soap opera.

“Oh my god,” I whispered against Dan’s mouth.

He pulled back, blinking. “Wait, was that—?”

“Yup.”

We both sat frozen for a second. Then I burst out laughing.

“Were you just using me for that?” Dan asked, raising an eyebrow, though that cheeky grin was still plastered across his face.

“Why would I? As if I’ve got time to waste on Angel,” I chuckled, nicking the last of my chips. “Besides, she gets offended if someone so much as breathes wrong near her.”

Dan burst out laughing, nearly spilling his Dr Pepper. “Thank God. Honestly, I don’t even care—it’s brilliant that I just got to kiss you!”

“Oh calm down, it wasn’t that amazing,” I smirked, pretending to be unimpressed even though I could feel my cheeks going bright red.

“Obviously,” he said, leaning in so our shoulders touched, his breath still smelling like mustard. “So… is that a yes to the dance?”

I made a big show of thinking about it, slurping the last bit of my drink like I was pondering life or death. “Hmm… I suppose I’ll say yes. But you have to wear a proper tux. No hoodies.”

Dan held up his hand like he was taking a vow. “Deal! I’ll be the best-looking bloke there—for the prettiest girl.”

****

My two best friends were looking at me with smug, teasing smiles as I came back from the cafeteria—it was obvious they’d seen everything. I rolled my eyes and sank into my chair, bracing myself for their little interrogation. My gaze flicked to the silver Chanel bracelets on their wrists, exactly the same as the one I was wearing. Mr Rickman had bought them for the three of us last night.

“So… are you two officially dating now? Hmm?” Vicky fired the first question.

“It was so satisfying seeing Angel cry!” Cassie added with a triumphant laugh.

I thought for a moment, asking myself if I was actually dating Daniel or not. I mean, sure, I liked him a little—but for some reason, it felt like I was cheating on someone by being with him. But who was I cheating on, exactly? Mr Rickman? That’s hilarious—I’m not a comedian. Who did I think I was? Mr Rickman is my mum’s age, he’s my boss, and his girlfriend had just slapped me hard across the face this morning. There was no way “we” could be a thing.

“I dunno. Dan hasn’t actually asked me to be his girlfriend. I don’t really know enough about him either.” I shrugged, pretending not to care.

“Hmm, right… erm, can we ask you something? About Alan Rickman,” Cassie suddenly changed the subject—one I really wasn’t in the mood to talk about.

“What about him?” I replied, trying to sound casual.

“You must be doing a really good job at his house, and… he must be super nice. I mean, he treats you like his own daughter—buys you dresses, and us Chanel bracelets. Even Angel doesn’t have one!” Cassie rambled on.

“You’re so naïve, Cassie. Try thinking a bit more logically,” Vicky laughed mischievously, looking straight at me. “I reckon Alan Rickman fancies our best mate here. I mean, come on—you’re gorgeous and young. My uncle’s mistress is our age, so it’s possible, right?”

Cassie slapped Vicky’s shoulder, her face twisting in disapproval. “Hush, Vicky! Don’t say rubbish like that, you’ll offend her! Apologise, now!” she scolded.

“It’s fine… erm, maybe I should just be honest with you guys,” I said hesitantly. “I kind of… slept with him… erm, Alan Rickman.”

They burst out laughing, clearly not believing me. I stayed quiet, looking down, honestly a bit embarrassed. Their laughter slowly died, their eyes widening.

“Wait—don’t tell me you’re serious?!” Cassie nearly lost her breath.

“Oh my God… he took your virginity? Did he force you? I mean, I know he’s handsome and rich, but… he’s olddddd…” Vicky’s voice was tinged with worry.

“Well, aren’t you two also a bit attracted to him?” I shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like I planned it—it just sort of happened…” I added, my cheeks burning red.

“Doesn’t he have a wife?” Cassie looked worried now.

“Why, they’re not married. But they’ve been together for over twenty years, so… basically married, right?” I pulled a slight face. “Oh and by the waay… Miss Horton slapped me this morning because her shoes were ruined—even though I wasn’t the one who ruined them.”

“The fuck?? She slapped you?! That’s outrageous! What did you do about it?” Vicky leaned in, curiosity all over her face as she adjusted herself closer on the chair.

“I apologised, obviously. I can’t afford to get fired, guys. Billy’s debts are still huge, and I don’t want my mum getting hurt by those loan sharks if they come after us.” I let out a long breath, trying not to look upset even though tears were welling in my eyes.

“Ugh, just because she’s rich she thinks she can slap people!” Vicky’s face twisted in anger. “Good then—steal her man! You got that Chanel dress the other day; next time it could be a Dior bag… or a car! Who knows—you could end up Mrs Rickman.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Vickyyy… there’s no way Mr Rickman would leave Miss Horton. I’m just a bit of fun for him—he’ll get bored of me eventually.” I tried to explain, though deep down it stung a little to admit it.

“Well then, make sure he doesn’t get bored of you. You’re fun and gorgeous… if keeping someone entertained was a skill, you’d be a pro at it,” Vicky shot back, still arguing her case.

“Vicky, you’re making it sound like you want her to become his mistress! And what about Daniel? He’s fit and actually our age!” Cassie cut in, sounding annoyed.

“Yeah, but Daniel can’t buy the three of us matching Chanel bracelets, Cassie!” Vicky rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.

Before Cassie could reply, Mrs Martinez—our Spanish teacher—walked into the classroom, forcing us into silence.

****

I walked out of school with Dan’s arm slung around me, him chuckling under his breath. I rolled my eyes at his antics, but in the end, I couldn’t help laughing along. In the last corridor before the exit, some of Dan’s mates called him over for extracurriculars, so I carried on alone.

I didn’t expect to see that familiar black BMW parked across the street. Or… maybe I did, just a little.

The window rolled down the moment he saw me. My gaze immediately caught on the hooked nose beneath the dark sunglasses—trying far too hard to hide who was wearing them. I ignored him and kept walking towards the pavement, heading for my usual bus stop.

“Please get inside…” Mr Rickman said, his car slowly keeping pace with me.

“Why? So I can clear up my things faster and get the hell out of your house?” I snapped, not even glancing his way.

“Come on, I’ll fix everything… I was only trying to help you polish the shoes, which obviously I’m not good at,” Mr Rickman admitted—if anything, that only made my temper flare hotter.

I turned to him, my fists clenching at my sides. “Aha! I knew it was you! You’re the reason I got slapped, Mr Rickman—and you couldn’t even be bothered to tell her the truth.” My voice rose into a shout.

“I’m sorry. I will tell her the truth… I just needed to deal with a bratty teenager first so she wouldn’t leave me,” he said with an ugly curl to his lips—I could tell he was holding back a smile. “I brought flowers,” he added, producing a huge bucket of white tulips.

I just stood there, glaring at him like he’d just run over my cat. Then he took off his sunglasses all slow and dramatic, like some budget movie star.

“Please don’t leave me… I’ll make it up to you,” he pleaded.

Oh my god. Did I just feel… powerful?

Yeah, I did.

Seeing him — the big, scary, untouchable Mr. Rickman — basically begging?

I could get used to this.

“Okay… I guess,” I said, trying to sound bored, but inside I was twirling an invisible villain moustache. I rolled my eyes (for effect) and strutted over to the passenger side like I was walking through a slow-mo music video on MTV.

He handed me this massive bucket of white tulips — so big it looked like I’d just won an award for youngest home wrecker in the world. I pretended not to melt, but my fingers betrayed me, gripping the stems like they were a trophy.

Then, out of nowhere, his big hand started sliding over my thigh like some horny high school boy who’d just been left alone with the VHS section marked “18+”.

“Seriously?” I shot him a look, but he just grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

I rolled my eyes again so hard I swear I saw the back of my skull.

“What are you waiting for? Drive before someone sees us”

Chapter Text

“Wait, aren’t we going back home?” I only just realised the car had turned away from the usual road.

“I know you might be tired, but I’ve got a costume and make-up test today. I’m already late, so I reckon you’ll have to come along.” Mr Rickman spoke without even glancing at me, eyes fixed on the road.

I just shrugged. Honestly, I was still a bit miffed with him… but part of me was secretly pleased too. It meant I’d get to spend more time with him.

“Do you want to grab something to eat before we carry on? It’s quite a long drive.” He flicked a look at me, like he was checking if I was alright.

I acted all indifferent. “No need, I think… I’ll just sleep.” My voice was flat, though truthfully I was a little hungry after a whole day at school.

I turned towards the window and shut my eyes. The music on the radio suddenly got turned down, and a moment later I felt his fingers brush through my hair. It was… too warm. Too fluttery. Like being noticed in a way I’d never really felt before.

During that hour-long drive, I drifted off. Not properly asleep, more like a sweet little nap. Half-dreaming, I could hear him softly humming along with the radio. His voice—low, heavy, soothing—felt like a lullaby sung just for me. Safe. Calm. And dangerously addictive, because I knew I could get used to that kind of comfort.

⸻

We pulled up at the set around five in the evening. The moment we stepped out, a few people came rushing over—obviously not for me, but for “the” Alan Rickman. The whole thing felt unreal. I walked beside him, trying to blend into the background, though my heart was thudding like I’d just sat an impossible maths exam.

They led us to a private trailer. Big letters on the door: Grigori Rasputin — Alan Rickman. Exclusive. Glamorous. I flushed at the sight of it, like I’d just been handed a secret pass into a world I had no business belonging to.

He opened the door for me, and I stepped inside the trailer. It wasn’t at all like those scruffy hippy caravans—I mean, this one actually looked proper posh. Once the lights flicked on, I could see the space was surprisingly big, with a garment rack parked neatly beside a sofa.

I set my bag and the ridiculous bucket of flowers down on the table, then flopped onto the sofa. He gave me that big smile—soft, warm, the exact sort of smile I remembered.

“Let me help you hang up your blazer, love,” he said, gently slipping the school blazer off my shoulders.

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to be here, Mr Rickman? I mean… I’ve got nothing to do with any of this.” My voice came out a bit worried, like I was half-expecting to be shooed out at any second.

“I’m the lead in this film, darling. I can have whoever I like in my trailer,” he replied with a little chuckle, hanging my blazer neatly in the wardrobe. Then he picked up the phone and started dialling, while I sank further into the sofa, resting my head back like it was the comfiest thing I’d ever touched.

“Yes… two coffees, mine as usual, and the other with double milk and cream, iced. Mm-hm… yes, thank you, Susan.” He spoke so casually into the receiver, eyes flicking to the window as if the whole world was just routine. Then he hung up and started walking back towards me.

He sat down near my head, then carefully moved me so I was lying on his lap. I froze. His gaze dropped to my face, and his hand brushed softly against my cheek.

“Still hurting?” he asked quietly, guilt tugging at his voice.

“Mmm… no,” I mumbled, shaking my head. My eyes locked onto his, and honestly, I had no clue what sort of expression I was supposed to wear back at him.

He kept staring, fingers now fidgeting gently through my hair. Warm. Careful. And way too confusing for me to process properly. My brain was just… scrambled eggs at this point.

Then the trailer door swung open. My heart plummeted . I shot upright in panic, but he stopped me with one firm hand, keeping me exactly where I was.

“Alan, I’ve got your coffee. David says he needs you in makeup in about fifteen minutes, yeah?” A short brunette woman breezed in, holding two Starbucks cups, heading straight for him.

My head was still very much in Mr Rickman’s lap. Horrifying. What if she got the wrong idea? What if this turned into some massive disaster ? But he looked completely calm, smiling like nothing in the world was odd.

“Thanks, Susan, I’ll head over in a bit,” he replied smoothly, still stroking my hair like it was no big deal.

Susan glanced at me, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, before she smiled and winked. Then she walked out, leaving me stunned and not sure if I should laugh, cry, or dig a hole and hide forever.

“Why are you panicking so much? Relax, it’s not like anyone here actually cares about my private life,” Mr Rickman chuckled, grabbing his coffee off the table and taking a sip. “Go on, drink yours, it’ll freshen you up a bit.”

I sat up and sipped mine. It tasted… actually decent. And weirdly, the fact that he hadn’t even asked how I wanted my coffee, just guessed and somehow got it right, made me feel even more noticed. Like, the tiniest thing suddenly felt special.

He stood, pulling the garment bag from the rack. “You heard Susan, I’ll be needed soon. Just make yourself comfortable. If you’re bored, stick the telly on.” He said it so casually, then slipped out and left me alone in the trailer.

I lay back down, but honestly… my mind went somewhere else. The thought of going back to his house and facing Miss Horton made my stomach twist. Even if I hadn’t actually wrecked her shoes, I knew I’d deserve that slap. Then I thought of Mum. Then Billy. Then life in general. Spiralling. And at some point in that storm of thoughts—I dozed off.

⸻

I woke up to the sound of the door opening. The trailer was dark—sun already gone, lamp still off because I’d forgotten. But the figure stepping inside wasn’t Mr Rickman.

This man had a wild beard and moustache, messy black hair hanging in shadows. Between them, I caught a glimpse of piercing, dark eyes. Cold. Intense. He shut the door behind him with a click, locking it. The air shifted, heavy, tense.

Then, slowly, he stepped closer, flicking on the small lamp by the sofa. Light spilled across him and—my heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

“Have you ever heard of Grigori Rasputin?” His voice carried a thick Russian accent, his face transformed with makeup, his body cloaked in costume.

I nodded, speechless.

He came nearer, eyes never leaving mine.

“And do you know what I am remembered for?” The accent rolled, deep and unnerving, and yet… thrilling. A chill raced down my spine while something else entirely bubbled under my skin.

“Grigori Rasputin is Russia’s greatest sex machine,” he said, voice dropping into something darker, teasing, taunting. “Don’t you want to experience him?”

My throat went dry. It was just an act—I knew it was just an act—but my body didn’t. My heart hammered like it was trying to break out of my chest. I couldn’t tell if I should laugh, or scream.

He rushed at my side, and the strangest thing hit me first—he still smelled like Mr Rickman. Familiar. Safe. But nothing else about him was the same. Not his face under all that make-up, not the way he moved. He wasn’t Alan anymore. He was Rasputin.

His big hand closed around my face, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his eyes. Rough, but not enough to hurt. My breath stuttered. His was sharp, heavy, filling the space between us. And under it, the frantic pounding of my own heart, so loud it almost drowned everything else out.

Who would’ve thought being this close to an actor could feel this… dangerous? This electric?

“Come here, little kitten,” he whispered, that thick Russian accent curling around the words like smoke.

He pulls me closer, his other hand tangling in my hair as he presses his lips to my ear. "I'll show you what it means to be Rasputin's mistress," he growls, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine.

I can barely think straight, my mind foggy with the intensity of his gaze and the strange thrill coursing through me. But deep down, a small voice whispers caution. This isn't Alan Rickman - it's an act, a role he's playing for the film.

And yet, in this moment, it feels so very real. His hand on the back of my head, the way his body crowds mine, the rough pads of his fingers against my scalp - it all screams of raw, primal desire. It's exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

He lifts my body and places me on the table. His hands begin to roam my still-developing breasts through my school uniform shirt. It feels very strange, I know it's Mr. Rickman but it's like being touched by someone else. There's no other choice but to think with my fantasied eyes, I will soon make love to Grigori Rasputin.

****

His hands move lower, cupping my budding breasts, thumbs stroking the sensitive peaks beneath my shirt. The contact sends jolts of excitement through my body, mixing with the lingering scent of his cologne.

Before I can process this unexpected turn, his mouth descends, capturing mine in a searing kiss. Lips firm, tongue probing, he claims my mouth with an intensity that makes my head spin.

In a haze of passion, I kiss back, meeting his tongue stroke for stroke. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the glide of his hands, the primal rhythm building between us.

Breaking the kiss, he murmurs against my mouth, "You taste even sweeter when you actually want my kiss, little one." His eyes gleam with dark promise as he trails open-mouthed kisses along my jawline and down the column of my neck. "Let me show you what Rasputin does to his lovers..."

Without even realising, I was staring at him with this look-hungry, wanting. I couldn't help it. Would it feel different, making love to him when he was like this? When he wasn't Alan, but Rasputin?

I watched, caught in the moment, as he undid each button of his shirt, one by one. His chest hair peeked through, impatient, like it couldn't wait to get to me.

And then-he was bare-chested, standing over me where I lay across the table, waiting, not sure if I was terrified or desperate for what would happen next. I thought he'd be harsher, more brutal, but instead he caught my hand. His lips brushed across the back of it, one kiss after another, intimate yet intense, while his coarse beard scraped against my skin, sending shivers down my spine with every touch.

“What pain are you feeling? Restlessness? Heartbreak?” His voice was low, every word wrapped in that heavy Russian accent like an incantation. “My magic hands can heal it.”

I swallowed hard, deciding to play along with his role.

“How can you cure the unrest in my heart, Padre?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. I wasn’t even sure why I called him Padre —maybe because I’d read it somewhere in history, and that was how people used to address him.

"Your heart beats wildly, as if possessed by the devil's spirit," he rasps, his dark eyes burning into mine. "Let me exorcise it with my touch, little one."

His large hand slides up my inner thigh, the warmth of his palm seeping through my uniform skirt. I gasp as his fingers find the waistband of my knickers, tugging them impatiently down my legs. The cool air kisses my newly exposed flesh before he dives in, stroking my slick folds with a confident, expert touch.

"Mmm, you're already so wet," he growls, circling my sensitive clit with a fingertip. "Looks like Rasputin's magic has begun to work on you, hasn't it, my innocent little dove?" His free hand cradles my jaw, tilting my head back to deepen our connection as he continues his sensual assault on my body.

I moan wantonly, arching against his hand, lost in a haze of pleasure. How can something that feels so wrong, so taboo, also be so incredibly right?

His finger slides in smoothly, filling me as he begins to pump, in and out, in and out. Each thrust sends sparks through me, the pressure building deep inside.

"I'm going to make you come, little kitten," he promises darkly, his voice husky with lust. "You'll be screaming my name, begging for more."

With his free hand, he fumbles with his trousers, undoing the fastenings with impatient movements. The anticipation is almost unbearable as I watch him prepare himself for me.

Finally, his massive cock springs free, long, thick and intimidating, just like how people gossip about the real Rasputin (hah!). It stands proudly against his abdomen, throbbing with need.

“Are you ready for the last step of your exorcist? I promise it’s going to be hurt.” I’m pretty sure Mr.Rickman was possessed by the demon when he said that, because I never ever imagined he could say something that lewd into my ears.

His piercing gaze locked onto mine as he positioned himself between my legs, his engorged cock hovering above my entrance. "Get ready, my sweet little sinner," he growled, his thick Russian accent dripping with dark promise.

With a sudden, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside me, stretching and filling me completely. I cried out at the initial sting, but it quickly gave way to pleasure as he began to move, withdrawing only to plunge back in with renewed vigor.

"Unhh, yes... so small, so tight." he murmured, his hands gripping my hips with bruising force as he pistoned in and out. Each deep stroke hit my core just right, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through my veins.

As he continued to fuck me, he suddenly scooped me up, lifting my legs around his waist as he stood, still driving into my willing body. I found myself cradled against his chest like a child, as he continued his relentless pounding.

The sensation of being so thoroughly and deeply taken, combined with the sheer eroticism of being carried like a baby while he ravished me, was almost too much to bear.

My legs wrap instinctively around his hips as he carries me across the trailer, his cock never ceasing its ruthless stimulation. He pinches my nipple through my uniform, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my core.

He placed me gently on the sofa, my legs dangling over the edge as he loomed over me, his hips still pistoning in and out. The angle was new, more intense, and I knew I was close to the edge.

"Yes, take it, my lover," he urged, his voice rough with need. "Come for me so you can be healed."

With a cry of release, I shattered, my inner walls clenching around him as ecstasy washed over me in waves. I was lost to the pleasure, my body arching off the sofa as I rode out the intense climax.

In the throes of my orgasm, I barely registered him shouting his own release, but the sensation of his hot semen spilling over my face, coating my cheeks and lips with his essence, pulled me back to the present. He'd collapsed on top of me, his weight crushing, his breath hot against my ear as he murmured in Russian, his words a dark, satisfied growl.

****

“Did I scare you?” he whispered, and just like that, Alan Rickman was back—Rasputin had poofed away with the end of his… performance.

“A little bit,” I admitted with a chuckle. “But… turns out I liked it,” I added quietly.

He gave me a broad smile, then stood up and switched on the light. “Here, clean that pretty face of yours,” he said, handing me a tissue.

I accepted it shyly. Honestly, what he’d just done left me a little embarrassed. Like—hello? Even married couples probably don’t go that far.

“Does this bother you?” I blurted, words spilling before my brain caught up. “I mean, like, us doing… this?” I mumbled, staring down at my knees awkwardly.

“Do you not want me?” he asked, squinting at me.

“Of course I do! I mean… huh. I like you,” I blurted, sounding way more desperate than I meant to. Honestly, resisting him at this point felt like trying to resist chocolate cake—it just wasn’t happening.

“Then just trust me. But you need to know—I’d never force you to stay with me,”

And just when I thought I could breathe again—his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Of course. He pulled it out with one hand, trousers still hanging loose. Smooth.

“Speaking of the devil…” he muttered, before answering on speaker. “Hello, darling, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, Alan, she hasn’t come home yet and it’s already late. I think I really hurt her feelings—I’m so terribly worried,” Miss Horton’s anxious voice carried through the line.

“Don’t worry, I pick her up and brought her to the set. Sorry, I’ve been too busy to call. She was scared, but she’s calmer now. As for your shoes, I can explain later, alright?” Mr. Rickman replied casually, trying to zip his trousers back up as he spoke.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since that night. Miss Horton and I finally made peace—she even gave me a bonus as an apology. Honestly, kind of ironic, considering what I’ve actually done to her.

Mr Rickman is busy with filming these days, hardly ever home. It’s fine for me, but when I lie in bed at night, my brain decides to torture me with daydreams. Like—what if Miss Horton never existed, and I wasn’t just some broke teenager scrubbing floors after school?

What if I were an actress instead? His co-star, not his housemaid. Sharing the spotlight instead of sharing the vacuum cleaner. Ugh, imagine the interviews: “Yes, Alan and I just clicked on set,” instead of, “Yes, Alan and I having an affair after I finished dusting his bookshelf.”

It’s all so gorgeous to imagine. But right now, life feels like one of those supermarket free samples—you get one tiny bite of heaven, and then realise there’s no way you can actually afford the whole box. Tragic. Truly tragic.

****

Tomorrow is homecoming, and honestly, I feel so ready for it. Vicky’s agreed to lend me some of her makeup, Chanel dress—check. Hot date called Daniel—check. Oh, and did I mention Mr Rickman bought me a pair of shoes worth two hundred quid on the way home the other day? Yeah. If you think about it, I always end up with presents after sleeping with him. Not complaining, but… if that counts as a job, what would you even call it? Ha!

Anyway. Today Miss Horton asked me to pick up some coffee from this new café, about two blocks from the house. Which meant I had to walk, what, two hundred metres from the bus stop. Fine, not the end of the world.

The café had only just opened, which is why she was so keen to try their signature drinks. The queue was long-ish but moving fast, so I didn’t wait too long to order. I sat down by the window, waiting for my name to be called—when I suddenly heard a very familiar voice.

“Oh, come on, there’s no way you don’t know how to spell my name.” A man was half-joking, half-serious at the counter.

“Sorry, Mr Grant, my friend’s new here, it’s her first day,” the manager explained to the young barista, who looked about my age.

I squinted, trying not to get my hopes up, but—yep. No way. It was Hugh Grant. Like, I must’ve died or something, because there’s no way I’d be lucky enough to bump into him twice in real life.

I hesitated to approach, but my name got called right then, so… well, no way I was wasting the chance.

I walked over and just kind of stood next to him while waiting for my drink. Sneaking little glances at him, sipping his coffee with that cheeky grin, teasing the poor barista. And then suddenly—he looked straight at me. And laughed.

“Oh right, this is near Alan’s place, no wonder I’m seeing you again,” he said casually, ruffling my hair—properly messing it up, actually.

My cheeks went hot. Embarrassed, thrilled, totally not sure what to say.

“Oh—you actually remember me, Mr Grant?” I asked nervously, grabbing my cup from the barista and edging aside. He followed, obviously.

“Of course I remember you. How could I forget such an adorable little thing?” he replied, hand on my shoulder, like he wasn’t about to let me escape. “Are you here on your own?”

“Yeah… Miss Horton sent me to pick up her coffee. And I should probably head back before it goes cold.”

“You’re walking? Cruel of her, Rima.” He laughed loudly—definitely the type to draw attention—because within seconds a small crowd had gathered asking for autographs. He scribbled his name on napkins, t-shirts, anything, then added, “I’ll give you a lift back, yeah?”

“Huh?” I gawked, totally in disbelief. Someone slap me, I must be dreaming.

“Alright, let’s move before this crowd gets bigger,” he said, tugging my hand and steering me away.

Just as we were getting into the car, some guy yelled from the street:
“Why’d you even come back to England? Didn’t the police arrest you for that sex worker scandal? What now—child abuse?”

I froze at the shout, my stomach dropping. Of course I’d already heard whispers about that huge scandal before meeting him at that dinner party… but I’d been too excited back then to let it sink in. Now? The words hung in the air like poison, making the silence inside the car suffocating.

He glanced at me, clearly uncomfortable, before forcing a little laugh. “Sorry about that. It’s been three months since that… unfortunate event, but looks like people haven’t forgotten.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” I blurted out, trying to sound casual but probably overdoing it. “Real fans will always stick by you.” Like—what was I even saying? Acting like his personal cheerleader? Cringe.

He started driving. My hands were shaking, clinging to the coffee cup for dear life. “Real fans like you, babe?” he teased with a wink, back to his usual cheeky self, always fishing to make me blush.

“Y-yeah… maybe like me,” I muttered, cheeks burning like a toaster.

“So… how’s Alan and Rima doing?” he asked casually.

“They’re good! Mr Rickman’s still on the set, I think. Busy as ever. You must be busy too, right?” I answered, trying to smile politely.

“Busy, yeah. But when I saw you walking from the bus stop to the café —I couldn’t resist. Pretending it was a coincidence that we met there, haha, so much fun.” He laughed, loud and crisp, so annoyingly handsome that my knees practically turned to jelly. Wait—what?? He planned this??

And then—“Oops, here we are,” he said, pulling up.

Of course it wasn’t far. The café to Mr Rickman’s house was barely a few minutes. My heart sank—I didn’t want to get out. But obviously I couldn’t say that, so I just bowed my head and tried to play the polite little girl. Ugh.

“Thank you, Mr Gra—”

“Ah-ah, I told you, call me Hugh,” he cut me off, tapping my nose playfully. “Besides… I’ll walk you in. You think I’m just your taxi driver?” He raised an eyebrow, and I swear I flinched.

“Kiddinggg…” he added quickly, grinning as he parked at the curb. “But seriously—I’ll walk you to the door. I’d like to say hello to Rima too.”

****

I was about to slip my key into the lock when Hugh, of course, leaned in and jabbed the doorbell three times like he owned the place. I froze—ugh, seriously? Rather than embarrass him, I quickly shoved the key back into my pocket and pretended I didn’t have one at all.

The door creaked open, and I straightened up, coffee cups ready to hand straight to Miss Horton… only it wasn’t her. It was Mr Rickman.

He took the tray from me anyway, though I blurted nervously, “That’s Miss Horton’s, Mr Rickman—” trying to stop him before he drank. Too late. He sipped, completely unfazed, though his eyes weren’t on me. They were fixed on Hugh, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat on my doorstep.

“Hugh,” Mr Rickman said at last, warm and polite once the surprise seemed to pass. “Hallo…” He stepped forward, pulling him into one of those old-friends’ embraces. “What brings you here?” he asked with that genial smile of his.

“Oh, nothing at all—just dropping my girlfriend home,” Hugh teased, winking straight at me. My knees nearly buckled. Girlfriend? I nearly evaporated into thin air.

I swear I saw the faintest twitch at the corner of Mr Rickman’s eye, like he was hiding something behind his perfectly calm expression. “Ohh…” he replied, stretching the word with a slightly forced smile. “Care to come in for a bit?”

“Ah no, no—wouldn’t want to intrude your lovely day,” Hugh said breezily, flicking a hand as though the matter was trivial. “Just bumped into this lovely young lady at the café. Couldn’t very well leave a pretty girl walking home, could I?” he added, glancing at me before finishing, “Anyway, I’d better be off. Places to be.”

And then, as if to finish me off completely, he leaned close, slipped a little card into the pocket of my blazer, and said softly, “Ring me sometime. If I’m not that busy, we’ll carry on our little chat, yeah?”

He winked again before stepping away, leaving me clinging to the doorframe for balance.

Mr Rickman rolled his eyes and let out a low, irritated grunt. “Ughh…” he muttered, sounding oddly sulky. “Get in.” His tone was sharp, like a teacher catching a student sneaking back late from lunch.

I shuffled inside, but honestly my brain was somewhere else entirely—replaying Hugh Grant’s wink in slow motion like it was the greatest scene in cinema history. I couldn’t help it, my lips kept twitching into this stupid grin.

He marched straight to the kitchen with Miss Horton’s coffee still in his hand, put it down on the counter with a sharp clink, and turned to glare at me. His arms folded, his jaw stiff. He looked more like a headmaster than… well, whatever we were. 

I blinked. Wait… oh my god. Was he—c-could he possibly be jealous? Goshh, of course he is!

“You do know I’m dating Daniel from school, not Hugh Grant, right?” I snapped, rolling my eyes for extra teenage effect, trying to cover how flustered I actually felt.

“Yes, I know,” he shot back in a low hiss, careful not to raise his voice since Miss Horton was somewhere in the house. “But I also know you and that little bangers won’t last three months. And I definitely know what Hugh is like. He’s reckless—slept with prostitutes, for heaven’s sake. He’s not safe.” His voice was tight, controlled, but the words cut sharp.

My cheeks burned hot. I crossed my arms defensively. “And I just a Maid, not some models or classy rich woman… You slept with me too, didn’t you? So how exactly are you any different from him?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t answer. He just stood there, coffee forgotten on the counter, staring at me in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

My chest tightened with a mix of anger and humiliation. I huffed, spun around dramatically, and stomped off—straight to my little room off the kitchen. I slammed the door (not too hard, it’s enough drama already) and then, threw myself face-first onto the bed, my heart racing.

Chapter Text

Saturday, It was homecoming day—well, our version of it anyway. Basically a big do where all the year groups get together and welcome the freshers. I’d planned to head back to Mum’s and get ready there, ‘cause there was no way on earth I was letting Daniel rock up outside Mr Rickman’s house. Can you imagine? 

But all I could think about was him. God damn Alan Rickman. The fight we had yesterday. The way I left things hanging. I didn’t want to spend the whole night looking over my shoulder, wondering. I needed to see him—just once—before I left.

The house was quiet when I climbed the stairs, rucksack bouncing against my back. I passed the endless line of wardrobes in the walking closet, my heart thudding louder with every step. The bedroom door was ajar. I thought I’d just peek in, say goodbye, pretend I was cooler than I actually felt.

But then I saw.

Them.

Both of them. Skin against skin, his body over hers, moving in rhythm I had no business witnessing. Miss Horton’s hair spilled across the pillow, his face pressed into her neck. Their laughter, their gasps—it filled the room like a slap in my ears.

My stomach dropped so hard it hurt. I knew. Of course I knew they were together. I’d seen them holding hands, laughing in the kitchen, sharing glances that weren’t meant for me. But knowing and seeing were two completely different things.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

I wasn’t supposed to feel… jealous.

But I did.

My throat locked, my chest squeezed tight. Suddenly I was the intruder, the outsider, the maid who didn’t belong. The girl who thought she was special, when really she was just a shadow.

And then his eyes found me.

For a second, everything stopped. His body froze above hers, shock flickering across his face. The same eyes that once looked at me so warmly now stared wide with something like fear.

That was enough to shatter me.

I turned and bolted, legs shaking, crashing down the stairs with my bag clutched tight against me. The front door banged behind me, and I didn’t stop running.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just the taste of bile in my throat and the ache of something breaking inside me.

Because maybe I’d always known the truth. I just didn’t want to believe it—until it was laid out in front of me, in the most brutal way possible.

My mind was blank. Completely blank. I couldn’t even process the shock that was hammering through me. My legs just… moved, like they weren’t mine, carrying me down the street until I found myself at the bus stop.

The timetable said the next one was in ten minutes. Ten whole minutes. I sat down anyway, clutching the stupid supermarket bag with my overpriced dress crumpled inside. I used to think that dress was everything. Now it just felt like a joke.

There was an old man at the far end of the bench, hidden behind his newspaper. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, so I just sat there gripping the bag like it was the only thing keeping me together.

What was I even doing? Later tonight I was meant to go to the dance with Daniel—sweet, safe Daniel—because he’s the kind of boy I’m allowed to date (Gosh, I didn’t even like him). Because the person I actually wanted… I could never have. He already had someone. He’d had her for over twenty years, longer than my entire life.

I thought I understood that. I really did. I thought I knew my place. But the moment I saw them—saw him with her—I realised I hadn’t understood a thing. It was like the floor had been ripped from under me.

And then I started crying. Just—out of nowhere. Tears spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. Ugly, messy crying, right there at the bus stop. The old man folded his paper and shuffled off, probably sick of sharing a bench with some weirdo teenage girl breaking apart in public.

But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe properly. I’d never felt so stupid, so small, in my entire life.

I spotted the bus pulling up from down the road, headlights cutting through the early light. I scrubbed at my face with the back of my hand, forcing the tears to stop. Enough. I’d embarrassed myself enough for one morning—I wasn’t about to let a bus full of strangers watch me fall apart too.

⸻

Later, Daniel knocked at the door, all eager energy, until Mum let him in. By then I was ready—dress pressed, hair done, every detail neat. When I walked down the stairs his eyes lit up, and he said it again and again, like he couldn’t help himself: “You look beautiful.”

I smiled for him. A sweet, picture-perfect smile. But it wasn’t real. It was just a mask to cover the mess I still carried inside.

We walked together through the corridor towards the school’s main hall, his hand wrapped warm around mine. I looked every bit the happy girlfriend, and he believed it. That was the act.

The hall was packed, dim lights washing over a blur of faces. Music pulsed through the room—something chart-topping, something everyone else seemed excited about. I scanned left and right, searching for Cassie or Vicky, but the crowd was thick.

Daniel spun me in time with the beat, his grin wide, his hands steady on mine. I laughed when I was supposed to, moved when I was supposed to. And he didn’t notice a thing. He didn’t notice that every smile I gave him was rehearsed, that every step was performance. Acting lessons from Mr Rickman, put to use at last.

And of course—of course—my mind betrayed me. I tried to push it aside, to drown in the music and the noise, but the flashes came anyway. His hands. Her skin. The way his eyes widened when he saw me.

I was meant to be dancing with my boyfriend, and all I could see was that morning.

****

By the time I got home it was nearly eleven. Mum was still awake, sat on the sofa with the telly humming quietly in front of her.

“I’m home, Mum,” I said, trying for cheerful.

“There’s food in the fridge, love. Warm it up if you’re hungry.” Her voice was calm, distracted. She didn’t look away from the screen.

I didn’t bother replying. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I slipped past her, into my room, peeled off the dress, the shoes, the carefully painted face… until it was just me and the old mattress sinking beneath me. And in the silence that followed the noise of the day, the only sound left was the muffled sobs I tried so hard to keep quiet.

⸻

Sunday blurred into itself. I stayed holed up in my room, curtains drawn, not wanting Mum to see my swollen eyes. But in the evening she knocked and called me down for dinner. No excuses left.

She’d made bangers and mash. I couldn’t remember the last time she cooked it. Billy used to love it. Maybe she missed him—missed the son who was still trapped in a hospital bed, months and months of wires and machines keeping him tethered.

Sometimes I wondered if it was cruel, keeping him like that. If letting go might be kinder. But I never said it out loud. Not to Mum.

I pushed peas around my plate, appetite gone, until finally I whispered, “Mum, can I… stop working?” My eyes stayed fixed on the food, afraid to meet hers.

She froze. “What? Why?” Then, catching herself, she softened. “Sorry, darling. It’s your choice. I won’t force you. Thank you—for helping me this long.” She spoke evenly, but I could hear the worry beneath it.

I shook my head. “I’m still thinking about it properly… but for now, maybe I won’t go to Mr Rickman’s for a few days. School’s keeping me busy.”

The lie slipped out before I could stop it. And she didn’t press, though the weight of it sat heavy in my chest.

****

Monday after school I nearly stepped onto the wrong bus—habit had me drifting toward the one that would take me straight to Mr Rickman’s street. My chest tightened when I caught myself. It felt strange, like cutting off a piece of my daily life.

When I finally got home, I locked myself in my room and spread my books across the desk, pretending to study. My pen moved, my eyes scanned, but my mind wasn’t here. It kept circling back to yesterday. To them. To that moment I couldn’t erase, no matter how hard I tried.

And yet, beneath all that anger and hurt, a foolish part of me still waited. Still listened for the phone ringing downstairs, half-dreaming it would be his voice asking for me. Still imagined him turning up at the door, saying my name in that low, steady tone.

But nothing came. Not a call. Not a note. Not even the faintest sign that he’d noticed my absence.

And with every silent hour that passed, something inside me cracked further. I wasn’t just forgotten. I was never his to be remembered in the first place.

Chapter Text

It had been a whole week since I last stepped foot inside Mr Rickman’s house. A week of slowly forcing myself to accept what I should’ve known all along: I wasn’t part of that world. I was just the maid who happened to linger too close to a life that was never mine.

That afternoon I was sprawled on the sofa, half-laughing at a rerun of Friends while munching on biscuits straight from the tin. Mum had gone off to do the garden at the Rickmans’ place, and my pathetic little brain kept daydreaming—what if she came back with him? What if he asked about me? Ridiculous. I hated myself for even thinking it.

A knock at the door jolted me so hard I almost inhaled a biscuit crumb the wrong way. My heart leapt before my brain could stop it. I shot up, brushing crumbs off my shirt, wiping my mouth like some maniac teenager about to open the door to her crush.

And then… it wasn’t him.
It was Daniel.

My smile dropped faster than my maths grade last term.

He cocked his head with that cheeky grin, “Eh, you look disappointed to see me.”

Panic. Smile, smile, smile! I scrambled for a cover-up. “No! Of course not. I just… thought it was Mum. She promised she’d bring home food, so I got a bit excited.” My laugh was fake enough to deserve an Oscar.

Daniel just smirked, clearly unconvinced but too good-natured to push it. “Forget waiting for food—let’s go get some! My treat. I just scored an A+ in maths, so Dad gave me extra allowance.” He puffed his chest like a little peacock. Honestly, it was kind of cute. Daniel might look like some wannabe playboy—slick hair, cheeky grin, the type girls whisper about in the corridor—but in reality, he’s the total opposite. Sweet, dorky, and so proud of his A+ it’s almost embarrassing.

“Anything you want under 200 quid. Seriously. I don’t care if I have to live off tap water for a month, as long as my girl eats like a queen!” He cracked up at his own joke, and against my will, I found myself laughing too.

For a second, it felt almost easy. Almost normal.

**** 

We ended up deciding on Pizza Hut, just a short walk from my place. Daniel was extra clingy today—kept staring at me with those eyes, you know the type. He held my hand so tight it was starting to feel silly, so I teased, “Why’re you holding me like that? We’re not even crossing the road.” I chuckled.

He scratched the back of his head, cheeks turning red so he ducked into his hoodie. After a beat, he finally answered.

“’Cause… ever since we started dating, I’ve felt like you could leg it any second.”

“Huh?” I blinked at him.

“Dunno, just feels that way. Like you’ve always had one foot out the door since day one. Especially lately—you’re here, but you’re not really here. You turn up to school, sit with me at lunch, kiss me at the lockers… but it’s like your heart’s somewhere else.” He paused, then let out a small laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “I mean, I don’t care about all that stuff, you know? Like when you cried to me, saying you felt small ‘cause your family’s not rich—I didn’t care, I still liked you. The only thing that could actually stop us is if you don’t like me back. And if that’s the case, I’ll just have to work harder till you do.”

“Aren’t you sweet? … please don’t think like that, I do like you. I just have a lot going on at home.” I leaned closer to Dan and kissed him, right there, on the side of the road without a care for the world.

Dan instantly kissed me back, like he’d been waiting his whole life for that exact second. When we pulled away, he was already grinning like a total idiot—ear to ear, cheeks all red, eyes literally sparkling. I swear, in one blink he went from insecure boyfriend to happiest-boy-on-earth mode. That’s the thing about Dan, his mood flips faster than a light switch, and now he’s holding my hand again like I just gave him the best gift ever.

****

After tonight with Daniel, surprisingly, I really did enjoy myself. Turns out he’s not just some daft lad thinking about video games or his mates all the time—he’s got these little ways of making me smile. A pen if I’ve forgotten mine, some random flower he’s picked round the back of school… silly things, but somehow they make me feel special. He still mucks about loads with his friends like any other teenager, but even so, there’s always a space for me in his world.

Full of pizza, we were nearly at my house. Dan was still buzzing on about the new game his dad had bought him, trying to talk me into coming over to play. I just nodded along and smiled, though inside I was thinking about something a bit heavier.

When we got to my door, he stopped for a second, looked at me, and said, “I hope today cheered you up. You’ve seemed a bit off lately.” Then he kissed me. My cheeks went burning hot and I went all awkward. Honestly, without even asking for the whole story, he just… got it. And in his own way, he made me feel lighter. He’s a lot more grown-up than I gave him credit for.

Maybe… maybe I can actually move on. From now on I’m just a normal girl, going out with a normal boy. No more celebrity nonsense, no more drama with a man old enough to be my dad. Just a daft teenager trying to enjoy her life. And for the first time, I reckon I can.

I glanced at my watch before he headed off to the bus stop. Nine o’clock already. Still two hours left to smash out my homework and get some kip, so I won’t be half-asleep in Monday’s full day of lessons. Life feels… ordinary. And honestly, that’s exactly what I need.

****

“Here you are.”

The voice nearly sent me straight into cardiac arrest. Before I could squeak out a word, Mum yanked me by the wrist and dragged me into the kitchen like we were escaping a police raid.

“I told them you were ill, like you asked, but Mr Rickman insisted on visiting. I’ve run out of excuses, sorry, love…” Mum whispered, looking guilty. “Just pretend to cough or look half-dead or something. At least one of us keeps our job—like I said, they tip well.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. Of course he’d show up now—right when I’d finally decided to move on. And there he was, in our tatty little living room, looking about as comfortable as a Shakespearean actor dumped in a cheap soap opera. Honestly, it was like plonking a Juliet rose into a jar that used to hold pickled onions. Completely tragic, but also… a bit hilarious.

I shuffled closer and plonked myself down on the sofa, not too near him, head down, not saying a word. For some reason I felt a bit embarrassed—maybe ‘cause I’d just realised how childish I’d been acting.

He looked at me for a moment before blurting out, “Mrs, can you be really helpful and buy her some vitamins, and anything else she needs to get better, please… she looks weak.” He said it to Mum, digging into his wallet and handing her some cash. I knew perfectly well it was just a trick to get her out of the house.

And I knew how desperate Mum was to keep her boss happy. She didn’t really have much choice, did she? Poverty makes people like us bow and scrape, like dogs wagging their tails for a pat on the head from people like Mr Rickman.

Mum smiled sweetly, didn’t seem to mind—in fact she looked almost grateful for his “kindness.” She grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

I still didn’t say anything, just sat there staring at my lap. A whole week I’d been secretly hoping he’d show up, and now he was here, all I could feel was this horrible sort of heaviness.

He pulled out his mobile and dialled someone. A moment later the line clicked.

“Hallo, oh yes… it’s Alan, ehm… yep…” he muttered into the phone, before suddenly holding it out to me. “Someone wants a word.”

I hesitated before taking it from him. “Hallo?” I whispered down the line.

“Hello, darling! Oh my god, they tell me you’re not feeling well—do you miss me that much?” The charming voice on the other end—I knew it straight away. Hugh bloody Grant.

Normally I’d have been bouncing off the walls, squealing like an idiot. But not tonight. That awful feeling that’d been sitting in me since that day—it just wouldn’t shift. So I kept my voice low and said, “I’m better now, Hugh. Thanks for calling.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Lassie. You’re a sweet girl. Alan and Rima both seem very fond of you. Hopefully we’ll meet again another time, eh? Do study hard, a bright girl like you could rule the world someday. Anyway, I’ve got to dash, meeting my producer. Feel better soon, love.”

A little lecture, just like he was talking to some fan. Nothing more. Honestly, I’d never expected anything more. The call ended, and the room dropped into silence again.

I snapped the flip phone shut and held it out to Mr Rickman, but he didn’t take it.

“Keep it. It’s yours,” he said, like it was nothing.

I stared at it. Oh, right—it wasn’t his. It’s a different phone than what he had. A Motorola StarTAC, worth about seven hundred quid. Just like cassie’s. Her dad bought her one ‘cause he was always buggering off abroad, a pathetic bribe to make up for never being around.

And now this. Was it the same? A bribe. His way of buying me off, instead of giving me something real.

I shook my head. “I don’t want it,” I snapped, shoving the phone back at him.

He sighed, looking properly fed up with me, but his voice stayed calm.

“Truth is, I can’t apologise for what you saw. We both know it wasn’t a mistake.” He gently pushed my hand down, the one still holding the mobile, as if to end the whole conversation about it. “I need to keep it that way, you understand… Rima is, in fact, publicly, my life partner.”

It felt like a slap. Of course I knew that already! But hearing it spelled out, right in my face—how cruel can you get?

I didn’t say a word, just sat there biting back tears.

Then he asked, quiet but without hesitation, “Do you like me in a romantic way? Not just… sexually?”

My breath caught. I stared at him, eyes stinging, lips sealed, my whole body trembling.

“Do you want me to leave Rima?” he asked again, soft as ever, but it cut like glass.

And that was it. The tears just came, hot and stupid and endless. I couldn’t even speak—what was I supposed to say? That yes, of course, I wanted that? That I wanted him to pick me, just me? But what sort of psycho homewrecker does that make me? I didn’t even know where I was meant to stand in this whole… nightmare.

Mr Rickman moved closer and folded me into his arms, holding me so tight like he could squeeze the crying out of me. He kept murmuring hush, hush against my hair, which only made me cry harder.

Between hiccups I managed, “Would you ever leave Miss Horton… for me?” And the words sounded so pathetic, like a begging kid, like I was asking for something impossible.

He stroked my hair, calm as stone. “If I’m honest, I don’t know. What I do know is I’m not ready for our relationship to be seen by the public, and you understand perfectly why. I do like you, want you… I crave your presence whenever you’re not around. But do you truly think leaving Rima right now would be the right choice?”

And I just—my brain was going mental. Because part of me wanted to scream, yes, leave her, leave her for me, I’ll make you happier, I’ll do anything. And another part was like, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m basically wishing for someone’s life to blow up just so I can feel special for five seconds. I hated him for saying it so casually, hated myself for even being in this situation, hated the whole bloody universe for making me feel like this.

“Miss Horton’s been nothing but kind to me—why are you making me her rival, Mr Rickman? Why would you put me in a place where I clearly can’t choose?” I sobbed, way too dramatic, but my chest really did feel like it was being ripped open.

“Because,” he said, voice low and steady, still not letting go of me, “maybe what I feel for you is way more than your expectations. In my side, Darling, there are always limits—things that stop me from giving you everything, from loving you freely. But you… you don’t have those limits. I’ve never told you not to feel what you feel. And yet, you keep this wall up, as if we’re not even the same kind of people. As if you never truly want me.”

I slowly pulled back, wiping my face, forcing myself to look at him.

“I am an egoistic man, Love… I fight for what I want. That’s what made me who I am today. I didn’t just wake up one morning and become the actor people see on screen. I’ve done many things to get here—things I would rather forget, things I buried. But all of it, I did carefully, patiently, until it became reality.” He spoke like some art lecturer giving a talk on what it means to be a real artist. “I did something that hurt you, yes—but I did it so you might truly understand the situation. I hope, somehow, you want me enough to withstand the reality of it, and walk with me through the process, until we can have what we both want. No scandal, no spectacle.”

“So you made me see all that… on purpose?” I gasped, half ready to slap him but—pathetically—I didn’t dare.

He lifted one shoulder, calm. “Something like that but not entirely. As I said, I am a selfish man. I can be jealous over you with things like Hugh Grant, but if you truly want me, you must understand—you do not have the same right to be jealous of me.” He paused, quite long to be honest. 

“I do waited, you know.. Days on end, running between home and set everyday, just to check if you had come back. But you never did. And that hurt me far more than I expected.” And there it was. His voice steady, like he was reading lines from some secret script only he owned, while my brain was… I don’t even know. Melting? Screaming? Doing cartwheels in a burning building? 

Part of me wanted to throw a cushion at his face, part of me wanted to just sink into his chest and pretend none of this mess existed. And another part—probably the stupidest one—was busy thinking wow, even when he’s being a complete nightmare, he still sounds so hot.

I mean, who is like this? Normal blokes my age argue about football teams or whose turn it is on the PlayStation. Meanwhile here’s Mr Rickman giving me a Shakespearean villain monologue in my grotty living room, and I’m… actually crying into it like some tragic heroine. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

“You trying to tell me what?” I asked, like some daft teenager repeating the obvious, even though I knew exactly what he meant.

“I’m not attempting to tell you anything,” he said softly, eyes heavy with that quiet disappointment that stabbed worse than shouting. “I’m merely showing you the truth… and testing whether you could withstand it. Apparently, you cannot.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I sobbed, voice cracking like a scratched Spice Girls CD. My head was spinning, trying to keep up with his big words and my tiny teenage brain. “But honestly, is there even a future for… whatever this is?”

“Why must you concern yourself with the future?” His tone shifted, almost gentle. “You don’t even know what you want for breakfast tomorrow. So why must we torture ourselves imagining ten years ahead?” And I looked, properly looked, expecting to catch some trace of manipulation in those hazel eyes. But what I found instead was fear. Raw, desperate fear, tucked neatly behind his usual composure.

I hadn’t even opened my mouth before he did something that completely fried my circuits. Something I’d never seen in any of his films. He slid off the sofa—onto the carpet, the horrid old carpet that still smelled faintly of chips—and he knelt. Properly knelt. His tall frame folded down until he looked almost… small. His big hand wrapped around mine, trembling ever so slightly. That same fear blazing brighter in his eyes.

“Enough,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I can’t keep pretending I’m strong. Please… come back to me. I know I can’t promise you the world right now, but I swear—I’ll try. I’ll try to make you happy.”

And my brain? Oh, it was chaos. Half of me wanted to scream, what the hell are you doing on my carpet, you absolute maniac? The other half was melting, because—God help me—when Alan Rickman was practically begging on his knees in my dingy living room, how on earth was I supposed to keep breathing like a normal person?

Chapter Text

In the end, that whole conversation—far too grown-up for me, really—dragged me back into Mr Rickman’s house. Two days now, and nothing’s actually happened since. What I do remember is Miss Horton looking ridiculously pleased I’d returned. She even bought me vitamins, convinced I’d been properly ill. Maybe she wasn’t wrong. Maybe I am mental.

I woke in the middle of the night, the clock on the wall glaring 1:20 a.m. My throat was bone-dry, so I decided to fetch some water. My room’s close to the kitchen, but the second I stepped out, I remembered I hadn’t cleared Mr Rickman’s coffee cup from the sitting room.

So there I was, half-asleep, padding towards the sitting room in my oversized T-shirt—my pyjamas, if you can call them that. Still nothing underneath, of course. Most comfortable thing in the world. Don’t judge me.

I picked up his cup, tidied the heap of magazines he’d left sprawled about after dinner, then shuffled into the kitchen. Cup in the sink, glass filled, water gulped down, eyes shut. Honestly, I was basically micro-sleeping upright.

And then—bloody hell—I jolted awake at the feel of someone stroking my chest. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, I almost screamed, but my mouth was smothered by a hand.

“Ssttt…”

Blinking, heart hammering, I realised it wasn’t some burglar. Of course not. Who else would it be? Mr bloody Rickman. God, does this man ever leave me alone?!

“What are you doing!?” I mumbled against his palm, furious.

“I saw you wandering around from my office,” he whispered, voice low and smug. “I’d recognise that arse anywhere. Darling, even if you were working in Buckingham Palace, the King himself would fall for you.”

He smirked—smirked!—and finally let go of my mouth, leaving me half-annoyed, half… well, not annoyed.

“Still sleeping without anything on underneath, are you? Hmm? Naughty girl,” Mr Rickman murmured, his body pressing me back against the kitchen counter. His hand tipped my chin upwards, forcing me to meet his gaze, as if he were interrogating every inch of me. “Were you trying to tempt me?”

Honestly. Pervert. Did he not see I was half-asleep? Why on earth would I be trying to seduce him when I can barely keep my eyes open?

But somehow, my body felt increasingly hot with every touch. He kissed and licked my neck as if it were a midnight snack. My breath grew more urgent when, without warning, I hastily set a glass of water I was holding on the counter's edge, just making sure it was safe and wouldn't fall.

He lifted my T shirt up to my chest, then looked at my body as if examining a historical relic in a museum. His other hand began caressing my budding nipples, now his eyes fixed intently on mine, ensuring he saw every reaction on my face to his touch.

"Darling, your cheeks are proper rosy…" Mr. Rickman remarked, his gaze intense as he looked into my eyes.

I could only whimper, overwhelmed by all the sensations he was bestowing upon my body. I didn't expect every touch to feel ten times better when I was half-asleep.

With one swift move, he lifted me up and had me sitting on the counter with my bottom resting on its edge. He looked a bit annoyed that my T-shirt slipped down again, clearly my flat chest couldn't keep the garment in place. Mr. Rickman lifted my shirt again, then lowered his head to my chest and began lapping at my budding nipples. Oh my goodness! It felt like I was about to take flight! I covered my mouth with my own hand, trying to endure without whimpering. Honestly, it felt almost impossible.

His tongue was proper skilled, swirling and pressing against my nipples, clearly abusing them.

Then, before I could adjust, he started to suck on them. Yes! Like a baby! What were you expecting from sucking on my nipples, Mr Rickman? Obviously not breastmilk! But... it felt incredibly, amazingly, unbelievably good. Deserved of coming back to this house.

He slowly pushed my back against the wall, his other hand preventing my hips from shifting an inch from the counter's edge.

Now I was pressed against the wall, my pussy perfectly positioned. Ready for him, I had already begun imagining when his massive (for my body, obviously) shaft would slide inside me, sending a thrilling chill through me that made me blink my eyes shut.

But the sensation I felt was different from usual, and when I opened my eyes, the sight before me couldn't be believed? What was this?! I'd never seen this anywhere! He was licking my pussy, yes! With his tongue and lips.

"Mr Rickman, stop, that's dirty..." I said softly, but he didn't halt his ministrations even slightly.

I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me, but it was swiftly replaced by a surge of forbidden excitement as I watched him continue his intimate attentions.

His tongue delved deeper, circling my clit with deliberate slowness. Each stroke sent jolts of pleasure straight to my core, making me squirm against the wall. I couldn't help but let out a soft moan, my hips involuntarily rocking towards him.

"Look at you, getting so turned on by this dirty act," he murmured against my folds, his hot breath causing me to tremble. "Tell me, little one, do you want more of my tongue inside you?"

Before I could respond, he plunged his tongue deep within me, stroking my inner walls with a confident, expert touch. I cried out, my hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his hair as I held him to me, lost in the intense pleasure he was providing.

His mouth was relentless, feasting on my pussy as if it were his favorite delicacy. He licked, sucked, and nipped at my sensitive flesh, driving me closer to the edge with each passing second.

I panted and whimpered, my body arching against the wall as he worked his magic. The combination of his skilled tongue and the taboo nature of the act was pushing me to new heights of arousal.

He obviously noticed how much I enjoyed it.

He responded by redoubling his efforts, his tongue plunging deeper and faster into my wet heat. I felt the pressure building, my climax approaching like a runaway train. And then, with a final, decisive flick against my clit, I toppled over the edge.

Ecstasy washed over me in intense waves, my pussy clenching around his probing tongue as I came hard. I whisper his name, hoping it won’t wake miss horton. my hips jerking against him as I rode out the intense pleasure he had coaxed from my body.

"And now my turn," he said, pulling out his dick from his boxers, positioned the head of at my entrance. Not as hard as usual for him to slide it in, considering how wet my pussy was at the moment.

With a swift, deep thrust, he sheathed himself inside me, stretching me wide around his thick girth. I gasped at the sudden invasion, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of my climax.

He didn't give me a moment to adjust, however. Instead, he began to move, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back in with relentless pace and power. The friction was intense, his length rubbing against my sensitive walls with each thrust.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper as I met his movements with my own eager hips. The sensation of being so thoroughly, so completely taken was intoxicating.

His eyes burned into mine, dark with lust and possession. "Take it all, baby," he commanded, his voice husky with desire. "Every inch of my cock is yours."

And with that, he pounded into me harder, deeper, claiming me utterly as his.

The fresh air mingled with the heady scent of our lovemaking, filling my lungs and head with dizzying sensations. The sounds of cars passing by the road racing my heartbeat. His relentless rhythm had me teetering on the brink of another climax, my pussy clenching around his pistoning member in time with his thrusts.

I couldn't help but moan, the sound swallowed by the open air of the garden. It only seemed to urge him on, his hips snapping against mine with renewed vigor.

"You're going to make me come again, aren't you?" I gasped, my voice breathy and desperate. "I can't take it!"

But he just smiled, a wicked glint in his eye. "Oh, but you can,  And you will."

With a final, powerful surge, he sent me tumbling over the edge once more. I cried out, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a hurricane. My body convulsed, my pussy spasming around him as I came hard, juices flowing freely down my thighs.

Through it all, he continued to thrust, prolonging my pleasure even as he neared his own climax. The thought that we were outside, in the open, having such intimate and illicit sex only added to the forbidden thrill.

He groaned, his hips bucking erratically as he chased his own release. Our bodies moved together in a frenzy of lust, skin slapping against skin with each desperate plunge.

And then, with a final, triumphant thrust, he buried himself deep inside me and let out a low, guttural moan. I felt the first spurt of his hot seed, followed by another, and another, as he pumped himself into me, claiming me utterly with his essence.

As the last tremors of our climaxes faded, we stood there, chest to chest, locked in a heated embrace. The garden was silent, save for our ragged breathing and the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze.

He nuzzled my neck, his lips brushing against my skin in a tender caress. "You're exquisite, little darling," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "A true masterpiece."

****

When I came round, I realised I was back in my own room. Mr Rickman was beside me, spooning my small frame with his. The clock on the wall read three in the morning. I must’ve dozed off—reckless of me. I rolled over to face him. His eyes flicked open the moment I moved, his brow furrowing and his lips curling into that odd pout—though honestly, it’s kind of just his usual old man expression.
“I wasn’t asleep,” he whispered softly, stroking my hair. “You know, I missed you dreadfully when you weren’t here.”

“Hmmm.” I didn’t answer. Truth is, I suddenly felt a bit embarrassed about everything we’d just done. My head kept spinning with it, like a scratched record, until I finally muttered, “I don’t want to do some madness like that again…”

“But I’m the adult here, so I know better… And don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” he murmured again, his large nose brushing against my neck.

I shrugged. I had no idea what to say. He wasn’t wrong—I had enjoyed it. But the more I thought about it, the more wrong it all felt.

I stared at his face for a long moment, trying to sort out the mess inside me. I was angry, I think. But at the same time, I didn’t want him an inch further away.

“I gotta get back to the bedroom before Rima’s up,” he whispered, and then kissed me like it was some casual goodnight thing.

He started to move, but my hand just… grabbed his pyjama top. Like, full grip, knuckles white. My eyes went huge, and he looked down at me all puzzled, but inside I was freaking out — panicky, shaky, on the edge of tears.

And I don’t even know why. All of this was supposed to be fun. A laugh. Some extra money, shiny luxury stuff, the odd fancy dinner I could brag about in my head. That’s all. That’s what I told myself. But now? Now I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to crawl back into my little life where there’s this massive wall between me and him, like we’re not even allowed to breathe the same air.

It’s pathetic, I know. I should just let him walk away. But my chest hurt like mad, and my brain kept screaming do something, do something before it’s too late. Before he shatters me for real.

****

It was nearly Christmas ’95, 15th of December, freezing outside, and I was drifting off in class when Daniel suddenly leaned in and kissed my cheek. Nearly made me jump out of my skin.

I should’ve leave him already. Technically, I’ve been cheating on him all this time. But if I leave Daniel, then I’ve got no one. Like, literally no one. No proper person in real life I can cling to. So I just smiled at him, like everything was fine.

“Shall we head off now?” he asked, all cheery. Oh yeah — today was the big ‘come round my place’ day he’d been on about forever. Plus the whole ‘you’ve got to try my new video game’ thing. I nodded, packed my books, and followed him out.

Daniel just turned eighteen last week. His parents bought him a car. A black Ford Fiesta — not posh or anything, but brand new. Meanwhile I can’t even get my dad to notice I exist, and here Daniel is, cruising us around like some grown man. His house wasn’t far from school, just the wrong direction from my usual way home.

“I can’t stay long, I’ve got work later,” I said as he drove.

“That’s fine. I’m just happy you’re finally coming over,” he grinned, eyes still on the road.

I smiled back, pretending I wasn’t secretly counting how many hours I had left before I had to be in someone else’s kitchen scrubbing plates. Pulled out my flip phone — honestly, it makes me feel like less of a fraud at this school full of rich kids. Cassie had already texted like three times, asking how the ‘date’ was going. Chill, Cass, we hadn’t even arrived yet.

Next thing I knew, we were in Daniel’s bedroom. His parents weren’t home, just the housekeeper pottering about downstairs. And that made my chest ache a bit. Because if only he knew — I’m basically the same as her. Just a girl paid to do house chores. Except I never dared tell him that part.

I sat on the edge of Daniel’s bed while he faffed about with his PlayStation. My phone beeped — a message from Miss Horton, asking me to meet her at the shopping centre at seven to help her pick out things. Fine, no problem, I could squeeze that in. I texted back quickly, then looked up and realised the game was ready to go. Some racing thing. Alright, could be fun.

Daniel leaned in and kissed my cheek again before handing me the second controller. And just like that, we were off.

An hour must’ve flown by — who knew pretending to drive tiny cars round in circles could be that addictive? I only won once, which was tragic, but whatever. I was knackered, so I flopped backwards on his bed, stretching like a cat.

He lay down beside me, grinning. “You really are so pretty, you know… you could be an actress.”

I burst out laughing. An actress? Me? Oh sure, thanks for saying I’m fit, Dan, but come on — I’d have to compete with half of London, girls who are actually gorgeous and can cry on cue. Plus, who’s got the time to run around auditioning when they’ve got dishes waiting at home? Not me. Obviously I didn’t say all that out loud, just smiled.

Then Daniel shifted closer, kissed me properly this time. I kissed him back, because… well, he’s my boyfriend, isn’t he? Next thing, he was hovering over me, eyes searching mine like he wanted a nod or something. I smiled, but honestly? My chest felt heavy, like someone had stuffed guilt down my throat. He’s my boyfriend… so why does it feel like cheating?

Chapter Text

I lay there on Daniel’s bed, not long after we’d done it for the first time. Our first time. He was so gentle with me, kept asking if I was alright, if I wanted him to stop, if I was comfortable. Honestly? I wasn’t. The whole thing felt… wrong, like I was forcing myself into someone else’s skin.

And then my head started spinning with questions I couldn’t answer. Am I broken? Shouldn’t I be madly in love with him, like every other girl at school who goes on about their boyfriends like they’re the greatest thing since Blur’s last single? Instead, all I felt was this itch to run, to hide, to shove the whole night into a box marked distraction.

⸻

I told Daniel not to drive me home. Said I’d just take the bus. Truth was, I had to meet Miss Horton at the shopping centre anyway.

I spotted her in the food court, sat on one of those plastic chairs with a jumbo strawberry sundae in hand, waving like she’d been waiting all day for me. I couldn’t help it—I grinned, waved back, and half-ran over. I do love being with her, honestly. It feels safe, like mum-time but without the nagging.

“Sooo, what are we shopping for today, Miss Horton?” I asked in my most sugary voice.

“Oh, today’s going to be fun! We’re doing Christmas shopping!” she said, eyes sparkling.

“Dinner party at the house? Or more decorations?” I asked again, already picturing fairy lights and baubles.

“Decorations, yes… but, actually, Alan and I are flying to America for Christmas. I’ve got an important meeting, and he’s been invited to a Christmas party there. So I need a new dress, and a few other bits.” She explained it so casually, and I smiled wide, like the supportive little helper I was. But inside? Ugh. A knot. I couldn’t stop that pang of disappointment—like, yeah, of course I’d never admit I’d wanted to spend Christmas near him. Him, who isn’t even mine. Him, who’s hers. Pathetic.

“Well, come on then, before it gets too late,” she added, standing up.

We headed into Burberry—her favourite, obviously. She tried on a couple of dresses. Always elegant, always classy. Too posh for me, honestly.

I sat there on the little velvet stool outside the changing rooms, watching her twirl in another Burberry dress, all glossy and graceful. She looked gorgeous, obviously. She always does.

“What about this one?” she asked, stepping out of the fitting room and giving me a little twirl.

“Looks good. Very elegant,” I said, smiling.

“Oh, I need more than just elegant, love. Alan’s Christmas party is very important. And honestly… I need something that will catch his eye again. He’s been a little distant lately.” She said it softly, eyes fixed on her reflection, fussing with the fabric like it could give her answers.

And that was the part that felt like a dagger twisting right in my ribs. Catch his eye? God. If only she knew. If only she realised the reason he’s distant is because he’s been looking at… me.

And suddenly I hated myself. I mean, she’s kind to me—treats me like her own daughter, buys me food, makes me laugh when I’m feeling invisible at school. She calls me love. Who does that? Who makes you feel that warm? And here I am, sneaking behind her back, letting her man touch me, kiss me, make me forget who I even am.

The worst part? A tiny, selfish, disgusting part of me felt relieved. Relieved that she thought it was just the dress. That she believed she could fix everything with sequins and silk. That she didn’t see me for what I was—a snake hiding in her own house.

So I nodded, all fake brightness, “Yeah, you’ll definitely turn heads in that one.” And inside I was screaming, Miss Horton, don’t you see? You already turn heads. You don’t need a new dress. You don’t need to fight for him. You should never have to fight me.

But I didn’t say a word. Just sat there like a good little helper, carrying her shopping bags while my chest felt like it might split open.

Miss Horton had the shop girl pull out a few dresses for me and honestly—I nearly choked.

“I don’t need a new dress, Miss Horton,” I tried to say politely, even though, let’s be real, who in their right mind actually refuses new clothes?

“It’s fine, darling. Think of it as a Christmas present from me and Alan.” She smiled, plucking a cobalt-blue dress straight off the rack and handing it over. “Try this one. It’ll look perfect on you.”

I slipped it on, and yeah, it was nice—good cut, smart, elegant. Maybe a bit too prim for my taste, but still. I wasn’t about to argue. When someone hands you Burberry, you just nod and say thank you.

By the end we had half the shop in bags, and the boot of her car was groaning under the weight.

⸻

When we got back to the house, I clocked someone in the sitting room straight away—a woman in her early thirties maybe, with these long legs tucked into fitted black trousers and a lilac blouse with ruffles across the chest. She had papers spread out all over the coffee table, glasses perched on her nose, until she spotted Miss Horton and instantly brightened.

“Good evening, Miss Horton,” she said warmly.

Miss Horton went straight over, looking pleased. “Do make Angela a cup of tea, love. Bring some biscuits too.”

So up the stairs I went, arms aching with all those shopping bags. honestly, it felt like I was hauling half of bloody Harrods up those stairs. I ducked into the walk-in closet and started lining them up neatly on the shelves, like I was some department store display girl. Pointless, really. Give it a week and she’ll fill the place back up again.

My eyes landed on the Burberry bag with my cobalt dress inside — my so-called “Christmas present”. Funny, right? A maid getting couture like she’s some spoiled Chelsea girl. But this is life when you do a really great job as a celebrity’s maid.

And speak of the devil — there he was. Mr Rickman. Just standing there, fiddling with his ties like the fate of the free world depended on whether he chose burgundy or navy.

“Who’s the woman downstairs?” I asked, pretending to be casual while still fussing with the Burberry handles so they didn’t lean sideways.

“Personal assistant Rima’s hired for America,” he muttered, still eyeing the ties. “Didn’t think we needed one, really. I can manage Rima and myself well enough.” Then he suddenly froze, spun round to me, eyes wide.

“Oh God… I’ve just blurted that we’re off to America for Christmas, haven’t I? No dinner, no gift, nothing to make up for it. Please don’t tell me you’re cross.” He actually looked nervous. Alan Rickman — nervous.

I rolled my eyes. “Relax. Miss Horton’s already bought me a dress as a Christmas gift. She’s told me about the America trip too. So you don’t have to worry.” My voice came out sharper than I meant. Inside, though, my chest gave that stupid twist — jealous, jealous, jealous. Of her, of course. Always her.

“She bought you a dress?” he frowned.

I tugged the Burberry bag from the pile, opened it just enough to flash the cobalt silk. He glanced, then I snapped it shut again.

“Blue’s Rima’s favourite colour, you know,” he said softly. “But she never thought it suited her.”

“Well, it suits me,” I shot back, all faux-sweetness, batting my lashes like some brat.

“Better if you wore nothing at all,” he smirked.

I gasped and pinched his arm, hissing like a feral cat. “Pervert!”

He laughed, properly laughed — deep, unguarded — and it echoed down the stairs as I stomped off to make Angela’s tea, cheeks burning.

****

They were meant to be flying off to America in two days, but that morning I could already hear Miss Horton tearing someone to shreds over the phone. No clue who the poor victim was this time. I was busy wiping down the dining table, so her voice came in and out — mostly sharp, angry bits that didn’t need much filling in.

I was off school for the Christmas hols, which basically meant two weeks of either rotting in front of the telly or hovering around Mum. Then the door went and in came Mr Rickman, lugging a mountain of his personal stuff from set. Probably his last day of filming before the holidays.

I headed over to the front to help, and the look on his face told me straight away he was also wondering what on earth had Miss Horton so wound up.

“Why’s Rima shouting like that?” he asked as we walked in.

I shrugged. “No idea. She’s your girlfriend… go ask her!” I shot back, giving him my best sassy eye-roll and sticking my tongue out as I dropped his bags on his desk.

“But you’re my favourite,” he said, giving me that cheeky wink. Ugh. Typical.

I groaned and went back to my chores while he trundled upstairs.

****

It wasn’t until midday that I heard him again, his footsteps heading into the kitchen as I sat in my little room near the back, sorting my things. I was packing to go back to Mum’s for at least a fortnight, so of course I had to gather all my most treasured bits.

Not long after, there was a knock at the door. Without thinking, I just called out, “Come in!” not even checking who it was.

Mr Rickman stepped inside, though he only leaned against the doorframe, looking a bit vacant, as though lost in thought. I stared back, waiting for him to speak.

“Hmmm?” I prompted.

“Do you reckon your mum would let you come to America?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“Eh?” I blinked, not quite catching his drift.

“Bit of a saga, really. Angela’s boyfriend got nicked last night, so she’s had to cancel work. That’s why Rima’s so wound up. Anyway, thought you might stand in for her — carrying bags, sorting schedules, maybe even laying out our clothes for the events…” he explained casually, just as Miss Horton herself appeared at the doorway.

“Yes, would you mind terribly?” she chimed in, her face full of hope. “I’ve meetings stacked up as soon as we landed, and then the Christmas party too — it’ll be absolutely manic. We could really do with the help…”

“We can pay you double for the trouble — it’s near impossible to find a replacement at such short notice,” Miss Horton added.

I froze for a moment, honestly a bit stunned by the sudden request. “Erm… how long would we even be in America?” I asked, my face all confused.

“Roughly a fortnight… maybe longer. You might have to get permission from school,” Mr Rickman replied.

“Could you ring Mum for me? I’ll need to ask her first…” I said quietly, still weighing up whether I actually wanted to or not.

“Of course — I’ll speak to her myself. I’ll ask her to bring your passport as well.” With that, Mr Rickman strolled into my room, sat on the edge of my bed, and started jabbing at his mobile to give Mum a call.

⸻

By six o’clock that evening, Mum turned up with my passport, still in her supermarket uniform. I opened the door with a half-sulk — honestly, it baffled me how easily Mr Rickman could charm her into anything. Like… seriously, how does he do that?

“You look knackered, Mum…” I muttered, maybe sharper than I should’ve.

She let out a huff. “Course I do. Christmas week, innit? Everyone’s gone mad for mince pies and bloody tinsel.” She came in, peeling off her shabby coat and scarf. “Where’s Miss Horton then, upstairs polishing her diamonds?”

I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll fetch her in a bit. Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.” I guided her towards the sofa. Then I blurted, “Mum… do we honestly need money that bad? You just said yes, no questions asked. What if I don’t wanna go to America?”

Mum gave me that look — tired but razor-sharp. “Love, we ain’t exactly rolling in it, are we? People like us don’t get choices, not real ones. You think I like stacking shelves ten hours a day for peanuts, Still doing gardening on the weekends? Nah. But you — you’ve got a shot at something bigger. World’s out there, past our grotty little flat and soggy fish-and-chips Fridays.” She shook her head and sighed. “Don’t let me hold you back. If life’s chucking you a golden ticket, you grab it before it slips down the drain.”

“Hmmm, yeah, I s’pose you’ve got a point, Mum. Still—when I get there, I’m ordering the biggest, greasiest American hamburger I can find. You know, just to do my bit for cultural exchange.” I winked before hopping up to put the kettle on and go drag Miss Horton downstairs.

⸻

Fast forward to two days before Christmas, and I’m at the bloody airport. Daniel’s basically turned into my personal alarm clock — twenty calls this morning alone. ‘Don’t forget your passport, don’t forget your toothbrush, don’t forget me…’ Very sweet, but also, like—Dan, I’m going to America, not the moon.

Meanwhile, my legs are shaking like I’m auditioning for Riverdance. First time on a plane and of course I’m stuck on my own in economy. And where are Miss Horton and Mr Rickman? Oh, just living it up in the business lounge. Probably sipping champagne and comparing designer luggage while one of those massage chairs squeezes them into oblivion.

And me? I’ve got a packet of crisps, a sticky chair, and a screaming toddler two rows down. Love that for me.

It stings, yeah. But you know what? I’ll get my revenge. Maybe I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill Coke on Rima’s precious Burberry scarf. Oops. Christmas miracle.

Anyway, I checked the departures board — still thirty minutes to go. And, of course, that’s exactly when my bladder decided to stage a protest. So off I dashed to the loo. Thank God it was quiet in there; I was nervous enough already without having to queue with a hundred people tapping their feet.

Business done, I washed my hands, straightened myself up, and stepped out—
and holy Christmas!
There he was. Mr Rickman himself, just leaving the gents.

I didn’t even think. Didn’t care. I just flung myself at him. He was all bundled up in layers of thick winter clothes, warm as a teddy bear, and honestly? Best hug of my life.

I was about to open my mouth—say something clever, or at least not sound like a total dork—when suddenly his face did this weird twist. Half-laughing, half… something else. Then he ruffled my hair. Like I was seven. Excuse me?

And then—then—he leaned down and whispered, “Sorry…” while gently pushing me back.

I just froze. Excuse me, what? I know it’s cold outside, but he didn’t have to go all cold shoulder on me too!

Before I could protest, he walked away—long coat swishing, very dramatic. I spun round, ready to yell after him… and my eyes landed on Miss Horton.

She was watching the whole thing. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… surprised. Then, of all things, she smiled at me.

What in the actual Christmas pudding was that supposed to mean?

I mean, 

OH SHIT!

Chapter Text

I had no choice but to smile back at Miss Horton. Honestly, it was the most awkward smile of my life, but—bloody hell—that was close! The last thing I need is her getting even a whiff of suspicion. My life’s already a juggling act; I don’t need it blown up because I couldn’t keep my face straight.

Now I’m on the plane. Seven hours—minimum—to America, stuck on my own in economy while the lovebirds are probably arguing about whether the smoked salmon tastes ‘authentic’ enough in business class. My hands are still struggling with the new SIM card Mr Rickman gave me. Who knew you had to swap SIMs just to use your phone abroad? Not me. Clearly, I skipped the “How To Travel Like A Functional Adult” seminar. (mind you I only sixteen, hah!)

The woman next to me conked out the second she sat down, which, fine, at least she’s not chatty. But me? I’m sitting here jittery, borderline panicking—first flight ever, and it feels like my stomach’s doing somersaults.

To distract myself, I pulled out the little notebook with Miss Horton’s American schedule. Nineteen days. Nineteen! And everyday at the first week crammed with Very Important Meetings. She’s barely got time to sneeze. My job? Ring the hotel as soon as we land, confirm the booking, keep everything running smooth.

Of course, my brain won’t let go of that awkward bathroom hug incident earlier. I mean… seriously? But no. Work comes first. If I mess this up, I’ll be done for. No excuses, no second chances. Keep Miss Horton happy, and keep my secret safe.

⸻

Seven hours later and I swear my head is spinning. Jet lag? Probably. Or maybe it’s just my body rebelling against the concept of being trapped in a flying tin can. Either way, the captain’s just announced our descent. Time to slap on a professional face and dive straight into work mode the second we land.

We’d barely landed and honestly, I could’ve cried on the spot. Rickman had been all over Miss Horton the whole time — full-on lovey-dovey like some soppy couple in a telly advert. And me? Standing there like a lost puppy someone’s dumped by the roadside. Pathetic. But no time to sulk — I was working.

I went off to flag down a taxi while the glamorous pair sipped bottled water on a bench like royalty on a picnic. Eventually I got one, and of course they slid into the back together while I sat up front, trying not to sulk and ringing the hotel to confirm our arrival.

The ride into Manhattan was surreal. My nose was glued to the window like some country bumpkin — everything was twinkling. Proper Christmas madness everywhere: fairy lights strung across streets, giant trees decked out like they were auditioning for Home Alone, and American carols blasting from every corner. For a second I forgot my nerves and just thought, wow.

Forty minutes later, the taxi pulled up at the Calix Royale Hotel — apparently the poshest place in Manhattan. It was massive, honestly looked like someone had cloned Buckingham Palace and plonked it in New York, only with revolving doors and bellboys in funny hats.

As soon as we stepped out, two bellboys whisked away the luggage like it was all part of a show, while Mr rickman try his best to handle the paparazzi before walking inside the hotel. I trailed behind Rickman into the lobby, trying not to gawp too much but failing miserably.

Mr Rickman was already at the desk, smooth as ever, while I loitered behind like a kid dragged into Harrods for the first time.

“Would you be requiring a personal butler for Mr Rickman’s stay this time?” the receptionist asked politely.

Miss Horton smiled — all charm — then turned her eyes briefly towards me. “Thank you, but no. We’ve already brought our maid along.”

My stomach twisted. Of course, I am the maid. That’s literally why I’m here. But hearing it announced in the middle of this glittering palace of a hotel? Felt like someone had just put a big neon sign over my head saying SERVANT.

The receptionist nodded without missing a beat. “Very good, madam. Robert will escort you to your suite.”

I couldn’t stop gawking as we walked down the corridor — the interior felt like stepping straight into a Hollywood movie set.

We took the lift up to the fifth floor, where Robert first showed us their room: the Sovereign Suite. Second best suite in the whole hotel. Apparently, only ten of them exist.

Of course, they waltzed in like royalty after slipping Robert a tip. Just before the door closed, Miss Horton tossed over her shoulder: “Make sure this suit goes to the hotel laundry for pressing, and I’ll need a taxi at 7.”
Alright. Manageable. Even if my brain was still rattling from jet lag.

Naturally, my room was separate. (Thank God, can you imagine third-wheeling their lovey-dovey nonsense in the same suite?) Robert led me down the hall… and then opened a door that nearly gave me a heart attack.

“What—? No. No way.”
It was the same type of room. Another Sovereign Suite. Price tag? Twelve hundred dollars a night. Which, fun fact, is more than I make in a month.

I mean, sure — I always knew Mr Rickman had money. He’s an actor, a celebrity, he buys good wine and has a house big enough for people to get lost in. But this? This was another level entirely. Old-money, royal-level rich. Like, who even casually books $1,200-a-night room for the maid?

Okay. Breathe. Don’t faint on the very expensive carpet.

I shuffled inside, mumbling, “Uh… sorry, I don’t really have a tip… hopefully whatever my boss gave you earlier covers it?” with this awkward grin plastered on my face.

Robert chuckled. “No problem, madam. If you need anything, call reception and ask for me.” He tapped his nametag. “Enjoy your stay in America.”

Madam?? Me?? Honestly, Robert probably makes more money than I do, and he’s out here calling me madam? The irony could kill me.

“Um… thanks, Robert…” I mumbled, cheeks burning. I thrust Miss Horton’s suit into his hands before I embarrassed myself further. “Could you take this to the laundry for pressing, please?”

Robert smiled kindly. “Of course, madam. I’ll have it returned in about twenty minutes.” With that, he gave me a courteous nod and disappeared down the corridor.

And there I was, rooted to the threshold like a burglar about to trigger an alarm. One step onto that plush rug and I felt like I’d trespassed into Buckingham Palace.

That’s when it hit me—it didn’t even feel American. The suite was dressed like some English manor house: carved oak furniture, velvet armchairs in deep burgundy, and heavy curtains with gold tassels. Even the four-poster bed looked like it belonged in a countryside castle somewhere in Kent. I was in Manhattan, yet somehow I’d stumbled into Downton Abbey.

Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Mr Rickman:

“Luckily the standard rooms were all full because of Christmas. This way I could get you something comfortable. Once you’re done with Rima’s tasks, get ready for dinner with me, princess.”

My heart nearly stopped. I could feel my face blazing crimson. Desperate to shake it off, I tossed myself onto the enormous bed, sinking into the mountain of pillows.

And then, of course, my phone rang again. Daniel.

“Hey, Dan, why are you calling? You know it’s expensive to phone abroad,” I said as I answered, chuckling a little.

“Nothing’s too expensive when it comes to talking to my gorgeous girlfriend,” he replied with a laugh. “Besides, I’m calling from the landline, so let my dad worry about the bill. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, just having a bit of a rest before I get back to wor—” I froze. Oh God. I hadn’t told him I was working. I’d said I was off on a Christmas holiday with my aunt’s family. Nearly slipped. That was close.

There was a pause on the line.
“Before you get back to… what exactly?” Daniel asked, his tone suddenly curious.

“Uhh… to watching telly with my cousin,” I blurted, forcing a laugh. “We’ve got all these cheesy Christmas films lined up. You’d hate it.”

“Hm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t wear yourself out, yeah?”

I gripped the phone tighter, relief flooding through me. Dodged a bullet. For now.

“Yep! And don’t you dare go off with another girl while I’m in America, alright? Or else…” I said in my best mock-threatening voice, all syrupy sweet. The irony nearly choked me. If there were awards for the most shameless girlfriend, I’d be taking home the trophy.

“A’ight, me dad’s just walked in. Best hang up before he has a go at me. Bye, babe!” Daniel rushed out before the line clicked dead.

I let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging. Lying is exhausting… but somehow, worth it.

To make myself feel a bit less like Judas, I grabbed the remote from the bedside table and flicked on the telly. Straight away it felt strange — every voice dripping with an American drawl, like I’d been plonked on another planet. My favourite dramas? Nowhere in sight. Typical. But then — jackpot. Home Alone. Of course. Three days before Christmas, what else would they be showing? I slumped back against the pillows and let Macaulay Culkin distract me from my guilty conscience.

⸻

Fast forward to seven o’clock. Miss Horton had just gone off to her meeting in a taxi, leaving me with… reality.

Mr Rickman stood in front of the mirror — in my room, no less — fussing with his tie.
“You ready?” he asked, catching my reflection behind him.

I was already dressed, wearing the black-and-white Chanel number he’d bought me for homecoming.

“You’re wearing that again? Why not the blue dress Rima got you?” he asked, a faintly disapproving lift to his brow.

“Why? Don’t you like it? You bought this one for me,” I said, giving a little spin just to rub it in. “Besides, the blue one’s for Christmas Eve. You two’ll be at a party, and I’ll have nothing to do. Thought I might go out for a wander. That alright?”

He looked at me as if I’d asked permission to borrow the car keys. After a pause, he gave the smallest of nods.
“Suppose so. It’s modest enough. I don’t see the harm.”

Honestly, it was like asking a dad if I could nip out after dark.

“Isn’t it risky though, If we go outside right now? Won’t the paparazzi be all over us the second we step outside?” I asked, half-worried.

He gave a low chuckle. “Outside? Darling, this hotel’s spread over three hectares. They’ve got everything you could possibly want, little darling. Paparazzi couldn’t get within a mile.”

“Now come on…” he rolled his eyes, jerking his head like some impatient dad telling his kid to get moving.

His hand stayed glued to my waist the whole way, like I was some limited-edition Barbie doll he wasn’t about to let anyone nick. And honestly? The craziest part was how nobody even batted an eye. That’s luxury hotels for you — staff walked past, bowed politely, smiled… and boom, minding their business like they were trained by MI6.

We headed to the main restaurant of the Calix Hotel. And yes, main, because apparently one restaurant isn’t enough when you’re filthy rich. This one was right by the grand ballroom — the same ballroom that was basically booked for The Christmas Party of the Century™, which of course Mr Rickman and Miss Horton had been invited to.

“A table for two, room 304,” he said casually to the host, like ordering chips at a chippy.

The host typed, smiled, and waved over a waitress. “Claire will show you your table, Mr Rickman.”

I followed Claire, trying to look like I totally belonged in this bougie place, while Mr Rickman strolled behind me like my personal shadow. And then—

“ALAN!” someone shouted.

I whipped my head round so fast my neck almost snapped. And holy Christmas cookies. BRUCE. WILLIS. With DEMI MOORE. Right there. In front of my actual eyeballs. I nearly forgot how to walk.

Bruce grinned like some action-hero Santa and yanked Mr Rickman into one of those big “bro hugs” with back-slaps that probably bruise ribs. Demi floated beside him in this red sparkly gown that looked like it cost more than my entire village. Gorgeous? Yes. Warm and friendly? Err… no. She gave me this look like I’m a cockroach wrapped in channel.

“Alannn, mate, didn’t know you were in America!” Bruce boomed, shaking him like a Christmas present. “How’s life?”

“Older, but still kicking, eh!” Alan laughed, then threw a cheeky wink at Demi. “And you’re looking lovelier than ever, Demi…”

She smiled — polite, Hollywood, camera-ready — but her eyes kept darting to me like, and who’s this random girl tagging along? Honestly, I wanted to melt straight into the marble floor.

“Work trip?” Bruce asked.

“Not as busy as you,” Alan shrugged. “Just some press for Rasputin. And you?”

Bruce puffed up. “Just wrapped dinner. Got an interview for 12 Monkeys. Waiting on my driver.” He checked his phone, then smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re off to Arnon Milchan’s Christmas bash too?”

Mr Rickman raised his brow, gave a small nod.

“Ahhh… so we’ll see you there then,” Bruce said, spotting his driver. “C’mon, Demi.” He waved one last time before strolling off like the coolest man alive.

Finally, I could breathe again. My lungs had been on strike the whole time. Low-key gutted I didn’t get a photo with Bruce Willis — but honestly? I was too starstruck to even remember I owned a face. And Demi Moore? Yeah… pretty sure she already hates me, though I have no clue why. Maybe she just sensed I shop at Primark. Whatever.

We ended up at a table by the window, overlooking a private garden with a pool so shiny it looked like it had been Photoshopped with fairy lights. Honestly magical. Too bad it was freezing outside — no way was I about to cannonball into it.

“What should I order?” I whispered, cheeks burning. There was no hiding the fact that I was a proper newbie at this fine-dining game.

“What are you in the mood for, darling?” Mr Rickman asked softly, smiling in a way that nearly liquefied me on the spot.

“Uhh… anything nice… but can I have ice cream for dessert? Chocolate, with sprinkles,” I blurted, like a six-year-old at a birthday party.

He chuckled, amused, and ordered for both of us like it was nothing.

⸻

Now I’m back in my room, and oh my god — dinner was unreal. Too unreal. Dangerous. If this becomes a habit, I’m doomed.

I splashed my face with cold water, trying to snap myself out of it, but it didn’t help. The room was way too big, way too silent. And no way was I going to scurry to Mr Rickman’s suite like some toddler who’d just had a nightmare. Ugh. Why can’t I just sleep like a normal person?

Miss Horton should be back soon anyway, so even if I wanted to… yeah, not happening. I’d like to survive this America trip with my head still attached, thanks.

So I threw on a cardigan and decided to wander. Turns out the hotel wasn’t dead quiet at all — a few late-night stragglers still roaming about. The place is so massive though, I had to watch myself or risk getting hopelessly lost. My hands kept rubbing together, blowing into them for warmth as I shuffled down the corridor.

And then — bam. I walked straight into someone.

I nearly bounced off him like a tennis ball hitting the net. My shoulder smacked into his chest, and I stumbled back a step, mortified.

“Oh my gosh—sorry! I wasn’t looking—” I started babbling, brushing imaginary dust off my cardigan like that would somehow fix my dignity.

He straightened, blinking at me, and for a split second I just… stared. He looked my age, a bit older perhaps. His skin was pale, not the sickly kind but almost luminous under the hallway lights. His hair? Platinum, like fresh snow. And his face sprinkled with freckles, as if someone had painted them on with a fine brush.

But what really froze me were his eyes. One a clear, ocean blue… the other, pale and misty, like frost on glass. My stomach did a weird flip. Beautiful, yes — but also haunting, like he carried two different stories in his gaze.

“I should be the one apologising,” he said, voice warm but sheepish. “I’m supposed to be wearing glasses. Clearly, I wasn’t.”

I blinked, thrown off. “What, you bumped into me ‘cause you forgot your specs?”

He gave a small lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that, yeah.”

He shifted awkwardly, squinting down the corridor like he was trying to make out shapes in the dark.
“My eyesight gets worse at night,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “Really should be wearing glasses… but I think they must’ve slipped out of my pocket.”

“Oh—so it’s not just me being clumsy then,” I mumbled, half-relieved, half-mortified.

He gave this short laugh, soft but warm, before straightening as though remembering something important. Then he stuck out his hand, proper polite.
“Alexander,” he said. “Figured I ought to introduce myself after nearly running you over.”

I blinked at his hand before taking it, my palm instantly going sweaty. His grip was gentle, warm.

I hurriedly blurted out my name, almost stumbling over the syllables. My voice sounded a little too high, a little too eager, and I instantly wished I could reel it back in.

Alexander’s lips curled into a faint smile, repeating my name softly, like he was testing the weight of it. Somehow the way he said it made my cheeks heat up even more.

So we ended up wandering side by side, both of us scanning the carpet and peering under random furniture like a pair of detectives with zero experience. It was kinda ridiculous, crouching down every few steps, but somehow it didn’t feel awkward.

“By the way…” Alexander glanced at me, his pale lashes catching the glow of the corridor light. “Which room are you staying in?”

“307,” I answered without thinking.

“Staying with family?”

“No, it’s just me…” I answered with a chuckle.

And then it hit me.
Oh crap. Did I seriously just tell a stranger my exact room number, and saying that I’m alone? What if he’s a creep? What if he shows up at my door in the middle of the night? My brain instantly played out a dozen worst-case scenarios and I almost wanted to slap my own forehead.

I tried to laugh it off, fiddling with my hands. “Uh—probably shouldn’t go around telling random people that, huh?”

Alexander tilted his head, and for a split second, I panicked he’d smirk like some villain in a movie. But instead, he just looked genuinely apologetic.

“Fair point,” he said softly, almost shy. “Didn’t mean to pry. Sorry.”

I was still mentally kicking myself for blurting out my room number when a sharp set of footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“Sir, there you are!” A hotel staff member appeared, all crisp uniform and polite bowing.

“Your glasses, sir. We found them by the potted plant near the stairwell.” He held up a slim pair of metal frames, the lenses smudged with dust.

“Oh, awesome—thanks, man,” Alexander said quickly, relief plain in his voice.

Alexander was busy pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinting around like the whole world had just come back into HD.
“Well, guess I won’t be walking into you again—promise,” he said with this crooked grin.

I laughed, a tiny, awkward sound. “Let’s hope not. My heart can’t handle another near-death collision.”

He chuckled, rocking back on his heels. For a second it felt… normal. Like we were just two people who happened to bump into each other in a very fancy maze of a hotel.

The staff slipped away with a polite nod, leaving the corridor quiet again. Alexander adjusted his glasses carefully, then glanced at me with a mild, almost courteous curiosity.

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken,” he said, voice smooth and soft, “but… are you British?”

I froze for a second, stomach lurching. “…Yes. Is it that obvious?”

He smiled, not unkindly. “Your accent. It stands out.”

“Oh.” My face burned. I suddenly felt like a sore thumb sticking out in all this polished American luxury. “Right. Guess I can’t exactly hide that.”

Alexander tilted his head slightly, as though amused by my embarrassment. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Distinct voices are memorable.”

I fidgeted with my sleeves, wishing my cheeks would cool down. “Memorable isn’t always a good thing.”

I let out a tiny, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. The way he looked at me—steady, curious—was starting to make me squirm. My brain scrambled for an exit strategy.

“Well… I should probably head back to my room,” I said, forcing a polite smile. “Long day. Jet lag and all that.”

Alexander gave a small nod, almost courtly. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“Right. Erm… goodnight then.” I took a step back, clutching my phone like it was some kind of shield.

“Goodnight,” he replied softly, his mismatched eyes catching the light for a brief, startling second.

I quickly turned down the corridor, heart thumping, the air feeling warmer than it had a moment ago.

****

Morning, and a sharp knock at the door pulled me out of sleep. I scrambled upright, hair a mess, heart hammering like I’d overslept school exams.

When I cracked the door open, a hotel staff member stood there with a tray balanced neatly in his hands. Silver cloche, fresh juice, coffee—the whole royal treatment.

“For you, madam,” he said with a polite nod, setting the tray on the table before slipping back into the hall.

I blinked at it, still half in dreamland. My first thought was obvious: Mr Rickman, of course. Typical grand gesture.

But then I spotted the little folded note tucked under the edge of the plate. I pulled it free and opened it.

Just a words and a doodle:
“Thanks”—and a tiny sketch of glasses.

My stomach did this ridiculous little flip. Not Mr Rickman. Alexander.

I stared at the note, then at the perfectly arranged breakfast like it was some sort of puzzle. No one had ever thanked me with a tray of croissants and coffee before.

“…Oh brilliant,” I muttered, covering my face with both hands. “Now what am I supposed to do with this?”

But the one thing I was actually grateful for—thank God—I was waking up on time. Had to leg it straight to Mr Rickman’s room to sort out Miss Horton’s stuff for her trip to Boston. She was off for two whole days and wouldn’t be back ’til Christmas Eve. No chance for brekkie, obviously!

Quick brush of the teeth, bit of a wrestle with my hair, and I was off—legging it down the corridor like some loon. I knocked, and who should open the door but Mr Rickman himself, standing there in a dressing gown that looked dangerously like there was nothing underneath. Err… brain, behave yourself!

“Rima’s in the shower,” he said all casual, like it was no big deal, waving me in.

So I slipped inside and got cracking—stacking her books, papers, whatever she needed for the two days. Meanwhile, Mr Rickman just flopped back on the bed, arms spread, snoring away like some middle-aged uncle after Sunday roast. Honestly… you could really see his age in moments like that. Classic.

Chapter Text

Miss Horton had finally left for Boston University, and honestly, I could breathe again. After dragging her bags down to the lobby and doing the whole maid act, I slunk back to my room.

By now, all that food Alexander had sent was cold. Why, still better than starving, right? I picked at it, chewing a bite whilst staring out the window, washing it down with coffee I’d normally gag at. Maybe it was just posh enough—or made by someone who actually knew what they were doing—that it tasted decent.

Then came the knock. My name, sharp and impatient, in his voice.

I shoved the tray aside and hurried to the door. And—bloody hell—there he was. Mr Rickman, still wrapped in his robe, sweeping me clean off my feet before I could even squeak, kicking the door shut behind him and carrying me straight towards the bathroom like I weighed nothing.

I burst out laughing, half ticklish, half thrilled.
“What are we doing, Mr Rickman?” I giggled between breaths.

“Bath… and for God’s sake, please, try calling me Alan,” he shot back with a grin.

“Nope,” I said at once, still laughing. Pretty sure he rolled his eyes at that.

By the time we reached the bathroom, he was already running warm water into the tub. His grin was wide, boyish almost. His hair was a mess, strands of silver catching against the dirty-blonde, and somehow that made him look… ridiculously adorable.

And yet—even as things between us began to feel almost natural—I couldn’t shake it. The wall. That invisible, towering wall between me and Mr Rickman. No matter how many times our bodies tangled, he still felt miles above me. How he truly saw me, what he truly felt—whatever lingered behind those hazel eyes—was something I was too afraid to even touch.

I only snapped out of it when I realised he was holding me, properly holding me, arms tight around me like he could sense my thoughts wandering.
“You must be exhausted,” he murmured, his voice low, the warmth of his chest seeping into me. The scent of his cologne still clung from last night, and I buried my face against him just to breathe it in.

“I…” My voice came out faint, trembling.

“Hm?” His hand stroked through my hair, fingertips pressing gently at my scalp in little circles that nearly melted me.

“I missed you…” I whispered, barely daring. “I miss you terribly. I miss… us.” My eyes squeezed shut, bracing for laughter—for mockery. Girls like me didn’t get to say things like that. We were just decoration.

But instead—his hands framed my face, tilting it up. His eyes locked onto mine, warm, curious, searching, as though he wanted to peel away every layer, to see if I really meant it.

He didn’t answer me. Just… kissed me. Properly kissed me. Warm, slow, and so intense it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. My knees felt like jelly, and his hand on my shoulder was the only thing keeping me from completely melting onto the bathroom tiles.

Then, just like that, he pulled away—only to fiddle with the tie of his robe. My eyes went wide. Oh no. Oh no no no. And then—yep, robe gone. He just stepped right into the bath like we were in some steamy French film or something.

“Are you coming?” he asked, voice all low and tempting, leaning back like he owned the world. “The water’s perfect.”

Excuse me, sir?! My brain short-circuited. There he was, looking annoyingly gorgeous, silver hair sticking out every which way, lines on his face making him look all… distinguished (ugh, even thinking that word makes me sound like a granny). And me? I’m just standing there like a deer in headlights, trying not to squeak.

My hands were shaking so bad I could hardly get my T-shirt off. Honestly, I nearly bailed right there. But then my feet sort of moved on their own, and before I knew it, I was stepping in.

And yeah… he was right. The water was perfect. Warm, fizzy-in-my-chest perfect. Like stepping into trouble I wasn’t ever gonna crawl out of.

Both his arms wrapped around me, pulling me straight into his chest, and—God—it felt overwhelming. Heavy, protective, a little bit like being trapped, but in a way I didn’t want to escape. His eyes were alive, bright, like he’d suddenly remembered how to breathe and I was the reason. And me? I kept telling myself not to read into it. Don’t make it special. Don’t imagine things. 

I could feel his breath ghosting against my ear, the soft brush of his lips on my neck sending me somewhere… higher. Like the world above the world. And the worst part? The water’s warmth mixed with the weight of his touch made it impossible not to just… sink into him, like I belonged there.

But deep inside, my chest ached. It hurt, because I knew. I knew exactly what I was—the other woman. The hidden girl. The secret that would never get a spotlight. Scraps of affection when he could spare them. No promise, no certainty. Just me, clinging on like a fool, praying for a version of him that would never really be mine.

His arms tightened around me, hands roaming my slick body as the water lapped against us. I felt his hardness press against my thigh, a steady pulse of desire that made my heart race and my breath hitch. 

I couldn't deny the thrill that shot through me at his touch, his nearness. It was like a live wire, sparking and buzzing beneath my skin. I arched into him, seeking more of that electric contact.

God, what was wrong with me? This was Mr. Rickman, a total heartthrob. I shouldn't be reacting this way, losing control so easily. But his scent filled my head - musky and masculine, with a hint of cologne that made me weak in the knees.

His lips brushed my ear, a low rumble of words I almost couldn't decipher. "You're going to be the death of me, sweetheart..." His hot breath sent shivers down my spine.

I squirmed, aching for more of him, even as a small voice of reason whispered in my ear. This was wrong, so wrong. I can just live like this, giving up to be a mistress when I’m still so young. But my body was a traitor, craving his touch like I was addicted.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling anymore. Every touch of his is sweet but it stings, like sugar laced with glass. Every time he leans in to whisper, my chest burns and my eyes want to water. Why? Why do I feel so hollow when on paper I’ve got everything? This suite, this life, him.

Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the maid. No matter how he says I’m special, I’m still just… the girl on the side. The one with no right to expect anything.

I keep telling myself to be clever about it. To be grateful. If I stay, maybe my family will finally have the life we’ve dreamed of. That’s reason enough, isn’t it? But what if he grows tired of me before that day comes? What then?

I swear, I could survive the hunger, the scrubbing, the silence. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. But this ache? This gnawing thing that won’t leave me alone?

It’s because I’ve gone and done the stupidest thing.

I’ve fallen in love with him.

My heart hammered in my chest as his large, hard length nudged my entrance. The head of his member pressed against me, a steady, insistent pressure that made my breath catch. This wasn't new territory for us; we'd crossed this line before, many times. Yet, every encounter felt like a fresh shock to my system, a reminder of the forbidden nature of our desires.

As he slowly pushed inside, I bit my lip, trying to stifle a moan. The familiar sensation of him filling me was both welcome and overwhelming, stirring the deep, aching need within me. I wrapped my legs around his hips, inviting him deeper, craving the completeness only he could provide.

His hands roamed my slick skin, fingers digging into my thighs as he pulled me harder against him. Leaning in, he captured my mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue sweeping across my lips as he claimed me with ruthless intensity. The world narrowed to the sensation of him inside me, the heat of his body, the weight of his gaze on mine.

I was lost in the swirl of pleasure and emotion, torn between the reality of our situation and the fantasy of a future where we might be more than just secret lovers.

I sank deeper onto his lap within the warm, fragrant waters of the hotel's opulent bathtub. The porcelain surround was slick with moisture, but his solid presence kept me anchored. He sat with his back against the edge, long legs stretching out on either side of me.

The dim lighting of the lavish suite cast a seductive glow over the scene. Steam curled around us, adding an extra layer of intimacy to the already charged atmosphere. Water lapped gently against the sides, creating a soothing background hum that blended with our ragged breaths.

As he picked up pace, the bathtub's surface began to churn, water splashing against the sides with each forceful thrust. The sound mixed with our mingled gasps and moans, creating a symphony of pleasure in the enclosed space. 

His hands gripped my hips tightly, angling me to meet his increasingly urgent movements. I clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin as I struggled to maintain balance amidst the rolling waters. The rhythmic bounce sent ripples through the bath, the cool air of the suite contrasting with the steamy heat surrounding us.

Mr. Rickman's breath grew ragged, his hips pistoning with relentless intensity. I could feel the pressure building within me, coiling tighter with each stroke. The world narrowed to the sensation of him inside me, the water's soothing heat, and the primal need driving us closer to the edge.

I wanted to scream it. To just blurt it out, right there, while he was inside me, too lost in the moment to notice how my heart was breaking. I wanted to say it—that I love him, that I want him, that I want all of him. His body, yes, but also his heart, his life, his love.

But what came out of me wasn’t words. Just these ragged little gasps, broken moans, the sound of pleasure drowning out everything else I was desperate to confess. My body was telling him “yes, yes, yes” while my heart was begging, “please, just love me back.”

As he drove into me with ruthless precision, the tension inside me reached a fever pitch. My inner walls clenched around him, trembling with the effort of holding back the overwhelming surge building at my core.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep one final time, his length pulsing as he reached his climax. The sensation sent me hurtling over the edge, my own orgasm crashing through me in a torrent of sensation. My vision blurred, a cry of pleasure torn from my throat as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over me.

For a moment, we hung suspended in the aftermath, bodies still entwined, pulses slowing. The bathtub's gentle lapping was the only sound as the steam wrapped around us, a tangible manifestation of the heat and desire that still lingered between us.

Eventually, he withdrew, his softening length slipping free as he drew me close against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, holding me securely as he nuzzled my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "Aren’t you perfect," he murmured, the words low and rough with satisfaction.

Lies. If I were truly perfect, then why wasn’t I the one he chose?

⸻

He carried me out of the bath once we finished showering, my skin still tingling, my stomach rumbling because I hadn’t even had a proper breakfast yet.

Speaking of breakfast—Mr Rickman finally noticed the tray sitting on the table. The untouched spread from Alexander, now stone cold after I leave it for hours. His brow furrowed as he eyed it, suspicion flickering across his face.

“Who’s this from?” His voice was clipped, sharp.

“Some guy I helped look for his glasses last night,” I said breezily, rubbing my towel through my damp hair. “Not a big deal.”

His laugh was short, sarcastic. “Leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly someone’s trying to impress you.” His eyes lingered on me, narrowed. “I suppose it’s only natural… you’re beautiful, young… it’d be stranger if I were the only one who noticed.” He exhaled, almost annoyed with himself, running a finger across the edge of the tray. “Guess I’ll have to be more careful looking after you.”

“You’re overthinking it,” I muttered, though part of me was oddly flustered by his protectiveness. “He was just being polite.”

He waved my words away. “Speaking of looking after you… I’ve arranged something. Go to La Chambre Privée—eighth floor. There’ll be clothes waiting. Try them, see what you like. I’ve got an interview today so I can’t go with you” He leaned back lazily on the bed, then reached for his wallet. My jaw nearly dropped when he pulled out a slim black card from a hidden compartment. He placed it in my palm, his hand warm over mine. “Here. Enjoy yourself. Pamper yourself, go to the spa or whatever. Rima doesn’t know this card exists.”

“You want me to—what—just… shop?” My voice squeaked. “Won’t people notice if I buy loads?” My heart was practically tripping over itself. Who just casually hands over a secret credit card like that?!

He smirked at my panic. “Afterwards, take everything to the lobby, have them keep it in the safe. I’ll arrange shipping when we’re back in England.” His voice was so casual, like he was talking about posting a letter, not funding an entire spree.

I couldn’t help it—a grin broke across my face. Honestly, what girl in her right mind would say no?

“Ah… that smile of yours,” he murmured, tugging me closer, brushing kisses along my cheek and neck in playful little bursts that made me squirm. His lips pressed against my ear, his voice low, teasing, but with that sharp edge of demand I’d grown to recognise.

“So, darling… forget the boy with the glasses, hmm?”

****

I got so carried away that before I even realised, I was already straddling his bare body, his length buried deep inside me. Second round and it's still morning—am I completely insane?!

Mr Rickman was laughing, clearly pleased with how enthusiastically I was responding to his generous little gift.

“Little darling, as much as I’m enjoying this, you’ve got to remember I’m not exactly young anymore. I might collapse before my interview,” he chuckled, though by the look of him, he had absolutely no intention of stopping.

He shifted us around, throwing me back onto the bed with a thud. Now he loomed above me, his intense gaze burning into my skin as he still hadn't let up on his touch. Each swipe of his fingers, every stroke of his lips against me, set my entire being alight. It was glaringly obvious that I was just as into this as he was.

Mr. Rickman leaned down, his mouth capturing my ear in a fleeting, teasing nip. I let out a startled gasp as his hard length thrust back into me. The familiar ache of being stretched was still there, but it was nothing compared to the waves of pleasure that crashed through me.

My hands hesitated before trailing down his chest, mapping the contours of his body that I'd grown addicted to. He grunted, his eyes blazing with a fierce need as he watched me touch him. Our gazes locked, the air thick with the intensity of our desires, threatening to consume us whole.

He gripped my ankle, lifting it effortlessly to rest on his shoulder as he sank deeper into me. The new angle allowed him to hit a particularly sensitive spot, sending shivers up my spine and a moan escaping my lips. My fingers dug into his chest, nails scraping against his skin as I struggled to maintain some semblance of control.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his hot breath fanning across my skin. Leaning in, he captured my mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering mine as he claimed me with ruthless intensity.

I wrapped my other leg around his hip, drawing him in even closer. The sensation of being completely filled, of every inch of him stroking against my inner walls, was almost too much to bear. But I reveled in the sweet ache, the delicious pressure that built with each thrust. 

"Just a few days in America and you're already swearing like them?" I teased, giggling softly amidst our intimate encounter.

He snorted, retaliating by speeding up his pace. I looked around at the sight, feeling grateful that this time I didn't need to bite back my cries. I let out a deep moan with each thrust, my voice breaking out in high-pitched squeaks as the head of his collided with my core. Honestly, I was beyond capable of holding back any more of his powerful jolts.

As the pleasure built to a crescendo, I arched against him, my inner walls clenching around his length. With a strangled cry, I surrendered to the climax, waves of ecstasy washing over me in pulsing rhythms.

But the moment my orgasm subsided, Mr. Rickman's laughter cut through the post-coital haze. "Turns out I still managed to handle a little girl like you, can I?" he teased, his voice husky with amusement. Despite his words, there was an undercurrent of pride in his tone, as if my reaction was a testament to his prowess.

I blushed, feeling a mix of embarrassment and elation. "You're ridiculous," I managed to stammer, though a small, pleased smile played on my lips.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, sending a shiver down my spine. "Just stating facts, sweetheart." He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead before pulling back to admire me with a look of fond, smug satisfaction.

———

Apparently, the magazine crew were already downstairs in the lobby, sorting out the lighting for Mr Rickman’s interview. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him get ready — slipping into his freshly pressed suit, buttoning his shirt with that calm, practiced elegance, then slipping on his shoes. And of course, he just had to turn to me with that smirk and say, “Darling, fix my tie, would you?” like we were an old married couple. Honestly, if Miss Horton decided to stay in Boston forever, I don’t think I’d complain.

After he left, I realised I couldn’t just sit in the room like some forgotten houseplant, so I remembered what he said about the boutique on the eighth floor. I pulled myself together — brushed my hair, dabbed on a bit of makeup, and threw on the little dress Mum bought from a supermarket clearance rack. Not exactly Chanel, but it was clean and didn’t scream “help, I’m poor,” so I figured that was good enough.

I gave myself one last look in the mirror and sighed. “You’ll do,” I muttered, hoping no one at the boutique would mistake me for the hotel maid on her day off.

When I finally stepped inside, the place nearly took my breath away. Everything looked expensive — soft music playing, mannequins dressed like they’d just stepped out of Vogue, the smell of perfume so posh it made me stand up straighter.

A sales assistant approached, tall, perfectly groomed, the kind of man who probably irons his socks. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said with a polished smile. “My name’s Ian.”

“Hi… um, I think Mr Rickman sent me? He said I should come and—”

Before I could finish, he gave this little knowing nod, like he’d already seen this sort of thing before. “Of course, miss,” he said smoothly. “Please, take a look around while we prepare your fitting.”

And just like that, I was standing in the middle of all this glamour, trying not to touch anything in case I accidentally bankrupted him.

I was pretending to know what I was doing — casually admiring a pair of cream-coloured heels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home — when someone suddenly tapped my shoulder.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Sorry—” I spun round, clutching the shoe like a weapon, and then froze.

It was him.

Alexander.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt with a cream Ralph Lauren knitted vest over it, sleeves rolled just enough to make him look like he’d stepped straight out of some boarding-school catalogue. Honestly, with his pale hair, pale lashes, and skin that looked like it had never seen the sun, he almost… disappeared into the colour scheme. Like the shop itself had summoned him out of thin air.

Just when I was about to ask him something, Ian suddenly appeared at the end of the aisle, slightly out of breath.

“Miss,” he said, “your selections are ready.”

Then he noticed Alexander — and froze for half a second. “Good day, sir?” he greeted, straightening his posture like someone who’d just realized he was talking to royalty.

Alexander gave him a polite nod — then a subtle gesture with his hand, a silent don’t make a big deal out of this. Ian immediately caught the cue and backed off with a stiff smile.

I blinked, trying to process what just happened. But before I could ask, Ian called me again, a little too enthusiastically, “This way, Miss!”

So I turned back to Alexander, brushing off the confusion. “You can come with me, if you’re not busy,” I said, trying to sound casual but instantly regretting how it came out.

He smiled, one side of his mouth quirking up. “I’d be honored.”

We followed Ian into a private fitting room — the kind that looked more like a small suite than a boutique cubicle. There was a velvet couch, a full-length mirror framed in gold, and the faint scent of fresh roses.

Ian placed a tray on the side table: two glasses, one filled with golden bubbles, and the other a pale pink juice. He poured champagne into Alexander’s glass, then carefully filled mine with what looked like watermelon juice.

Alexander glanced between the glasses, brow furrowing. “You’re not drinking?”

I smiled awkwardly and shook my head. “I’m… not old enough yet.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” I said, taking a small sip from the pink glass to make my point. “Just juice for me.”

He chuckled softly, resting one arm on the back of the couch. “Then I guess I’ll have to drink responsibly.”

When I finally stepped out of the dressing room, everything suddenly went quiet.

The dress — a floor-length crimson Givenchy — flowed perfectly with every small move I made. My hair was pinned with tiny white-gold clips that sparkled under the lights, and the matching earrings, necklace, and bracelet made me feel like someone completely different. Not a hotel maid, not a guest… but someone who actually belonged in a place like this.

Then I looked up — and saw Alexander, looked up from a Time magazine he’d been pretending to read — and froze.

For a second, he just stared, completely blank. Then he blinked, as if trying to reboot.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice slightly cracking. “That’s… definitely not something you find at Walmart.”

I tried not to smile. “Gee, thanks. I’ll be sure to tell Givenchy you said that.”

He set the magazine down and stood, way too fast. “No, I mean—wow. You look… amazing. Like, if I were in a movie right now, this’d be the part where everything slows down and I drop my soda.”

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel my face warming. “It’s just a dress.”

“Right,” he said, still staring. “And the Mona Lisa’s just a doodle.”

That made me laugh, which seemed to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. I’m not… great at, uh, words. You kinda short-circuited my brain there.”

“Guess that makes us even,” I said, smiling before I could stop myself.

He brightened at that — a goofy, lopsided grin. “You don’t even need all that sparkle, you know. You’ve already got that… thing.”

“That thing?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, pretending to think. “You know — face, charm, general threat to my wellbeing.”

I snorted. “You’re really not bad at this for someone wearing a knitted vest.”

He looked down at himself, mock-offended. “Excuse you — this is Ralph Lauren. It’s called class.”

“Sure, Grandpa.”

He laughed, that boyish sound that instantly made everything around us lighter. And just like that, the boutique didn’t feel intimidating anymore. It felt… fun. Like maybe, for once, I actually fit in — heels, glamour, awkward American boy and all.

“You know what would look perfect with all this?” Alexander suddenly said, snapping his fingers like he’d just had an epiphany. He turned to Ian, one eyes bright behind his thin-rimmed glasses. “Ian, could you fetch the Crystal Minaudière by Judith Leiber? It should’ve arrived at the boutique this morning.”

His voice was confident — too confident — but halfway through, I noticed the flicker of panic cross his face. It was quick, like he’d realised he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

I blinked. “The what by who?”

“Judith Leiber,” he repeated, already regretting it.

I gave him a blank stare. “Sounds like a professor, not a handbag.”

That made him chuckle nervously, adjusting his glasses. The thin-framed glasses resting on his nose caught the light, showing the faint milky hue in his left eye. I’d noticed it earlier, the way he tilted his head whenever he tried to focus, squinting just a bit more with one eye. It wasn’t obvious unless you paid attention — but I was paying attention.

Ian returned a moment later carrying something that looked less like a handbag and more like a piece of jewellery. Tiny crystals sparkled under the warm light, throwing rainbows across the counter.

I actually gasped. “That’s… wow. I thought you were joking.”

Alexander grinned, proud of himself. “Told you it’d match.”

“It’s stunning,” I admitted. “But it’s just for fun, right? I mean, I’m not actually can afford to—”

Before I could finish, he was already pulling a sleek silver card from his wallet.

“Alexander!” I hissed. “You can’t just buy it!”

He tilted his head, pretending to study the clutch while handing the card to Ian. “Why not? It suits you.”

“Because it’s— it’s ridiculous! I can’t accept something like that!”

He looked up at me through his lashes, one eye a stormy blue, the other clouded and soft, like porcelain. “Then don’t think of it as accepting,” he said, voice gentle. “Think of it as… letting me have my way for once.”

I opened my mouth to argue again, but he smiled that crooked, shy smile that always seemed to short-circuit my common sense. He couldn’t quite meet my gaze — I wasn’t sure if it was because of his eyesight or his nerves — but somehow, it made the gesture feel even more genuine.

Ian awkwardly cleared his throat as he handed over the receipt. “Would you like me to have it wrapped, sir?”

Alexander shot him a quick look — subtle, but sharp.

Ian straightened immediately. “—I mean, miss,” he corrected smoothly. “Shall I have it wrapped for you, miss?”

I blinked between them, a little confused. “Um, yeah… sure.”

Alexander slipped his card back into his wallet, the motion smooth and deliberate — too steady for someone still figuring life out. “See? Perfect,” he said, voice low, almost amused.

——

Ian reappeared with a polite smile. “Everything else you’ve tried on can be packed as well. The gentleman already settled the bill,” he said smoothly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alexander blink, his brows lifting in mild surprise. Then, that small smirk appeared — the kind that looked half amused, half intrigued.
“Oh, so I have competition, huh?” he teased, tone light but his eyes glinting with curiosity.

I laughed, trying to play it off. “Maybe you do.”

Ian began folding the dress carefully into its box, and the sparkle of the Judith Leiber bag caught the light — my stomach tightened a little. What if Mr. Rickman saw it later? He’d know instantly it wasn’t from him.

Especially since Mr. Rickman had indirectly told me to stay away from Alexander.
But then I thought — why, really? What’s so wrong about it? Alexander was fun, and kind. It actually felt nice to have someone to talk to, instead of wandering around this massive hotel alone while Mr. Rickman and Miss Horton were busy with their own affairs.

It’s not a crime to have a friend, right?

Chapter Text

After all the shopping, Alexander invited me to have brunch at a café near the lobby, and I agreed.

We sat down and started ordering — finally, even if it wasn’t a real burger joint, I could at least have an authentic American hamburger, haha! Honestly, I could see Alexander looking a little surprised by my choice.

“You sure you’re not old enough to drink?” he asked, before taking a sip of his Bloody Mary.

I chuckled and shook my head. “I’m sixteen. why what about you? You don’t look that much older than me.”

He laughed lightly. “Thanks for the compliment… but I’m twenty-five. It’s actually quite an age gap — if that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me. I wouldn’t want to force a friendship on you.” He said it with his chin propped in one hand, watching me carefully.

I nearly laughed to myself. An age gap? If I thought about it, Mr. Rickman and I were thirty-three years apart. Alexander was practically my age-mate compared to that.

“It’s fine,” I blurted without thinking. “I’m way more mature than I look, you know…”
Classic teenage words — the kind that always sound a little too eager to prove themselves.

I couldn’t stop staring at Alexander’s eyes. Each blink only made me more curious — there was something so strange and beautiful about the contrast between them. But then, I realized too late that he’d caught me looking. His expression shifted — just slightly — and guilt instantly hit me like a wave. Shit. Did I just make him uncomfortable?

He cleared his throat and turned his gaze away for a moment, pretending to study the window beside us. For a moment, Alexander just blinked, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. Then he sighed, took off his glasses, and rested them beside his drink.

“You’re wondering about my eyes, aren’t you?” he said lightly, tilting his head a little. “It’s fine. Most people do.”

He leaned back in his chair, his tone casual — but his gaze, that uneven pair of blues, was calm and steady.

“My left eye’s nearly blind,” he said plainly. “Has been since I was born. You can probably guess why —” he gestured at himself with a faint grin, “— white hair, white skin, white eyelashes… yeah, I’m one of those people. The pigment decided to skip me entirely.”

He paused, swirling his drink. “Apparently, it’s a package deal — light sensitivity, bad eyesight, and the constant fear of being mistaken for a ghost in dim lighting.”

I laughed, but he didn’t. Not really. Just a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the kind that said he’d already made peace with it — or at least learned to make jokes before anyone else could.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his last sentence, shaking my head.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” I said quickly before he could think I was pitying him. “I stared because I thought you look like one of the elves from the book I read.”

That made him look up — really look up — and the corner of his mouth curved into a real smile this time.

“An elf, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, voice low, a little amused. “Though I’m guessing you mean the elegant kind from Tolkien, not the ones making toys at the North Pole?”

“Obviously,” I grinned, resting my chin on my hand. “You’re way too posh for a workshop.”

He chuckled softly, leaning closer across the table. “Good. I was starting to worry I’d have to defend my dignity with pointy shoes and a hammer.”

I burst out laughing — his jokes were as bright and tangy as fresh-squeezed orange juice in the morning. With Alexander, everything felt lighter. For a moment, I wasn’t the girl stuck between worlds; I was just me.

Then I noticed he’d gone quiet. His gaze lingered — soft, focused — and it made my stomach twist in that weird, nervous way.

“What?” I asked, half-laughing, half-defensive, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Nothing,” he murmured, smiling like he’d just caught a secret. “It’s just… you’re really pretty.”

That shut me up for a second. My heartbeat tripped over itself.

He laughed again, awkward and sweet, rubbing his neck. “I mean, I’m just… glad we met again after last night. Feels kind of like—” he hesitated, eyes flicking toward me, “—one of those strange little coincidences that only happen when the universe’s in a good mood.”

I smiled, not sure what to say back. My brain just… blanked. The last thing I wanted was for him to get the wrong idea — or worse, for me to make him get the wrong idea.

Alexander seemed to realise he’d gone a little too fast. He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and tried to steer the conversation somewhere safer.
“So… do you like fashion?” he asked, his voice a touch lighter now.

That, at least, was easy. “I do,” I said quickly, grateful for the change of topic. “I’ve always loved it, actually. I used to pay attention to what the actresses wore on TV, and I’d sneak fashion magazines into class whenever I could.” I laughed softly at the memory. “But I don’t really own much myself.”

“Really?” he tilted his head, intrigued.

I nodded. “Other than what I just got today, the only couture dresses I have are a classic Chanel and a cobalt-blue Burberry one.”

That seemed to surprise him. I could tell by the way his eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he was trying to put the puzzle together — how a girl my age, clearly not from money, was staying in a five-star hotel all by herself and shop a new pair of everything at a couture boutique.

I felt my cheeks heat up. Oh no. Too much. I’d said too much again.

“I—uh, sorry,” I stammered, forcing a small laugh. “I probably sound ridiculous.”

He smiled gently, polite enough not to press further — but I could still feel that curious look in his eyes, like he was quietly wondering who I really was.

After a while, I pushed my chair back and stood up, brushing invisible crumbs off my dress just to give my hands something to do.
“I should probably get going,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my chest felt weirdly tight.

Alexander’s eyes flicked up to me, a little startled. “Oh—already?” he asked, but his tone stayed soft, like he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable. For a second, it looked like he might say something else… but then he just smiled instead, that polite, slightly awkward kind of smile he did when he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“Right. Well—uh, it was nice hanging out,” he said finally, resting his elbows on the table.

“Yeah. It was.”

And then I left.

The walk back to my room felt longer than usual. Every step echoed with this annoying little pang of guilt in my stomach. He’d been nothing but kind—funny, even—and I’d just walked off like some ungrateful brat.
Not to mention… he’d literally bought me a four-thousand-dollar bag.

I groaned under my breath as the lift doors slid shut.
“Brilliant,” I muttered to myself. “Absolutely brilliant. Who does that? Walks off on a guy after he buys you that?”

But still, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that staying any longer would’ve been even more dangerous.

——

I texted Mr Rickman to see if he was done with his interview yet. He replied, like, five seconds later — Still in the middle of it. Don’t come in.

Ugh. Cool. So I just get to sit here alone in a five-star hotel room doing absolutely nothing.

After about ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and considering a tragic nap, I gave up and went to the spa instead. The place smelled like fancy lemons and old money, and I was finally starting to relax when my phone buzzed.

Miss Horton. Of course.

Could you pick up my gown for the Christmas Ball at La Chambre Privée? They said it’s ready.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of all the shops in this entire hotel, she wanted me to go back there? The same boutique where Alexander casually bought me a $4,000 bag like it was gum?
God must really hate me today.

Still, orders are orders. So I dragged myself back upstairs, trying to look like I had my life together.

Ian looked up the second I walked in. “Back already, miss?” he asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Apparently I’m the official errand girl now. I’m here to pick up Miss Horton’s dress for the Christmas Ball. Do you need the order number or…?”

“Yes please,” he said, flipping open his little black book like we were about to discuss stock prices.

I rummaged through my bag for the note, trying not to dump out half my life in the process, then finally found it and read the number out loud. Ian nodded and disappeared into the back room.

So there I was, alone at the counter again, tapping my fingers on the glass and pretending I didn’t care — but deep down, I was kinda hoping I’d see him again.
You know… the guy with the cream vest and the too-pretty eyes.

Ian came back a few minutes later, carrying a paper bag wrapped up all neat and fancy — definitely Miss Horton’s.
“And there’s also this, miss,” he said, slipping me a folded piece of paper like it was some kind of secret message.

“Uh… thanks?” I took it, raising an eyebrow. He just smiled politely, like he knew exactly what was written on it.

I didn’t think much of it until I stepped out of the boutique. Then curiosity got the better of me. I unfolded the paper — just a phone number, written in tidy handwriting.

…Of course.

Before my brain could tell me to not be stupid, my hands were already flipping open my phone and dialing the number.

It rang once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?”
The voice was warm, familiar — and way too fast for me to pretend it was an accident.

“Alexander?” I blurted out, already regretting it.

There was a short, almost relieved laugh on the other side. “Wow, I didn’t think you’d actually call this soon.”
Then his tone softened. “Listen, I… wanted to say sorry if I said something weird earlier. You kinda left out of nowhere, and I just— I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

That caught me off guard. “Oh. Um… no, it’s fine.”

“Good,” he said quickly, almost like he’d been holding his breath. “Because the last thing I want is to come off like a creep.”

I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “Well, calling me through Ian kinda makes you sound like one.”

He laughed. “Yeah, fair. But to be clear — I didn’t call you, I just… left an opportunity.”

“That’s even creepier,” I said, grinning despite myself.

“Okay, ouch. I deserved that,” he chuckled. “But seriously, I didn’t mean anything bad. I just thought— you’re interesting, and I’d like to know you better. No judgment, no pressure.”

“Mm-hm. You’re way too nosy, you know that?”

“Guilty,” he said instantly. “But I’ll be on my best behaviour. Please don’t hang up, okay? I’ll die if you do.”

I snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, voice dropping a little, almost teasing, “but you’re still on the line, aren’t you?”

And damn it — he was right.

“Um… I get it, you probably wanted to talk,” I said, trying not to sound too flustered. “But I really have to go, I’m kinda busy right now.”

There was a tiny pause on the other end before Alexander answered, his voice a little softer this time. “Oh. Yeah… sure, of course. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me!” I said quickly, then instantly regretted how defensive I sounded. “It’s just—ugh, I’ll explain later, okay?”

He let out a short laugh, though it sounded more like he was trying to hide his disappointment. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Bye, Alexander.”

“Bye…” he said, his tone gentle — the kind that somehow made me feel both guilty and weirdly warm inside.

I ended the call and sighed, staring at my flip phone for a second.
Why did his voice sound like that?
And why did I suddenly feel bad for hanging up?

——
 

The next morning, I woke up late. My eyes felt heavy, and as I rubbed them, I realised Mr. Rickman was right there beside me. Breathing. Warm. Real.
Not a dream.

My cheeks went hot instantly as flashes of last night hit me like fireworks. All the madness, all the heat—everything.
I swear I saw his eyes flutter open for a second, but instead of saying anything, he just pulled me closer into his chest, burying me in his arms.

God. I must be dead. I must be in heaven. Because there’s no way this is real.

Last night, for the first time, I felt like I was his—not a secret, not a shadow, not something to hide. Just me. Just him. For one night, at least, I got to be the only woman in his world.

I stared at his face a little closer, tracing every detail like a secret map only I was allowed to see—
the small creases at the corners of his eyes,
that big, unmistakable nose,
the heart-shaped lips that always manage to undo me without even trying.

I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried, my eyes kept wandering over him, and at one point I caught myself trying to count his eyelashes, like if I memorised them all, I could keep him longer.

I wanted this moment to last forever.
But Miss Horton would be back soon for the Christmas Ball.
And when she returned, my time as Mr. Rickman’s would be over—just like that.

——

Mr. Rickman was still in the bathroom when my phone buzzed — a text from Alexander.

“Are you busy tonight? Wanna walk around and see the snow? It’s kinda magical here.”

Oh, great. A date invite.Exactly what I don’t need right now.

Because obviously, I already have one emotionally unavailable British actor in my life, I don’t need to start collecting them.

Still, I just stared at the text for way too long.If we’re being honest… Alexander is different. He’s not exactly my type — too polite, too nerdy, too put-together for someone who probably forgets to blink when reading a book. But he’s… interesting.

well, he’s different. From the way he looks alone, he’s like something rare, a limited-edition piece you’d never find twice. He’s kind, funny, and clearly loaded — just look at his hotel suite, and the way he bought me that designer bag like it was a soda from a vending machine.

But still… he’s no Mr. Rickman. I know that.

I finally stepped out of the room to call him — because texting felt too cold. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey! So—tonight? You free?” His voice was bright, too hopeful.

I exhaled slowly. Shit. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Oh, um… tonight? I don’t think I can. I’m… uh… busy?” God, I didn’t even have an excuse. Mr. Rickman and Miss Horton would be at the Christmas Ball, which basically meant I’d be free anyway.

“How about the day after christmas?”

“hmm, no… I’m really busy okay..”

“With what? Avoiding me?”

“Wha—no! I just—”

“Be honest. Is it because of my appearance? Do you think I look weird after all?”

“Hey! Don’t say that! Of course not,” I cut in, too quickly.

“Then why?” He paused for a second. “Oh… I get it. You’re young and very beautiful. unpolished diamond kind of girl, I’m sure I’m not the only one trying to get your attention. I’m fine with it, but… Do you think I’m not worth it compared to the gentleman who bought you things yesterday?”

I froze, throat dry. Because damn it, he wasn’t wrong.

Alexander sighed softly on the other end. “Sorry, I’ve gone too far. I just… I don’t know. You make me feel like I did something wrong. But if I did, tell me, and I’ll fix it. Just… let me take you out once. One walk. If it’s terrible, I’ll never bother you again.”

Ugh. Why did he have to sound so nice while guilt-tripping me?

“Fine,” I blurted. “Lobby. Six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty.” He repeated it like he’d just won a prize on a game show.

I hung up and leaned against the wall, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
God, what am I doing?

If Mr. Rickman ever found out, he’d be furious.
But then again… Mr. Rickman isn’t exactly mine to begin with, is he?

****

I heard the door open and panic hit me like a full-body alarm.
Reflexively, I shoved my phone behind my back, praying Mr. Rickman wouldn’t get suspicious.

“What are you doing out here, love?” he asked, voice still low and velvety, wearing nothing but that oversized bathrobe.
Before I could even answer, he scooped me up from the floor and carried me back inside like nothing had happened.

But then his eyes flicked toward my hand — the one holding the phone — and yep, of course, he looked suspicious.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked, calm but sharp enough to slice through my nerves.

“No one…” I blurted out way too fast.
Perfect. Totally convincing. (Not.)

He sighed — not angry, just… disappointed. Which was somehow a thousand times worse.
“I’ve ordered breakfast,” he said quietly. “It should be here any minute. Wanna cuddle while we wait?”

I nodded, because what else could I possibly do?
I set my phone down on the table and followed him to the bed.
He pulled me close, his arms heavy and warm around me. His hand slid through my hair, his eyes soft — too soft — like he could see every thought I was trying to bury.

He smelled clean, freshly showered, like soap and comfort.
And God, that warmth. It felt too good.
Too safe.

He leaned in and kissed me. Slow. Passionate. Unhurried.
I didn’t move — just let it happen — too afraid to search for meaning in something that would only make my chest tighten even more than how I strangely feel right now.
but somehow I can feel my eyes started to water, and a drop of it fall right into his cheeks.

I didn’t even know why I was crying.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe fear.
Or maybe because I’d finally realized… I’d fallen in love with someone I could never actually have but too scared to walk away.

My whole body trembled. I couldn’t stop crying.
Mr. Rickman froze, then looked at me again — confused, sad, but understanding all at once.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “Maybe I’m too old to guess what’s going through your head right now, but… maybe you can try telling me?”
His voice was so gentle. No judgment, no anger — and somehow that made it worse.

Because how could I explain that the kinder he was, the more it hurt?
I hated how much I loved him.
And if only he were a little cruel, maybe… maybe I could stop.

“Alan…” I whispered — and honestly, I couldn’t believe I actually said it. His name. Just like that.

His eyes widened, like the sound of it caught him off guard.

“Yes, my love?” he answered quietly, that low, patient tone of his wrapping around the room like warmth. I could see a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Please don’t be mad at me…” I started, voice shaky as I reached up to touch his face. “I swear I tried to be normal about all this, but I just— I can’t lie anymore. I… I think I’m in love.”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable — too calm, too adult. “With the young man who’s taking you out tonight?” he said with a smile — apparently he’d heard everything on the phone. Yet somehow, his eyes looked relieved.

“No!!” I whined, my cheeks burning so hard it almost hurt. “I… I’m in love with you, okay?? You… Alan Rickman…”

The world went silent.

“I’m sorry.”

he leaned forward and kissed me once again , slow, gentle, like he was trying to ease the tremor in my chest.
When he pulled back, he looked straight into my eyes. “Why on earth,” he said quietly, “would you apologize for something so honest?”

“because no matter how honest I am, there’s nothing you can do about it…”

“Oh darling,” he chuckled, “are you sure? Are you certain you love an old man like me, and not just for the money?”

I nodded, feeling a little annoyed that he spoke so lowly of himself.

“Then I’ll absolutely do something about it,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheeks again and again until he reached my neck. “Don’t cry, my little bunny.”

What was that supposed to mean? I couldn’t tell. There was no “I love you too,” no reassurance, nothing. But then—what on earth is he doing, holding me like this?

He pulls me close again, his hand lost somewhere in my hair, his lips brushing mine like he’s trying to say everything he didn’t put into words. I can’t think, can’t breathe—so I just let myself believe him, even if I don’t really understand.

A soft knock on the door breaks the silence.
“Room service,” a man’s voice calls politely from the other side.

“Come in,” Mr Rickman says, without even looking up, his voice calm as ever—then his lips find mine again, slower this time, like he’s daring the world to interrupt.

The hotel staff steps inside with the breakfast trolley. His eyes go wide for half a second before he looks away, pretending not to see anything. I don’t blame him. It must look… strange—this famous actor making out with a girl half his size, tangled up in his arms.

At last, Mr Rickman lets me go, just enough for me to catch my breath. He reaches over to the bedside table, picks up his wallet, and flips through it.
“Ah,” he mutters, half to himself. “I’m out of dollars. You don’t mind pounds, do you?”

He slips a few crisp notes into the waiter’s hand with that effortless grace of his. The staff mumbles a thank-you and hurries out, leaving us alone again.

And suddenly, the room feels too quiet, too warm, and my heart’s beating far too loud for comfort.

****

Not long after, Mr. Rickman sat by the side of the bed, me sitting on his lap. I could feel the hard length of him deep inside me as I attempted to take a bite from the croissant from the tray. One hand reached around to grip my hip from behind, while the other was occupied with his phone, likely work-related. I could just make out the occasional murmur or groan behind my ear.

A few times, his lips brushed the back of my neck, prompting him to ask me to feed him a bite of the flaky pastry. The sensation was odd, a bit disorienting for me. I... didn't know, couldn't quite wrap my head around the idea that sex could be this relaxed, this casual.

As we shared a lazy breakfast, Mr. Rickman's hand never stopped moving. It would glide up my side, tracing the curve of my waist, before dipping back down to cup my hip and give it a gentle squeeze. The slow, rhythmic bouncing continued, his member stirring within me with each subtle roll of his hips.

I squirmed, trying to focus on my croissant and tea, but the persistent sensation was maddening. I let out a whimper,and I can hear mr rickman chuckled softly as he balanced his rhythm.

“You feeling good?” Mr Rickman whispered softly against my ear.

“Mhmm…” I nodded simply, “Mr Rickma—”

“Eh? What happened to calling me Alan?” he chuckled, carrying on as if teasing me was second nature.

“Uh… Alan…” I stammered, cheeks warm, “if you knew I was going out with a guy tonight, why didn’t you stop me?” I asked, shyly glancing at him.

“Why would I stop you? Were you actually interested in him?” he replied with one eyebrow up, but calm, adjusting my position on his lap as if this was the most casual conversation in the world. He reached for his cup of coffee and took a slow sip.

“I… don’t even know him,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling very small. “not that much.”

“Tell me about him later okay..” he answered as he covered my waist entirely with both of his hands, bouncing me faster, making me squirm.

Chapter Text

CHRISTMAS NIGHT 

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*
*

It was four in the afternoon when I finally finished getting ready. I couldn’t believe myself — here I was, preparing for a date when I’d just spent the entire day with another man.

Mr Rickman had already gone back to his own room; Miss Horton should be returning any minute now. I’d laid out her gown, shoes, bag, and jewellery neatly on the bed — her things, her world, her spotlight. Even if I’d spent the morning letting her man fucked my sense out, I still had a job to do.

I slipped into the cobalt blue Burberry dress I’d planned for tonight, staring at my reflection for a moment, trying to figure out how to do my makeup and hair.

By 5:35, my makeup was done. I studied myself in the vanity mirror, searching for flaws I probably made up in my head. I chuckled softly — amazed how this same face had somehow landed me in the middle of such a glamorous, ridiculous mess.

I yawned, exhaustion creeping in after getting pounded the whole morning, honestly, I don’t know where all those Mr Rickman’s energy came from. But what could I do? I’d already promised Alexander.

Then suddenly, my phone rang. Miss Horton.

“Hello, Miss Horton?” I answered politely, though lately, I didn’t know why, I’d started to dislike her more and more.

“Ah— this is bad! Why can’t I reach Alan?” she sounded anxious on the other end.

“Mr Rickman might be in the shower,” I guessed. “Would you like me to go knock?”

I heard her take a shaky breath. “Listen… tell Alan I’m stuck in a snowstorm. I had to stop at a motel for the night.” Another sigh. “Cancel all my appointments for today and tomorrow. I’ll call again once I can get moving. I’ll try ringing Alan once more in the meantime.”

“Alright then, I hope the storm clears soon. Take care of yourself, Miss Horton,” I said softly — almost whispering. At that point, it felt like some devil inside me wanted to pray for something bad to happen to her.
But then again, I knew that if it did, Mr Rickman would be far too broken in his grief to ever love me back anyway.
So what’s the point?

The call ended, and I turned back to the mirror, reapplying my lipstick — one last coat, for extra protection, in case I’d have to work hard tonight.

By six, I knocked on Mr Rickman’s door. He opened it rather quickly. His hair was already combed neatly, and he wore a brand-new suit with the tie I’d helped him pick before the trip to America.

He didn’t say a word, just opened the door wider. His phone was pressed to his ear — clearly Miss Horton was on the other line.

I sat quietly on the edge of the bed, waiting to talk about something we both already knew was coming. I could see the worry carved into his face as he paced back and forth across the room.

“Alright, so you’re sure you’re settled at the motel?” he spoke into the phone. “Good… I’m glad you’re safe… yes… of course, darling…”

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. Honestly, if I were the one stuck in a snowstorm, would he sound that worried? I doubt it.

When he finally hung up, his lips curled into that classic pout — the one he always did when he was thinking. The nervous tapping of his loafers matched his dramatic posture.

Then, he turned to me.
“Change of plans,” he said, his tone firm and final. “You’re coming with me to the ball.”

“Excuse me, Mr Rickman—what?? I’m literally about to go on a date in ten minutes!” I protested. “I can’t just—go to a ball with you!”

But of course, Mr Rickman didn’t listen to a single word. He grabbed the suitcase sitting on the bed and pulled it toward him. It was a medium-sized black case with golden trims, the label on it reading: For Alan Rickman, from Arnon Milchan.

I was irritated, but come on — who wouldn’t be curious about something like that? “What’s that?” I asked, trying to sound unimpressed but failing miserably.

“An invitation,” he replied, unlocking the case with a code. Inside lay two masks — one maroon, one navy — made of luxurious velvet, adorned with crystals and feathers. The kind of masks nobles used to wear to King Henry’s wild royal parties.

Mr. Rickman picked up the maroon mask and held it out to me.
“Change your clothes into something appropriate for the ball.”

My head was about to explode. Unbelievable. He wasn’t listening to me at all. Meanwhile, Alexander was probably already waiting downstairs.

“Mr. Rickman…” I hissed under my breath, trying to keep my voice steady.

I looked up at him, trying to catch his eyes. His hand stayed right there, the mask hanging between us like some kind of test. His face was calm—too calm—but there was something else beneath it. Something stubborn. Possessive.
And I swear to God, that look screamed, “If you love me, you’ll choose me.”

And I wasn’t imagining it. Not this time.

I froze, completely still. My hand was hanging midair, that maroon mask only inches from my fingers.

Why does everything have to be this complicated?
Why did he have to say it like that—like it’s some kind of test I’m bound to fail?

I know what I’m supposed to do. I should go downstairs now, meet Alexander, pretend this morning never happened. I’m just his assistant… maybe his mistress. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m the secret he hides behind closed doors, not the woman he brings to a bloody Christmas ball.

But then… he’s standing there, so calm, so sure of himself—like he knows I’ll give in. Like he expects me to.
And the worst part? A stupid, pathetic part of me actually wants to.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just walk away?
Alexander is probably waiting in the lobby right now, all excited like an actual decent man, and here I am—still staring at the one who can ruin me completely… and make me want to be ruined by him.

At first, I didn’t move. Then, almost against my own will, I reached out and took the mask. My fingers trembled slightly as our eyes met.

He gave me that tiny, knowing smile—the one that always made me feel like he’d already won. Then he raised an eyebrow, smug and calm as ever, the moment the mask slipped from his hand into mine.

“Good girl,” he said casually, that golden retriever smile returning as if we hadn’t just had a silent war two seconds ago.

I glared at him, half-annoyed, half–completely melting.

“Now,” he said, holding out his hand expectantly, “your phone, please.”

I blinked. “My phone? What—why?”

“It’s a no-phone party, okay?” he replied, tone maddeningly calm. “You know how it is—certain rules for certain kinds of people. High society doesn’t like distractions.”

I stared at him like he’d just asked for my kidney. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He just smiled wider. “Nope. Hand it over.”

I rolled my eyes and sighed in pure annoyance before shoving my phone into Mr Rickman’s hand. Without another word, I spun on my heel and stormed out the door.

“Oh, come on, love… the party’s going to be fun!” he called after me.

Yeah, right. Fun. Honestly? I couldn’t care less.

The second I got back to my room, I wanted to scream — like really scream — but there was no time for that. I had exactly twenty minutes to look like someone who actually belonged at a high-society Christmas ball. So I tore open every single paper bag Ian had packed for me the other day.

Out came the red silk dress, the red-bottom heels, and all the sparkling jewellery that looked like they could pay off someone’s mortgage. I slipped into them one by one — carefully, even though I was fuming. Because, well, it wasn’t Givenchy or Louboutin’s fault that Mr Rickman decided to act like a controlling nightmare tonight, right?

Not that I didn’t want to go with him. Are you kidding me? The thought of being seen in his arms, my tiny frame wrapped in red silk and diamonds, made my heart flutter like mad. Just imagine it — me, glowing beside Alan bloody Rickman.

Okay, fine. Maybe I was still mad… but he honestly looked unfairly handsome earlier, so I guess I could forgive him. For now.    

****

Mr Rickman guided me into the lift, his hand resting gently on my back. Inside, there was only one other man — some businessman type, completely absorbed in checking his pager like it was a matter of national security.

I had my mask on already, the maroon velvet sitting perfectly against my face, while Mr Rickman simply held his in one hand. He looked at me then — really looked — and smiled. His eyes lit up like a student who’d just aced his maths exam.

“You look… perfect. Absolutely stunning, let’s say I have a good taste in fashion and girls.” he said jokingly, all calm and confident, but just like that, another layer of blush spread across my cheeks.

I tilted my head up to look at him — and honestly, if I weren’t already emotionally scrambled, I might’ve melted on the spot. God must’ve created Alan Rickman as a cosmic apology for inventing useless men like my father. I mean, look at him. Those perfect features, that soft, neat hair, that tall, solid build… and let’s not even talk about his bank account.

Before I knew it, the lift doors slid open with a ding, and we stepped out. Only about twenty metres stood between us and the entrance to the ballroom. And that’s when my stomach started twisting itself into a pretzel. Because — oh, brilliant — I suddenly remembered that Alexander was supposed to be waiting for me in the lobby. Which, of course, was right next to the bloody ballroom.

Mr Rickman must’ve mistaken my nerves for stage fright, because he slipped his hand around my waist and pulled me closer. Sweet gesture, sure, but not helpful right now.

I tried to subtly hide behind the other guests heading in the same direction, but what was I supposed to do? Crawl across the marble floor like a secret agent? He’d think I’d lost my mind.

And then… I saw him.

Alexander. Standing near the reception desk, talking to the concierge. His hair slicked neatly back, that really deep green suit fitting him perfectly, with a brown knitted vest and a maroon tie — not red, not fuchsia, maroon. My chest tightened.

He looked… restless. His eyes flicked to the Cartier Tank Française on his wrist, then around the lobby. And then — of course — his gaze found mine, straight through the crowd, straight through the mask.

His mismatched eyes met mine.

I turned away quickly, walking faster—almost too fast—forcing Mr Rickman to match my pace.

The press stood in a perfect line outside the ballroom, separated from the guests by a velvet rope. Their hands clutched cameras fitted with every kind of lens imaginable, snapping relentlessly, scavenging for the moment — the headline shot from what was clearly the party of the year.

No IDs, no room numbers — the masks themselves were our invitations, the key that separated guests from intruders. They do check us for mobile and any kind of cameras, it’s not allowed inside, apparently everything inside is ”private”. And just like that, we were in.

The moment I stepped inside, I forgot how to breathe.

The ballroom was beyond magnificent — the kind of place that made you feel poor just by existing in it. Everything shimmered under the soft golden glow of crystal chandeliers the size of carriages, hanging from a domed ceiling painted with cherubs and swirling clouds. Garlands of evergreen and white roses cascaded down the pillars, intertwined with strands of fairy lights that flickered like stars caught in silk.

The air smelled of champagne and winter florals — faint notes of pine, vanilla, and something expensive I couldn’t even name. A grand orchestra played near the stage, their music sweeping through the room like velvet wind. The marble floor gleamed, reflecting every sparkle of jewelry and sequin in sight.

Men in tailored tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns glided across the room, laughter mingling with the soft clinking of crystal glasses. Near the far end stood an enormous Christmas tree — no, not a tree, but a monument — towering almost to the ceiling, covered in white feathers, gold ornaments, and ribbons that shimmered like liquid light.

And then, there was them. The faces that looked like they belonged on billboards or magazine covers — probably because they did. I recognized a few, even behind their masks. The award-winning actress whose perfume ads were everywhere. The producer who owned half of Hollywood. A supermodel with legs that didn’t seem to end. Their presence made the room hum differently — like fame itself was an invisible perfume.

Mr Rickman’s left hand remained securely at my waist, a silent claim, while his right one moved effortlessly from handshake to handshake, exchanging polite greetings with the elite. A waiter passed before us with a silver tray, the glasses of champagne catching the light like liquid gold.

Mr Rickman reached out and took one glass, bringing it to his lips for a measured sip. Then his gaze shifted to me — quietly observant, as always, as if reading the temperature of my mood before speaking.
“Would you like to try mine? Just a little,” he said, offering me the glass.

He should’ve guessed I’d end up draining it. And honestly? Maybe I needed to. After everything that happened today, I deserved a little buzz — something to untie the knot tightening in my shoulders.

I tilted my head back and finished the drink in one go, the fizz burning lightly down my throat.

Mr Rickman’s lips twitched into that half-scolding frown of his. “I said just a taste. You’re going to get sick,” he murmured in quiet disapproval.

I shook my head, setting the empty glass on a passing tray. “I need to get more of this,” I said simply, stepping away from him and into the swirl of the party.

Behind me, his voice followed — calm, resigned, yet unmistakably protective.
“At least eat something first…” he sighed, and I could almost hear the unspoken please that he didn’t let slip.

Alright, fine — maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen to Mr Rickman for once.

I made my way to the buffet table and picked up a single macaron, biting into it as my eyes wandered over the lavish spread before me. There were dishes I couldn’t even name — towers of seafood glistening on ice, delicate hors d’oeuvres arranged like art, golden pastries dusted with edible shimmer. The sheer abundance felt almost unreal.

As I chewed, I glanced around — and then it hit me.

The quiet, warm life I’d known at Mr Rickman’s house wasn’t this. It was peaceful, grounded, intimate — but this world? This was something entirely different.

This was America — loud, glittering, restless. The so-called land of dreams, where people measured worth in diamonds and influence. The men and women here weren’t just attending a Christmas party; they were playing a game. Every laugh, every toast, every “so good to see you” carried the weight of business deals, power exchanges, and whispered secrets behind the pulse of the music.

They smiled too wide, laughed too easily — at jokes they didn’t find funny, with people whose names they probably wouldn’t remember by tomorrow.

And I stood there, almost too fancy for someone who still compared prices on cereal boxes, feeling the irony sting at the back of my throat. Because somewhere deep down, I was still part of that other world — the one that clipped coupons and waited for Christmas discounts at the supermarket instead of invitations to Christmas galas like this.

Just when my nerves were about to eat me alive, someone touched my shoulder — gently — and then pressed a kiss right there, on my bare skin.

The scent coming from the dirty-blonde hair hit me instantly — cedarwood, vetiver, and something warm that could only ever belong to him. Mr Rickman.

He moved around to face me, his fingers tracing down from my upper arm until they found my hand. He held it, squeezed lightly, then lifted it to his lips for a kiss.

And when our eyes met — even behind that ridiculous mask — the whole world seemed to stop. Everyone around us turned blurry, like a film playing in slow motion, as the music shifted into something soft and slow.

He guided me into the middle of the ballroom, and I caught sight of a few other couples joining us. Their gowns shimmered under the chandeliers, their laughter blending with the violins.

And that’s when I remembered the one tiny, tragic detail about me: I can’t dance. At all.

“Relax,” he whispered, smiling behind that stupidly elegant mask of his. “It’s just a dance.”

Just a dance? Tell that to my poor feet. Because apparently my brain forgot how walking works the second he took my hand.

The music started, graceful and slow — and then ouch. My heel landed squarely on his shoe. I froze, mortified.

“Oh God, sorry! I swear I can walk, I’m just—”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “It’s alright, remember our little practice a long time ago? Breathe… follow my lead. No one here dares judge you.”

Easy for him to say. He looked like the definition of grace — tall, poised, effortlessly confident — while I was basically a frantic flamingo in heels. But somehow, step by step, the rhythm started to make sense. His hand on my back guided me, firm but gentle, until the chaos in my head melted into the soft waltz playing around us.

It was… perfect. Too perfect. The kind of moment you know will ruin every other man for you.

We were dancing. Properly. Effortlessly. Like we’d done this a thousand times.

The chandeliers flickered above us as he spun me, my red dress fanning out like something straight out of a fairytale. I laughed — an actual laugh, not the fake polite kind — and his smile softened in return.

As the final note of the song trembled through the air, he pulled me closer.

Then, before I could even process what was happening, he kissed me.

Not a quick kiss. Not gentle either. It was deep — slow — like he wanted to tell the whole bloody room something without saying a word.

For a moment, everything just… vanished. The crowd, the noise—

I might’ve run out of words.
It felt like winning a Nobel Prize or something—like, every feeling I’d ever had for him had just been returned without a single word spoken.
Cinderella had just been kissed by her Prince Charming in front of everyone at the ball. Only… this Prince Charming was thirty-three years older and had been living with his girlfriend for over a decade.
Ironic, yes—but I’ll take anything I can get for now.

And then out of nowhere— FLASH.

A burst of white light hit us. Cameras. Paparazzi under cover accidentally turned his flash on, then running away before the security can get him.

I froze. Oh God. How did he get in???

But Mr Rickman didn’t care. He didn’t even stop. He just kept kissing me, like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

When he finally pulled away, my head spun so fast I nearly forgot where I was. The taste of champagne still lingered on my lips — along with the terrifying, beautiful idea that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way.

But as I turned slightly, still dazed, my gaze caught something by the entrance.

Alexander.

Standing there, perfectly still.

Alexander looked at me — shocked, disbelief— then turned around and walked straight out of the ballroom.

When I turned back, Mr. Rickman was already speaking to another guest, his face calm as ever.
After thinking for what felt like forever, I decided to slip away quietly, chasing after Alexander, praying he hadn’t gone too far.

Outside, I spotted him behind the reception counter — right next to the hotel’s receptionist, who was busy typing something on her computer. Alexander’s elbow rested on the desk, his hand supporting his head, his eyes blank, staring into nothing.

My knees trembled. Guilt flooded in so fast it almost made me dizzy. And even though I couldn’t quite figure out what on earth he was doing behind the counter, I forced myself to approach.

I took off my mask before speaking.
“A… Alexander…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He turned his face away.

“I’m sorry… I—”

He took off his glasses, rubbing his face with both hands, as if trying to stop himself from saying something he’d regret.

“I didn’t mean to—” I added weakly, almost pleading.

Finally, he looked back at me. His expression was unreadable. Cold.
He didn’t say a single word.

We stayed like that for over five minutes.
Five long, unbearable minutes of silence. My chest tightened; I felt like screaming.

Then the phone on the counter rang.

Alexander picked it up lazily, and I blinked, confused. Was he… working here?

“Good evening, Calix Royale Hotel. How may I help you?”

He paused for a moment, eyes widening slightly — then pressed the speaker button.

The voice that came through froze my blood.
It was Miss Horton.

“I repeat… This is Rima Horton, staying in Room 304 under the name Alan Rickman. I apologize for the inconvenience, but since phones aren’t allowed for the party in the ballroom, I haven’t been able to reach my partner. My maid seems unreachable as well.”

Panic hit me like a slap.
Alexander had every reason to be angry — and now, he had the perfect chance to expose everything.

But his voice remained calm. Polite, even.
“Of course, Madam. May I ask which room your maid is staying in? I can call her for you.”

“Oh, brilliant idea. Yes — she’s in Room 307, it’s under my name. Rima Horton.”

Alexander looked at me then — really looked.
His eyes said something I couldn’t quite read. He blinked a few times, exhaled slowly.

Alright. This was it. I braced myself.
In seconds, everything was about to collapse.

But then his tone changed — warmer, almost friendly.
“Ah, I see — she’s your maid, Madam? My apologies. She’s actually here with me. We’ve… been hanging out for the past few days. I hope it’s okay.”

“Huh? I’m sorry, who is this?” Miss Horton sounded confused.

“Ah, where’s my manners—my name is Alexander Saint-Calix, Madam. Son of Philip Saint-Calix,” he said smoothly, voice calm and polished, like he was born to handle power. “I’m currently assisting at the reception desk. Would you like to speak to your maid now?”

“Ahhh… Philip’s son! Of course. Please thank your father for hosting us so wonderfully. Anyway, yes… could you hand the phone to my maid now?” Miss Horton replied, her tone suddenly lighter—almost pleased.

Wait. Philip Saint-Calix?
Why did that name sound so familiar?
No—why did it sound like… this hotel?

My mind froze.

Hold on. Calix Royale Hotels.

Oh. My. God.

I’d spent days… days… hanging out with the son of the man who literally owns this hotel?
And I just ditched him to attend a party with my boss-slash-lover-slash-disaster?

I. Am. So. Dead.

Miss Horton kept talking, something about she’s really tired and needs to sleep, but she should tell me about opera tickets from Lincoln Center, how she wanted me to queue up early tomorrow because they’d sell out by noon. I just nodded and murmured, “Yes, Miss Horton,” my brain completely on autopilot.

When the call finally ended, silence fell between us like a curtain.
Alexander didn’t look at me right away, but the tension in the air was thick enough to slice through.

My knees were shaking—not because Louboutin can’t make comfortable shoes.
I already know beauty is pain, and I don’t blame him for that.
I was trembling because… holy hell, I’ve just pissed off a Saint-Calix.

He’s not just some random rich guy staying at the hotel.
He’s the son of the hotel’s owner—a chain by the way, mind you—his family probably three times richer than Mr Rickman.
And with that kind of money… making someone disappear would be easier than ordering a martini.

“So…” His voice cut through the quiet like a hammer to glass. “Alan Rickman, huh?”

It was calm. Controlled.
Which somehow made it worse.

I looked up at him, my heart pounding so loud it hurt.
“Alexander… I’m sorr—”

“Don’t.” His tone was sharp but low. “Don’t say anything. I’m too upset to hear anything from you right now.”

He stepped away from the counter, the faint sound of his shoes echoing against the marble floor.

“We’ll talk,” he said, not even glancing back. “When I take you to get those stupid opera tickets for your boss tomorrow.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving me standing in the lobby, mask in hand, trembling under the hotel’s bright lights, realizing I might’ve just ruined everything I didn’t even know I wanted. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry, laugh, or just disappear into the nearest elevator shaft.

ps: Alexander was inspired from my cat 😉

AI generated picture of Alexander according from the story

Picture of my kitten

Chapter Text

I actually don’t want to give you too much detail about the girl appearance. I want you to picture it on your own,

how you want the MC to look like, what’s her name, it’s all up to you ❤️

Again it’s only my mood board 🥰

****

Mood setting playlist to listen on spotify:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0MFuCrOwGW2CNQTDFqO0Ej?si=J7gUfJisT9GXGfaPrdQ9aw&pi=EF45QJ4ZRd-Fo

Chapter Text

I almost went after Alexander, but then I heard Mr Rickman calling my name.
I turned around and saw him standing by the ballroom entrance, a glass in his hand, waving me over with that calm, magnetic confidence of his.

So I walked—once again—back to him. Back to Mr Rickman.
But my heart felt uneasy, like I’d just had it cracked open.
Funny, really. Less than thirty minutes ago, I’d lived the most beautiful moment of my entire life, yet now… all I could feel was this strange, aching coldness, even though the warmth of Mr Rickman’s lips still lingered on mine.

“What are you up to with Saint-Calix boy?” Mr Rickman asked casually, taking a sip of his drink—
and I nearly choked on my own breath, realising he actually knew who Alexander was.

I hesitated, unsure whether to tell him the truth. Everything was already complicated enough, and one wrong word could make it all collapse. So instead, I said something else — something that wasn’t quite a lie.

“Miss Horton called earlier. Mr Saint-Calix only handed me the phone. It was… about work for tomorrow,” I replied, trying to sound as convincing as I could.

“Ah… and when’s Rima planning to return?”
His hand found its way back to my waist, gently guiding me once again into the golden glow of the Hollywood dream party.

“Tomorrow… probably,” I murmured.

⸻

I’d been at the party for almost an hour now, playing the part of Mr Rickman’s pretty little trophy — the one he kept close while he chatted with all these important people I couldn’t name but instinctively knew mattered.

Eventually, I managed to slip away from his arm and escape to the private restroom connected to the ballroom.

The music softened. The crowd noise faded. Finally, I could breathe.

I took off my mask and dug into the tiny red purse Cassy had given me for my birthday last year. The powder inside wasn’t anything fancy, but under the ballroom lights it looked almost expensive — though honestly, I kind of regretted not using the one Alexander gave me.

I touched up my makeup, hoping the blush and mascara might make me look a little more elegant, more grown-up — someone who actually belonged here, not a schoolgirl still struggling through calculus.

One of the stall doors opened, and out stepped a face I instantly recognised — Demi Moore, without her mask.

I gave her a polite smile, but she rolled her eyes, her expression dripping with disgust. And honestly? I’d had enough.

“I don’t know what your problem is, ma’am,” I said, voice steady even though my knees were shaking. “But I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve that.”

She sighed, snapped her lipstick shut, and turned to me with that sharp Hollywood poise.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” she said coolly, “it’s just grossed me, standing next to a cheap gold-digger. Especially a teenage one.”

“I’m not… a gold-digger,” I managed, my breath catching with anger.

“Oh really?” She tilted her head slightly, smiling in that cruel, graceful way only movie stars can. “Then what— a home-wrecker?”

“I love him, okay? I have a right to love someone!” I shot back, desperate to defend myself.

She laughed — a soft, scornful sound. “Oh, I’ve met girls like you more times than I can count. Pretty little street rats, just charming enough for a man twice their age. You drain a few hundred grand before they grow tired of you and move on to the next shiny thing.”

She paused, eyes glinting with pity and venom all at once. “Don’t act like you actually belong here.”

I froze there, watching as Demi walked out of the restroom, leaving me alone — bleeding quietly from the wounds her words had carved.

My chest felt tight. I hadn’t prepared myself for this — not for her, not for the way the truth could suddenly feel like a blade.

It wasn’t that I was hurt because she’d called me a gold-digger.
No… it was because a small, terrified part of me wondered if she was right.

Would Mr Rickman really leave me once he’d had enough?
Would he grow tired of me — the way men like him always seemed to tire of things that glittered only for a while?

The thought lingered in my throat like smoke, bitter and impossible to swallow.

My hands trembled so badly I could barely fasten my mask again as I stepped out of the restroom.

A gentle tap on my shoulder startled me — Mr Rickman was waiting just outside.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, laced with worry.

“I want to go back to my room,” I snapped, my voice shaking. “This whole thing is driving me insane!” My eyes were stinging; I could barely keep the tears back.

“Alright… okay,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let’s go back.”

⸻

I threw myself onto the bed the moment we returned, sobbing so hard my chest hurt. Everything I’d been holding in — all the shame, the fear, the confusion — came spilling out at once.

Mr Rickman sat on the edge of the bed, his tie undone, worry written all over his face. He brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek, his hand gentle, almost trembling.

“What happened?” he whispered. “I thought you were having fun at the ball.”

“I was…” I hiccupped between sobs, “but I don’t belong there. I’m just a maid… and you’re going to leave me soon enough.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” he sighed, almost in disbelief. “Where is this coming from? Did something happen?”

“I don’t want to tell you…” I murmured, forcing myself to stop crying — though the ache in my chest didn’t ease at all.

He helped me sit up, then crouched down in front of me. I froze a little when he started taking off my shoes — carefully, like he was handling something fragile. Then he began to rub my feet, gentle and unhurried, and for a second I thought I might actually start crying again.

“I’m sorry…” I muttered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

He looked up at me then, that calm look on his face again. “Hey,” he said softly, “calm down, yeah? I got you some water. Drink a bit.”

There was something so… normal about the way he said it. Like we weren’t in some ridiculous five-star hotel, like the world hadn’t just fallen apart an hour ago. Just me, him, and the quiet sound of the city outside the window.

*****
Christmas Morning

I woke up at six. Mr Rickman was gone, which probably meant Miss Horton had come back.

For a few seconds I just sat there, staring at the ceiling, trying to feel something other than this strange, hollow ache that had settled in my chest. Funny, isn’t it? Christmas morning — meant to be about love, warmth, family, wrapping paper everywhere — and I’m here, completely alone.

It was so quiet I could practically hear my own thoughts. And honestly? I hated that.

I slapped my cheeks lightly, trying to snap out of it. Right, get it together. Functional adult time. Or, well, at least pretending to be one.

I needed to get ready anyway — maybe ring Mum, Daniel, Cassie, Vicky… wish them Merry Christmas, pretend everything was perfectly fine.

I went to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth — and just as I started to feel half-human again, my phone rang.

Vicky. Of course. She always beats me to it.

“Heyyy, bitch! Merry Christmas!” I answered, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.

“Heyyy! Merry Christmas to you too, America girl!” she teased, and I could hear that cheeky grin in her voice.

“Oh my holy God, I missed you so much, Vicky!”

“I miss you too!” she laughed. “Did I call at the right time? I still don’t understand the time difference thing — you know my geography’s rubbish.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I literally just woke up, but who cares. I’m just so happy to hear your voice! How are you?”

“I’m good, but I think I’ve put on weight again, so diet starts tomorrow,” she groaned dramatically. “Anyway, enough small talk. Tell me about Alan Rickman! Having a good time with him, hmm?”

I don’t even know why, but my cheeks went all warm at her question. I just started giggling like an idiot, too shy to say anything.

“Oh, I see…” Vicky’s voice turned teasing, wickedly delighted. “Newlyweds, are we? I know what you’ve been up to. and anyway… I’ve been doing Phil — he’s so hot. Hahaha!”

“Philip? Your boyfriend’s best mate? You’re mad!”

“I broke up with him ages ago,” she said breezily, as if it was nothing when I literally just left a few days ago. “I’m with Philip now. Anyway— Alan Rickman, chop chop! Spill!”

“It’s… complicated, okay…” I sighed, running my fingers through my messy hair.

“Oh come on, give me the fun bits first.”

“Alright, alright, jeez…” I pressed the phone tighter against my ear, my cheeks burning. “Well, uh… I didn’t know an old man could make me feel this good.” I let out a nervous little laugh, biting my lip right after.

“Ooooo… spicy!” Vicky squealed on the other end. “Tell me everything!”

“I will never!” I said quickly, my voice high and flustered. I must’ve sounded ridiculous.

“So when are you going to ask him to leave his girlfriend?”

“Vicky— what the fuck!?” I nearly choked on my toothpaste, coughing and spluttering all over the sink.

“I mean…” she drawled, probably rolling her eyes, “sooner or later, right? Don’t you want to be serious with your precious Mr Rickman?”

I spat the foam into the sink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, pacing the bathroom like a maniac. “That’s not how it is, Vicky, I just— I can’t, okay? Not now, maybe not ever.” I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Anyway, I should probably call Daniel…”

“Wait,” she interrupted, her tone suddenly small and uneasy, “about that… maybe don’t call him.”

“What do you mean don’t call my boyfriend?” I laughed, though it came out nervous and sharp.

Vicky was quiet for a second. I could hear her breathing. “Well, yesterday… Cassie and I saw him at the mall.” Her voice shrank with every word. “He was… kissing Angel.”

My grip on the phone loosened. “He was what?” I whispered.

“I mean, no biggie, right?” she said quickly, forcing a little laugh. “You’re happier with Alan anyway…”

I didn’t even know what to feel. Shocked, of course — who wouldn’t be? Finding out your boyfriend’s been cheating on you. But then again… wasn’t I worse? The thought made me sick. I just felt empty, like someone had scooped everything out of me. Because no matter what I’d done, Daniel had always been the one normal thing in my entire messed-up life — the one person I thought I could always run back to.

I stayed quiet for a long while. Vicky kept saying my name, her voice soft through the receiver, but I hung up without saying anything. Tears rolled down again, hot and endless, and I just let them. I was so tired of holding it all together — the lies, the secrets, the guilt. America was supposed to be exciting, but all it had done was chew me up. I wanted to go home. Back to England. Though, if I was being honest, I didn’t even know what “home” meant anymore. My life was a bloody mess wherever I went.

There was a knock at the door. Probably room service with clean towels.
So I stood, trying to pull myself together — hair a disaster, eyes red and puffy, wearing nothing but a tank top and underwear. I looked like one of the Lisbon sisters straight out of The Virgin Suicides.

I cracked the door open, ready to take the towels — and froze.
It wasn’t room service.
It was Alexander. Bloody. Saint-Calix.

“Good heavens— you’re not ready?” he blurted, eyes wide with surprise, though not in a lecherous way. Just… startled.

“Ready for what?” I blinked, quickly wiping my tears and attempting to look at least half-decent.

“The theatre, remember? To queue for the tickets? Last night I said I’ll take you there.”

Oh. Right. The opera tickets.
And then it all came rushing back — last night’s chaos, the tension, the lies. No wonder he still looked slightly cross. Honestly, it was a miracle he even wanted to see my face after everything.

“Would you prefer I wait outside while you get dressed?” he asked calmly, though his voice carried that edge — the kind that said he was trying very hard not to lose his patience.

“Oh— no, it’s fine, come in,” I said quickly, stepping aside. “Sorry, I… I haven’t dressed yet.”
And God, I was embarrassed. Not because he was seeing me, but because the cheap tank top and cotton pants I had on screamed “budget supermarket,” and I could almost feel the shame crawling up my neck.

He shrugged lightly and walked in, sitting on the sofa like he owned the place — which, in some twisted way, he did.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Why are you crying?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I muttered, fumbling with my dressing gown.

He sighed — that deep, disappointed sigh only Alexander could pull off. “Girl… I’ll leave if you don’t start telling me the truth. Honestly, my self-esteem must be in ruins that I still showed up after what you pulled last night. In Christmas day too…”

His words cut sharp, calm but lethal — and I knew, right then, I was completely cornered. Checkmate.

I stayed silent, watching the young man slouched on the sofa with that ever-present look of quiet frustration. His slim frame wrapped neatly in a black cashmere turtleneck, the long Balmain winter coat draped over his shoulders — this year’s latest, of course. I couldn’t help it; I always wondered how he managed to look like he’d just stepped straight out of a fashion magazine even when he was clearly stressed out of his mind.

“Well… I didn’t expect you to actually come,” I said softly, brushing my hair with my fingers, trying to look a little less like a runaway orphan. “It’s Christmas. You should be with your family.”

“Don’t talk about mine,” he cut in sharply. “Where’s yours? Is that old actor the only family you’ve got now?”

His tone was harsher than usual, every word landing like a quiet jab. Still, I couldn’t blame him — he had every right to be angry with me.

“And don’t change the subject,” he added, his eyes fixed on me. “I asked a question. You answer it. Why were you crying?”

The room went quiet after that.
A few seconds passed, the sound of my own heartbeat louder than anything else.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, he muttered, “I hope it’s not because of me…”

“I think I just broke up with my boyfriend…” I said uncertainly, dusting powder across my face in front of the mirror.

“You broke up with Alan Rickman?” His mismatched eyes lit up for a split second — a spark of something sharp, almost amused.

“Alan Rickman is my boss.”

“Didn’t look like it when he kissed you last night,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s complicated, okay…” I exhaled, the weight of it catching in my throat.

“Of course it’s complicated. He’s practically married — and let’s be honest, he’s old enough to be your father.” Alexander shook his head, pressing his fingers against his temple as though this whole conversation gave him a headache.

I ignored him, reaching into the wardrobe for my coat and purse. “Let’s just go,” I muttered, trying to sound composed.

He gave a low scoff but followed me out of the room anyway.

“Wait—did you just say boyfriend?” he asked as we walked side by side down the corridor. “What boyfriend was that then?”

“My boyfriend from school…” I murmured, cheeks flushing as I said it.

“Oh.” Alexander gave an awkward nod. “Didn’t realise you were still in school.”

That was enough to kill the conversation. The silence that followed inside the lift was heavy — awkward, humming faintly beneath the whir of the machinery. His scent lingered between us, that cool mix of pine and mint, crisp and expensive. He glanced at me once or twice, fiddling with his glasses, pretending to check his nails, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

——

Outside the hotel, a valet was already waiting. A maroon Porsche 911 gleamed under the pale winter sun, looking like something that belonged in a glossy magazine spread rather than real life.

“Thanks, man,” Alexander said, handing over a folded bill with that easy American confidence.

I blinked at the car. Of course a Saint-Calix would drive something fancy— I just hadn’t expected this. It didn’t match his cardigan and his nerdy glasses at all. The car screamed reckless rich boy, while he always looked like the sort who spent Christmas alphabetising books.

“What are you waiting for? Hop in — it’s freezing.” He called, his breath misting in the cold. He pulled open the passenger door, impatience softened only by the faintest curl of a smile.

I nodded, sliding carefully into the seat, terrified of leaving even the tiniest scratch on that impossibly perfect leather.

****

“I’m curious,” Alexander said, finally breaking the silence as he pressed his foot on the gas.

“Hmm?” I turned my head slightly toward him.

“How serious are you with your Mr Rickman?” His voice was calm, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Considering you just broke up with your boyfriend.”

“I… don’t really know,” I answered quietly.

“Of course you don’t,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “You’re still a teenager. And he’s—well—an old man.” His brows knitted again, like the thought alone gave him a headache.

“I’m not as naïve as you think,” I shot back.

He glanced at me for half a second, like he wanted to check if I meant that. “Okay, if you say so. But still—what you two have isn’t exactly healthy.”

“It’s not like I’m asking to be his wife,” I said, though my voice trembled a little.

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all…” His tone softened, warm enough to make my stomach twist. “I mean, I get the age gap between us, so I’ve been trying not to rush anything. I thought maybe we could just be friends for a while. Maybe I could meet your dad or something—you know, try to be a gentleman.” He let out a small laugh. “Even if you end up not liking me, that’s fine. I just… I didn’t realise things with you were already this messy.”

“I’ve never met my father.”

“Oh… I see.” His voice faltered. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make it sound like that.”

There was something in his tone that made my skin crawl— I hate to see pity way more than facing anger.

——

Chapter Text

We arrived at our destination, yet the place was utterly quiet—no queue, not even a single person waiting outside.

“Of course the opera house’s closed on Christmas. Your boss is an idiot,” Alexander snorted, clearly annoyed but half-amused at the same time.

“Sorry for the trouble… we can just go back. I’ll come here again tomorrow morning,” I said, trying not to sound pathetic, though I probably did.

“No,” he replied quickly. “I can’t take you tomorrow. I’ll just have one of the hotel staff to get the tickets for you, no biggie.”
He spun the wheel to turn the car around. “I’m taking you to my house for now. Relax—my family’s there. You’ll be fine.”

“What—wait—your house? I can’t just show up like that. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“It’s just for a little while. I’ve got to show my face there—it’s Christmas, right?” he said casually, eyes still on the road. “Think of it as making up for our date.”

I let out a long sigh. Checkmate. And honestly? I was dying to make things right with him. While he looked like some harmless, well-dressed elf, but truthfully he had more than enough power to wreck what was left of my life.

Instead of taking me back to the hotel, we drove along the edge of the East River. I grew uneasy as he pulled into some strange facility built right by the water. It was deserted—maybe because it was Christmas—but it felt eerie.

The iron gate opened as soon as Alexander spoke to the guards.
And I thought, Am I meeting his family or am I about to be used as material for some illegal experiment? It was unsettling.

“Why do you look so pale? Are you cold?” he asked gently. “Sorry if the drive was boring… or if I’m boring.”

“N-no, nothing like that,” I stuttered.

“You hardly spoke to me the entire time,” he chuckled lightly. “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about Rickman, I won’t ask no more, promise.”

That only made my head spin harder. The car rolled deeper into the facility, guided into a massive garage—huge, echoing, yet strangely empty. And what made my chest tighten wasn’t the place, but the realisation that I did want to talk about Mr Rickman.

“Alexander… um…” I hesitated, staring at my hands. “Do you think… Mr Rickman and I could never really be together?”

“Well…” he grinned, almost sheepishly. “If you ask me, I’m obviously biased. I’m not going to pretend I don’t like you.”
He stepped out of the car, circling around to open my door.
“So what—you’re doubting your own relationship now?” he asked softly once the door swung open.

I stepped out of the car and reached for his hand, needing the balance more than I cared to admit. The cold air hit me like a slap, and suddenly everything inside me felt tangled—shame, guilt, longing, confusion.
It felt wrong talking about the man I loved to a boy who had just admitted he liked me.
But God, I had no one else to talk to.

“I don’t think you’d like me very much once you actually know me,” I murmured, eyes on the ground. “I’m just an ordinary girl you could pick up from the street, really. And about… relationships…” I swallowed hard. “I don’t even think I have one. You saw who I am—what I am. I’m a mistress… a girl kept on the side. He’s got a whole life, a whole relationship out in the open, while I’m tucked away in the shadows like the other woman I am.”

For a moment he didn’t say a word. He just looked at me—really looked—eyes soft, but not pitying. His hand tightened around mine, just slightly, as if steadying me.

“You know you don’t have to be the other woman, right?” he said quietly. “And yeah, I’ve only known you a short while, but I’m not stupid. You’re not some random girl I’d just bump into anywhere. You were kind to me before you even knew who I was. and You don’t ever mention how do I look so strange, you just… being you, fun to be around.”
He shook his head slightly.
“If you had a rotten heart, you wouldn’t warn me off like this.”

His gaze held mine for a second longer than felt comfortable.
“I’m not trying to make things gloomy,” he added, voice low. 

“Daniel… my ex-boyfriend from school was my only hope for a normal life, you know… normal schoolgirl things—kissing in the hallway after a maths test, that sort of picture.”
I let out a long breath, a cloud of steam drifting from my nose into the cold air as I stepped further into the empty garage with Alexander beside me.
“But only a few days after I left England, he was already cheating with someone else… I know, I know, I’m far worse than he is, so you see—this is just how selfish I am.”

“Teenage boys will be teenage boys, that’s what they do,” Alexander said gently, guiding me along. “For now, please… let me cheer you up a little. Make you smile. It is Christmas, after all.”

“Anyway you look cold, put my coat on okay.” He said as he handing me his Balmain.

I put it on with no complaints and we finally stepped outside, and I still had no idea what this place was supposed to be.
“Where are we even going? This place is giving horror-movie-first-victim vibes,” I complained, clinging to my coat like it could protect me from whatever experiments they ran here.

“I told you—we’re going to my family’s place. It’s in the Hamptons, so we’re taking a chopper,” he said, completely unfazed, as if he wasn’t casually dropping we’re taking a helicopter into the conversation like it was a bus schedule.

I tried to look chill, but honestly? My soul was halfway climbing out of my body. I’d never been on a helicopter. Ever. Not even in a school trip documentary.

There weren’t many lined up, but the one we were about to board was already being fussed over by a guard. He did some final checks, tapped a few buttons like he actually knew what they meant, then stepped back.

“All good, boss. Be safe,” the guy said, giving Alexander a shoulder-pat like they were in some action film.

“Wait—you can fly a helicopter??” I blurted, because subtlety had clearly abandoned me.

“Yeah… I guess I’ve got too much free time to learn random stuff,” he chuckled, holding his hand out to me like this was all totally normal.

Honestly, I took his hand because I wasn’t sure if I was about to enter a flying machine or a mid-life crisis disguised as one.

Alexander helped me climb in, strapped himself in like he’d done this a thousand times, and then started pushing buttons with the confidence of someone who shouldn’t have that much confidence. The rotor blades started spinning, louder and louder, and I swear my entire skeleton was vibrating. “This is totally safe, right??” I yelled over the noise. He gave me a thumbs-up instead of an answer, which absolutely did not help. Great. If I died, at least it’d be in a designer coat.

The helicopter lifted off, and my stomach decided to stay on the ground without me. The city lights shrank beneath us like we were being abducted—by capitalism. Alexander looked completely relaxed, one hand on the controls, the other casually adjusting his glasses like he was driving a Prius instead of a giant metal bug in the sky. Meanwhile, I was gripping my seatbelt like it was a holy artifact. “You’re doing amazing,” he yelled, grinning. “I’m literally just sitting here trying not to scream,” I yelled back. He laughed. I didn’t.

We started descending, and for a second I thought the helicopter was shaking because it was breaking apart mid-air—turns out it was just my legs. As the ground got closer, I saw this massive estate spread out like someone had put a small country in the Hamptons and called it a “house.” There was even a private landing pad with its own little lights, like the helicopter was a VIP guest. When we touched down, I unbuckled myself so fast I nearly flung my own arm across the cockpit. “Still alive,” I muttered. “Thriving,” Alexander corrected, smug.

He jumped out first, then held out his hand for me like we were in some kind of royal ceremony instead of a scene where I’d almost peed myself in a helicopter. And there it was—his family’s mansion. Or… fortress. Or temple. I didn’t even know. It had pillars. Actual marble pillars. And like twelve windows per wall. “This is your house?” I asked, because obviously my mouth had stopped connecting to my brain. “Well, technically my parents’,” he said with a shrug, as if we weren’t standing in front of something that looked like it should have its own national anthem. I swear I heard my self-esteem quietly pack a suitcase in the background. “Welcome to the Hamptons,” he added. Yeah. No kidding.

****

Alexander pressed the doorbell, and suddenly an entire chorus of Christmas jingles blasted through the front porch like we’d just summoned Santa himself. But instead of a uniformed butler opening the door—like, you know, what I’d mentally prepared for—there stood a guy who looked exactly like Alexander… except with normal skin tone and a tan that probably came from actual sunlight.

“Moooom! Look who finally decided to come home!” he shouted into the house, immediately abandoning us at the door like we were FedEx packages.

Alexander sighed and followed him in, so I scrambled after them before the door could slam in my face. “Oh, shut up, Adrian!” he snapped, sounding both irritated and deeply entertained at the same time. Adrian just laughed, and honestly? The resemblance was so strong I felt like I’d just met Alexander’s chaotic daytime edition.

“That’s my older brother, Adrian…” Alexander introduced casually as we stepped inside, as if Adrian hadn’t just hollered through the house like a feral Christmas elf.

We walked into the living room—and honestly? It was bigger than my entire house back in the UK. The place looked like a Christmas magazine spread: towering tree, garlands everywhere, decorations that somehow managed to be both expensive and cosy. I suddenly understood why rich people in movies always look so calm—if my living room looked like this, I’d be calm too.

“That’s Adrian’s fiancée, Lucy Chou,” Alexander continued, pointing toward a stunning Asian woman who genuinely looked like she’d walked straight off a runway. She was lounging gracefully on the sofa with other guests, so elegant I immediately felt like a crumpled Tesco bag next to her.

“And that’s my mom, Patricia—” he added, gesturing toward a woman who somehow radiated both warmth and ‘I own six companies’ energy at the same time.

“Is that youuu??” a small voice squeaked, and suddenly a tiny whirlwind of a girl came sprinting from another room. She launched herself at Alexander, wrapping both arms around his leg like a koala. “Merry Christmas!!! I missed you so, so much!” she paused, her gaze now straigt into mine, “Who’s your girlfriend, Lexy?”

I nearly choked on my own oxygen. Alexander looked like someone had unplugged his brain for a solid two seconds.

Alexander laugh nervously, I stand like statue.

“This is my niece, Beatrice,” he explained quickly, gently patting her head while shooting me the most apologetic look known to man. “She’s in sixth grade.”
Then—because apparently humiliation comes in bundles—he said my name out loud to Beatrice and, by default, to literally everyone in the room. Explaining that I’m a guest at their hotel. Then his mother’s eyebrows shot up.

“You met her at the hotel?” Patricia blinked, then clicked her tongue. “Alexander, that’s terribly rude. You shouldn’t bother our guests.”
Then she turned to me with a warm smile that somehow made me feel both welcomed and extremely aware of my cheap mascara. “But I’m happy you’re here, dear. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Alexander replied, walking over so she could give him a proper hug. 

She pulled her son into a big warm hug. “By the way, your father won’t be able to come home today,” she sighed. “So just rest upstairs for now. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”

“It’s okay, I can’t stay for dinner, maybe lunch at most.” His pale lashes fluttered more than usual—nervous tic? Allergic reaction to family love? Hard to tell.

Then, without warning, he reached for my hand—warm, steady, very Alexander—and guided me toward the stairs.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet before Betty starts planning our wedding.”

Chapter Text

LCA 19

He led me into a room that I thought would look like some sterile billionaire-mini-office situation… but no.
It was definitely his bedroom — and honestly? The vibe was nothing like I’d imagined. He actually kept his childhood things. A couple of old Pokémon figures displayed like they were priceless artefacts, stacks of fantasy novels, and an entire shelf of vinyl records. It was all… warm. Lived-in. A bit nerdy in the sweetest possible way.

“Lexy??” I teased, chuckling as I slipped out of the coat he’d lent me.

“Ah—” Alexander scrubbed the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “That’s my childhood nickname. Only Betty still calls me that… and Adrian sometimes, when he’s being an absolute clown. He’s basically a human ball of stupidity, so don’t be shocked when he’s annoying.”

“So you’re two brothers, then?” I asked as I plopped down on the sofa — yes, a whole sofa set in his bedroom, and each piece looked a hundred times nicer than the single sofa in my entire house.

“Three,” he corrected casually. “I’ve got a younger brother too. Zachary. We call him Zach.”
He reached for his phone on the side table.

“Who’re you calling?” I asked.

“The maid. Most of the staff go home for Christmas, so we’re a bit short-handed.” He leaned back, phone to his ear.
“Hello… could you bring some snacks to my room? And two hot teas. And, um… maybe a few warm towels, I’m freezing.”

He hung up and turned to me with that look — the one that said he was done answering questions.

“You’ve been asking me non-stop,” he said, amused. “Shouldn’t you start explaining who you actually are? Mysterious girl.”

“Other than a kept girl?” I snorted.

Alexander just smiled at me. Not offended. Not judging. Just… waiting.

“I’m a maid.” I shrugged, honestly not caring if he’d suddenly be disgusted and throw me out onto the street.

He burst out laughing.

I didn’t.

He stopped laughing immediately. “Wait—are you serious?”

“Yeah. I’m Mr Alan Rickman’s maid. I’m still in school, but I’m also his… kept girl.”
My voice cracked just a bit.
“And yeah… my mum knows I work for Mr Rickman, but not the part where I’m fuck someone her age.”

He didn’t say anything at first—just sat there, still enough that I started wishing the floor would crack open and let me disappear. When he finally breathed out, it was slow, deliberate, like he was sorting through a thousand questions and couldn’t decide which one deserved to be born first.

“Okay…” he said quietly. “That’s… a lot.”

“Were you hoping I’d be the usual gold digger? The kind who lives to be kept? Chasing money and luxury gifts?” I let out a small, dry laugh. “Or maybe you thought Mr Rickman picked me up from some baby-groupie crowd, when really I’m just some spoiled rich kid rebelling against her parents?”

“No…” Alexander looked nervous, almost painfully so. “Not at all. I just… sometimes don’t think things through.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to lie about how you feel around me.” I smiled, not entirely sure what emotion I was supposed to land on.

“Did he… force you into the relationship?” he asked again, voice tight, shoulders pulled in like he was bracing for impact.

I blinked, staring at my knees for a second before answering. “Hm… honestly, I don’t really remember how it all started.” My fingers twisted the hem of my sleeve, a stupid nervous habit. “But I never felt forced.”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “So… why?”
Alexander tried to meet my eyes, and he mostly succeeded—except for the part where his hands were shaking on his lap like he was holding back a dozen questions he didn’t dare voice.

“I don’t know…” I breathed out, leaning back into the sofa as if that made the confession any less pathetic. “Isn’t he handsome?” A tiny, helpless smile tugged at my lips. “He’s a gentleman. He’s always incredibly kind to me. And because he spoils me so much, I don’t even look like a maid anymore.” I gave a small shrug. “My life is… comfortable.”

Alexander’s jaw flexed. “You love him?”

My throat tightened. I hated how fast the answer came.
“Sadly, yes…” I whispered, feeling the weight of it settle on my chest—heavy, familiar, and so stupidly real.

“Are you happy?”
Alexander’s voice was softer than before—gentle in a way that made my chest tighten, like he was terrified that asking might hurt me.

“I was happy before I fell in love with him…” I answered quietly. The smile I forced felt thin, brittle. “Now the feeling… it chokes me. Sometimes it makes me sick to my stomach.”
A tiny breath of laughter escaped me—small, bitter, tired. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Something flickered in his eyes. He didn’t look away. He didn’t even breathe.

“Do I still have a bit of a chance?” he murmured. “A tiny little space in your mind where… maybe I could exist in your life?”

I didn’t think.
My body moved on its own—standing, crossing the room, drawn toward him like some desperate instinct had taken over. My heart was pounding too loudly for logic to survive.

And then I kissed him.

It was brief—just a trembling brush of my lips against his—but it still made the world tilt. He inhaled sharply; I felt the warmth of it, felt his surprise ripple through him. I waited for panic to hit me, for guilt to crawl up my throat.

It didn’t.

What washed over me instead was exhaustion. A hollow numbness that felt too familiar, too easy.
Like I’d already stopped hoping for a “right” choice.

I pulled back just enough to speak, my forehead hovering close to his, one hand clutching his shirt because my legs had started to shake.

“Just skip all the emotional parts,” I whispered, voice barely steady. “Take my body for now. And when you’re no longer curious… you can walk away. Go back to your comfortable life.”
I swallowed hard.
“That way… no one gets hurt.”

His breath stuttered—just a tiny break in his composure—but in that single sound, I felt everything he was trying to hold back. Desire. Anger. Pity. Confusion.

Alexander’s hands settled on my shoulders, firm yet trembling, and he guided me back until he was above me. His breath hitched—too quick, too warm. When he took off his glasses, his fingers shook hard enough that the frames almost slipped from his grip.

Then he kissed me.

Deeply. Fully. Like he’d been wanting to do it for years instead of days, like he’d been carrying that hunger in his bones long before he even met me.

His pale hands drifted across my sides, hesitant but yearning—tracing me as if memorizing something fragile—

—and then everything froze.

His whole body locked up.
The warmth left him.
His eyes lifted to mine, filled with confusion, conflict, and a strange kind of plea. As if he was asking me to explain a world that didn’t make sense to him, as if choosing lunch in the school cafeteria should've been my biggest problem in life.

“No…” he whispered, barely audible. “I can’t do this.”
His shoulders trembled. “I think… you’ve misread me. I’m not… just curious about you. So I can’t— I can’t treat you like this.”

“Alexander, come on,” I muttered, keeping my voice low, almost amused. “Be realistic. You’re literally rich enough to buy me off the black market. Or pay someone to kidnap me if you wanted.”

He gave a small, helpless shrug. “Maybe I am. But please—don’t talk about yourself like that.”

I laughed softly, but it wasn’t funny.
“I was having a boyfriend at school. I slept with him. And at the same time I was…” I inhaled sharply, forcing steadiness. “I was sleeping with my boss. Regularly. Behind his wife’s back.”
My throat tightened. “And I’m poor. work as a maid after school. Meanwhile, you probably have twenty of them—just for this house.”

I gestured vaguely around the massive room, trying not to let my frustration spill over.

“So tell me,” I said quietly, “how am I supposed to think highly of myself? And more importantly—how can you still like me after hearing all that?”
I shook my head with a breathless, tired laugh.
“If this isn’t just you testing a theory or satisfying some curiosity… then you must be mental.”

“Call me mental— or whatever that means in your wonderfully confusing English tongue.”
Alexander pushed himself off me, settling back onto the sofa with a defeated thump.
“I do like you. I’ve been hired a stylist to tell me what shirts to wear, driving my favourite, best, handsome cars around like a show pony and, uh— flying a fuckin chopper— just to impress you.”

“You really don’t need to do that… if I am, I like you just the way you are. You adorable american elf.”
I laughed—properly this time. It really was stupidly funny.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he shot back, hands flailing slightly. “You’re dating—sorry—you’re romantically entangled with bloody Alan Rickman. Alan. Rickman. He’s the handsome mafia boss in Die Hard. My mom’s favourite Christmas movie, by the way! How am I supposed to compete with that? At the very least I should try hard enough!”

He looked genuinely distressed, like the universe was deeply unfair for allowing him to be born as anyone other than Alan Rickman.

“The thing I like most about you,” I murmured, still sprawled on the couch like someone who’d completely given up on dignity, “is how I got to know you before I even knew who you were.”
My fingers kept picking at the blanket beneath me, tiny nervous pinches I couldn’t stop. “I’m poor, and I won’t pretend otherwise—I do like expensive things men give me. I’m shallow like that.” I huffed out something that was half-laugh, half-dying-whale. “But if we talked about Mr Rickman, he just… took my heart in a different way. No expensive things needed. I have no idea how he did that.”

Alexander swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing once, then twice. His hand drifted to his jaw, rubbing it hard enough to go red, like he was scrubbing away a feeling he didn’t want. “The thing you should know about a man like me,” he said slowly, “is how much I hate not getting what I want. It bruises my ego. And it feels pathetic… losing to another guy.”

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, embarrassed by my own pulse, then glanced at him sideways. “Well, I’m not his, though.”
My voice dipped even softer. “I’m still my own. Completely. And I feel like I can do anything I want, at my own risk.”
I swallowed hard, cheeks burning, still not moving a single inch from the couch. “And after all this talking… can you just come back down here and kiss me?”

He froze. Absolutely froze. Like someone had unplugged him.
Then he pointed at himself slowly, like he genuinely needed clarification. “Wait—really? Because you want me?” His voice cracked in this stupidly adorable, mortifying way.
“You mean… this time it’s actually you wanting me? And not the curiosity or the self-esteem crisis or the emotional… whatever that was?”

He hovered awkwardly above the carpet, fingers twitching like he was scared to touch me, scared not to, eyes wide in a panic that was half hopeful, half terrified—
and all I could think was:

God help me, this man might actually be worse than me.

He leaned down again to kiss me, this time allowing me a chance to examine his mismatched eyes up close. The contrast was mesmerizing, framed by long, beautiful white lashes that cast shadows on his sun-kissed cheeks. His platinum white hair carried an aroma reminiscent of shattered fragments of heaven.

With a tremor that betrayed his nerves, he tangled his fingers in my hair, the action far too shaky to be casual.

"You okay?" I whispered. 

"Yea... yea... I uh... don't do this much," he stammered awkwardly.

He lifted me off the couch with a sudden, breathless urgency—like he was chasing something that kept slipping out of reach. His heartbeat thudded against my ribs as he carried me toward his bed, each step unsure, desperate, hopeful.

He laid me down with surprising gentleness, hovering above me, fingers brushing the fabric of my skirt—hesitant, searching, far more careful than I expected. His breath trembled; mine wasn’t any steadier.

Then he leaned in and kissed me again—slow, deep, and almost reverent.
And just as the world tilted—

A burst of giggles exploded from beside the bed.

Both of us jerked our heads toward the sound.

“ZACH?!! What the fuck?!” Alexander practically barked, voice cracking somewhere between fury and a dying goose.

A red-haired boy—my age, maybe a little younger—stood there trying (and failing) to smother his laughter with both hands. His hair looked like piled up autumn leaves under the sunlight.

“What?” he said innocently, though his grin betrayed him instantly. “I didn’t know you had a date! Also, you made three maids wait outside your room for, like, fifteen minutes. So I came in to check. Whose fault is it for not locking the door?”

He shrugged like this was the most reasonable thing in the universe.

And just like that, I realized this must be the youngest Saint-Calix—
a chaotic little menace with flaming hair and the energy of a feral cat on espresso.

God help me.

Chapter Text

So, the date was officially over.
And I was mortified.

I could only slump back against the sofa, trying to gather whatever scraps of dignity I still had left. Alexander hurriedly straightened his clothes, then promptly smacked Zach on the back of the head like an older brother fulfilling a sacred duty.

A few servants came in carrying a tea set and a plate of biscuits. Honestly, my appetite had packed its bags and left the country.

Then my phone rang.

Shit.

Mr Rickman.

I answered it too quickly, my fingers slightly shaking.

“Where are you?” His voice was sharp the second the call connected. “Why are you taking so long? Why aren’t you back to the hotel yet?”

“I—I—” I stammered. “I… went out with a friend.”

“Friends???”

“It’s, uh… Mr Saint-Calix,” I said, closing my eyes, half-ready to accept whatever doom was coming next.

Silence.

The kind of silence that feels like it could kill you if it stretches on any longer.
Come on, Mr Rickman. Say something.

“Get your arse back here right now. I mean it.”

The line went dead.

I just stared blankly ahead, watching Alexander and Zach wrestling on the floor like a perfectly normal pair of brothers, completely unaware that my internal world was on fire.

“Uh… Alexander?” I called out, my voice thin.

The amateur wrestling match paused. Alexander looked over at me, one arm still locked firmly around Zach, who was actively trying to escape.

“I have to go back. Now,” I said, panic written all over my face. “My boss could literally murder me if I don’t return immediately.”

“No shit,” Alexander said, finally releasing Zach, who collapsed dramatically and gasped for air. “We just got here. You haven’t even eaten anything.”

And somehow, that made everything feel worse.

“Please… I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” I pleaded.

“You know Dad would be really disappointed if he didn’t see you tonight,” Zach cut in, casual but annoyingly serious. “You two haven’t seen each other for more than six months, right? He just called—he’s got an hour free for dinner.”

Alexander’s face twisted into visible confusion, torn between prioritizing his father or the girl he had almost slept with—who, by the way, wasn’t even his girlfriend.
Wow. Truly a perfectly balanced crisis.

“I’ll take her back. No biggie,” Zach said with a shrug. Honestly, I was two seconds away from taping his mouth shut.

“No, no, you can’t,” Alexander said quickly. “I’ll take her back. Gotta respect her… okay?” He walked toward me as he spoke, still arguing with Zach.

“I’m a good driver, Lexy. Better than you,” Zach said, rolling his eyes.

“Guys, please—” I rubbed my temples. “Anyone can take me. I just need to get back to the hotel, now.”

Alexander let out an annoyed breath. “Fine. Drive her back, Zach. But be careful—you literally got your license two months ago.”

What a wonderful information… extremely comforting.

****

The next thing I knew, I was sitting inside a helicopter, with an eighteen-year-old Zach at the controls.

I didn’t say much. I’d gone quiet somewhere between the mansion and the landing pad. From above, I could still see Alexander standing a little distance away, his snow-pale figure almost blending into the surroundings. He kept waving at me, over and over, probably feeling guilty for not being the one taking me back. But what could he do? His father clearly mattered.

We lifted off not long after. Strangely enough, I wasn’t as scared as I’d been before.
Sad, though—that crept in quietly. The kind that sits in your chest without asking.
Would I see Alexander again tomorrow?

I let out a long breath. I must’ve looked visibly unsettled.

“So… you’re British, huh? Interesting,” a voice crackled through my headset. Zach. “So, how much did Lexy pay you to come over here?”

“Pardon?” I said flatly. Offended didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Oh—wait, did I say that wrong?” Zach panicked instantly. “Shit, don’t tell Lexy. He’ll literally murder me.” He cleared his throat. “I mean—Alexander’s not exactly great with girls. Especially good-looking ones like you. I had more girlfriends in middle school than he’s had his entire life.” He giggled, far too pleased with himself.

“Why would you think I’m a hired girl, then?” I snapped.

“Honestly?” He shrugged, eyes still on the controls. “Your clothes. Sorry. It’s just… well…”

“Cheap?” I let out a small, humourless chuckle. “You’re not wrong. My mum probably bought them off a clearance rack at a department store.” I sighed. “But part of it is true, I’m not your brother’s girlfriend.”

“Oh.” A pause. Then, softer. “Well… if you ever do decide to be his girlfriend—he’s a good person. Bit freaky looking, but nice.”

I stared out the window, watching the city shrink beneath us, and wondered when my life had started sounding like this.

****

My head was pounding for no clear reason. Maybe I was coming down with something. I barely registered the rest of the trip, my thoughts drifting instead to Mr Rickman—and the look on his face once I made it back to the hotel.

After roughly an hour, I finally arrived at the hotel lobby. I hurried inside, and—surprisingly—ran straight into Miss Horton, fully packed, luggage in tow, moving briskly toward the exit.

“Miss Horton…” I called out, confused. She wasn’t scheduled to leave on Christmas. Or was she? I frowned, my stomach tightening. I was supposed to be the one managing her schedule. “Did I miss one of your plans?” I asked, worried.

“Oh, no,” she replied softly. Her voice felt heavy, like something was being hidden behind those dark sunglasses. “Just cancel all my plans for the rest of my stay. For now, you can help Mr Rickman with the remaining work here. I… need to leave for a while. Thank you for helping me.” She gently brushed my hair, the gesture unexpectedly tender.

“Wait—why so suddenly?” I blurted out, panic creeping in as I mentally replayed every schedule I’d ever arranged, wondering if I’d messed something up.

Miss Horton only smiled, shook her head, and kept walking. She climbed into the taxi already waiting for her and was gone.

I stood there in the lobby for a moment, frozen, watching the taxi disappear—while Zachary Saint-Calix sat far too comfortably on one of the lobby sofas.

“Looks like you’ve got some free time after all,” Zach said lightly. “Wanna grab lunch?”

I scowled and rolled my eyes. Read the room, seriously.

“I still have other work to do Zach. Goodbye,” I said flatly, heading toward the elevator. Then I paused, turned back, and added, “Thanks for the lift by the way. Merry Christmas.”

And with that, I stepped into the elevator, letting the doors close before he could say another word.

****

I took a deep, wobbly breath before knocking on Mr Rickman’s door. Even I couldn’t make head nor tail of what had happened in the few hours I’d been gone. Miss Horton leaving out of nowhere kept looping in my head like a bad ringtone.

A few knocks. The door opened.

Mr Rickman looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decode—somewhere between suspicion and mild disappointment, like I’d returned a library book late and tried to pretend I hadn’t. He snorted softly, then stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in.

My skin went all prickly. And no, it wasn’t the cold.
“Nice coat,” he said, dead dry, eyes flicking over Alexander’s fancy Balmain draped round my shoulders. “So… did you shag him?”
Blimey. No hello, no how-was-your-day, just straight in with the big guns.
I honestly didn’t know what to say. I mean—no, not properly. But it nearly happened? Sort of emotionally? Almost logistically? My brain blue-screened, so I just stood there gawping up at him with whatever tiny scraps of dignity I had left.

“It’s not like you and me are together,” my mouth said suddenly—without consulting my brain first.

Oh brilliant. Now we’re choosing violence.

Mr Rickman raised one eyebrow slowly, deliberately, like he was testing how far my courage actually went.

“Yeah?” he said, his tone sharp, almost amused. “Is that what you tell yourself now?”

The silence that followed was so thick it could’ve been served with tea.

My knees trembled like an overloaded washing machine, spinning far past its limit. I didn’t know why—why the man standing in front of me felt as though he controlled the very rotation of my world. The way he moved, the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing, the faint trace of his scent left in the air after he passed—everything blended into something dangerously perfect. As if my life were the palm of his hand, and I was dancing on it. Dancing to survive. Living to please him.

And God, I wanted to feel forced. I really did. I wanted an excuse, something to blame this on. But there wasn’t one. The truth sat heavy and undeniable in my chest: I wanted to please him. I wanted it willingly.

I never imagined love could feel like this.

He suddenly moved. The movement was so fast I barely had time to react—my body was lifted as if I weighed nothing at all. Alexander’s coat slipped from my shoulders and fell uselessly to the floor, and before I could even form a proper thought, I found myself draped face-down across his lap.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Every instinct screamed that something very bad was about to happen.

Oh Lord—please, have mercy.

"Do you know what's coming, little girl?" Mr. Rickman's voice was a husky whisper, his strong hands gripping my still trembling body nestled in his lap. Oh please, like I wasn't dying to squirm away... or maybe I was?

I shook my head, but darn it if my tummy didn't do that weird fluttery thing every time he called me 'little girl' like that. It was sooo embarrassing, but kinda exciting too. Gosh, what was happening to me? These funny feelings makes my body burn hot! I bit my lip, wondering what crazy thing Mr. Rickman would say or do next. My heart was pounding like a drum solo at a concert! Ack, I needed to get a grip before I totally embarrassed myself by doing stupid things I normally do whenever I get nervous.

"I wasn't expecting much from you, to be honest," Mr. Rickman said slowly, his fingers tracing along my lower back and making me shiver. "I'd be perfectly happy if you just behaved yourself, hung out around the hotels, let me spoil you with pretty things. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

His tone suddenly shifted, growing louder and more stern. "But nooo, you've got to go running around with just any boy who looks your way, trying to act like proper little madam!" 

Before I could even squeak, he pinged my knickers against my skin, then flipped up my skirt. Oh my actual days—this was happening. I braced myself as his hand came down with a massive SMACK. I yelped, whole body jerking. Blimey, his spanks were no joke! I squirmed and pouted, but I couldn’t ignore the weird fluttery heat building down there… Why did getting in trouble with Mr Rickman have to feel so annoyingly thrilling?

The room was freezing, but I was sweating like I’d run for the bus as the heat from that last spank spread across my bum. I knew I should keep quiet, but of course I didn’t.

“I’m not your girlfriend, Mr Rickman. I can do what I like outside work hours,” I said, all fake bravado.

Idiot. Absolute idiot.

SMACK! His hand cracked down again, the noise echoing like a firecracker. If these walls weren’t thick, the whole hotel would know exactly what was going on.

“You’re right,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “You’re not my girlfriend… you’re MINE. Mine to keep, mine to spoil, mine to look after, and mine to bloody well punish.” I could hear the smirk before the next one landed.
SPANK! I yelped again, wriggling like mad.

“You said you love me…” His voice softened, almost cracked. The spanks stopped; his hand stroked gently over the sting instead. Tears pricked my eyes—I felt awful.

“I… I didn’t sleep with Saint-Calix, honest!” I whispered, voice all wobbly. But even as I said it, I knew the bigger truth: I did love Mr Rickman, so much it terrified me. Still, my stupid heart fluttered when that boy smiled at me… “I… I do love you,” I admitted quietly, hating how small I sounded.

"I know you didn't..." he murmured, his hand gently stroking my back. "You're a good girl. I raised my girl right." His fingers trailed down 
and I gasped as they slipped into my crotch. They brushed against my slick folds, making me shudder.

“But it still winds me up knowing you went off with him. You seemed to like him… rather a lot. Too much for my liking.” His fingers traced slowly, teasing, and I bit my lip to stop a moan escaping.

My head was spinning—this bizarre mix of shame and pure want. Why was getting punished turning me on? It was properly messed up, but the ache between my legs wasn’t lying.

Then suddenly he lifted me, gentle as anything, and set me on the bed. I watched, dazed, as he strolled over, grabbed tissues, and calmly wiped his hands. He caught me staring and gave me this cheeky grin, like he hadn’t just had me over his knee.

“Sorry, love… I was improvising, but I’ve always fancied trying that,” he said with a little chuckle.

I could only gape at him, completely gobsmacked.

He climbed into bed and pulled me close. Despite everything, it felt dead right. In that moment I’d have forgiven him anything.

“So, is Saint-Calix more your cup of tea now? Does he buy you nicer stuff? Or have you decided I’m just too ancient after all?” he asked quietly, stroking my hair. There was sadness in his eyes, not anger—just quiet disappointment.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
So instead I cupped his face with my shaky hands, suddenly aware of how huge he was compared to me. Before I could overthink it, I leaned in and kissed him—properly, pouring everything into it. I was done just going along for the ride; I wanted him, and I was going to show him.

He looked surprised but didn’t pull away as I deepened it. Feeling brave, I climbed onto his lap, straddling him. His eyes widened, but he let me take charge.

My mind raced, trying to think how to prove he was the one I wanted. Then a mad idea hit me. I’d never done it before, but everyone at school always banged on about how much blokes loved it. Worth a try, right?

So there I was, sliding down Mr Rickman’s body like some wannabe seductress from one of those forbidden videos I definitely haven’t watched fourteen times (okay, fine, maybe twice, but who’s counting?). My heart was going bang-bang-bang louder than the bass on my Walkman when I crank up Blur.

I ended up nose-to… well, nose-to-crotch with the massive bulge in his jeans. My fingers were proper useless, shaking like I’d had three cans of Coke and a packet of Pro Plus. I looked up at him, trying to do that sultry eyes thing I practised in the mirror, but I probably just looked like a scared hamster.

“What are you doing, baby girl?” he asked, voice all low and rumbly, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“I’ve got this,” I squeaked, channeling every bit of fake confidence I had. “I’m basically a pro. Done it, like… loads of times.” Total lie. My experience level was somewhere between zero and watched half a dodgy scene before Mum walked in.

Here goes nothing, I thought, attacking his zip like it had personally offended me. Clunk, rattle, swear-word-under-breath. I was basically a one-handed monkey trying to defuse a bomb. Finally—riiiiip—there it was. Freedom. His cock sprang out like it had been waiting for this moment its whole life.

Bloody hell. Up close it was… intimidating. All angry veins and proud stance, like it was posing for a rude statue. I just stared at it, eyes going a bit swimmy with nerves.

“Go on, love,” Mr Rickman murmured, sounding half amused, half desperate. “Lick it like it’s a Chupa Chups.”

A Chupa Chups?! Cheeky sod. Still, I leaned in and gave it a cautious little flick of tongue—base to tip. He shuddered and made this deep growl that went straight between my legs. 

Okay, maybe I could do this.

I got braver, swirling round the head, tracing every ridge like I was revising for GCSE Art. Even gave his balls a playful kitten lick because, why not? He was panting now, proper losing it, and I felt like an absolute goddess.

“Sweet god! This has to be my Christmas present,” he groaned, abs going all tense and lovely.

I giggled round him—couldn’t help it. Felt dead powerful and dead naughty at the same time.

“Put it in your mouth, darlin’. Please. I’m begging,” he whispered, voice gone all gravelly and gorgeous.

I stared at the monster again. Opened wide. Tried. Failed.

“It won’t fit, Mr Rickman,” I whimpered, lips already sore.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do it,” he coaxed, like he was cheering me on at sports day. Then his big hands tangled in my hair—gently, but firm—and guided me down. Somehow, half of it slid in. Success! Sort of.
He looked down at me, eyes twinkling. “Look at you, my pretty little chipmunk,” he chuckled, thumb stroking my bulging cheek.
Rude! But also… kind of hot? I don’t even know anymore.

He started moving my head, slow at first, then deeper. My eyes watered, jaw ached, but every time I glanced up and saw that blissful look on his face—like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him—it made it worth it. Totally worth the drool and the gagging and the general “oh-my-god-what-am-I-doing” panic.
Then—because the universe has a sick sense of humour—my Nokia started ringing on the bedside table. Some awful polyphonic version of the Macarena.

We ignored it.

It rang again. And again.

Mr Rickman rolled his eyes, reached over, and squinted at the screen. “Alexander…” he said, smirking. “Want to chat?”

I shook my head so hard I nearly dislocated something—mouth still very much occupied, thanks.

He shrugged, switched the phone off, tossed it aside, and pulled me back down. “Where were we?”

It went on for ages. Honestly? My jaw was screaming, throat felt like I’d swallowed a tennis ball, and I was not loving the mechanics. But watching him lose it—watching those gorgeous hazel eyes go hazy every time he looked at me like I was his whole world? Yeah. 

Worth every ache.

“I’m gonna come, baby,” he rasped, voice all husky and delicious.

I didn’t pull away. Just kept going, clumsy and eager and totally his.

And when he finally did—shaking, groaning my name like a prayer—I felt like I’d won the lottery, Sports Day, and the school talent show all at once.

All of it shot straight down my throat, hot and thick and way more than I was expecting. I swallowed like my life depended on it, eyes streaming, silently begging the universe not to let me choke. Because honestly, can you imagine the headlines? “Sixteen Years Old Girl Dies in Tragic Bedroom Accident.” I’d look like the world’s biggest idiot, and my mum would never recover.

Somehow I got it all down without disaster. Mr Rickman was still breathing like he’d sprinted up ten flights of stairs, chest rising and falling under me. He looked down with this slow, satisfied smile that made my stomach do cartwheels.

My cheeks were burning. I felt ridiculous, but also… weirdly proud? Like I’d just pulled off something impossible and he was looking at me like I’d hung the moon.

“Are we going to have sex now?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. Way too eager, I know, but come on—I’m sixteen, hormones don’t come with an off switch.

He laughed, this low, warm rumble that made me squirm, and brushed a thumb across my swollen lips. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, darling. I’m nearly fifty, not twenty.”

Heat flooded my face all over again. I buried it against his neck, mortified. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured, arms tightening around me, lips brushing my hair. “It’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in years.”
I peeked up at him, biting my lip. “So… soon, then?”

His eyes darkened, that wicked little smirk curling his mouth. “Very soon, love. Promise.”

Chapter Text

We just lay there on the bed for ages, me curled up with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down while he was basically half-comatose from what I’d just done to him. Everything felt dead cosy, properly perfect, until my brain decided to ruin it.

Hang on. What about Miss Horton? How had I managed to completely blank the fact that she’d stormed out with all her bags, basically handing her boyfriend to me on a silver platter?

“Mr Rickman…” I mumbled, not even sure where I was going with it.

“Mmm?”

“What happened with Miss Horton? Where’s she gone?” I asked, voice all small and wobbly.
He let out this massive sigh, then reached over to the bedside table and picked up a newspaper I hadn’t clocked before. He handed it to me without a word.

The headline screamed across the front: “Billionaire’s Christmas Party: Who Attended?”
And there we were, smack in the middle of the page—me and him, proper snogging in the ballroom, behind those masquerade masks.

I was shocked. My eyes went massive, mouth proper hanging open as I stared at him. How the hell was he lying there all calm and chilled when his actual girlfriend had just seen this and legged it?

“Why didn’t you go after her instead of letting me… you know… do that to you?!” I blurted, suddenly furious and panicking and feeling dead guilty all at once. “What the hell, Mr Rickman?!”

He just looked at me, face completely blank, like he was half bored. “Don’t you want her gone?”

“I… I don’t… I mean… not like this!” I stammered, cheeks burning. “Not because of some dodgy paparazzi photo making her run off! That’s awful!”

I sat up properly, clutching the newspaper like it was evidence in court. My heart was going ten to the dozen. Part of me was secretly relieved—yeah, all right, more than secretly—but the decent bit of me felt sick. This wasn’t how it was meant to happen. Not with her finding out from the bloody tabloids.

He propped himself up on one elbow, studying me with that unreadable look again. “She saw the photo. She packed her bags. She left. End of.”

“But… but you didn’t even try to stop her!” My voice went all squeaky. “You just let her walk out and then… then we…” I gestured vaguely at the bed, mortified.

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Would you rather I’d chased after her?”
“No! I mean… yes? I mean… argh!” I buried my face in my hands, groaning. “This is so messed up. I feel like the world’s worst person right now.”

Mr Rickman just went quiet, staring at the ceiling like it owed him money. And honestly, I hadn’t a clue what was going through his head. There were these moments when he was completely impossible to read—like trying to guess the plot of a French art film. Deep down I knew it was probably an age thing: blokes his age were pros at keeping their emotions locked up tighter than my mum’s biscuit tin, while I was still wearing mine on my sleeve like a sodding badge.

“Did she know it was me?” I asked again, voice all tiny and wobbly because my nerves were shot.

“No…” He rolled his eyes in this dramatic way that was pure teenage girl. “You’re with Saint-Calix, remember?”

Oh. Right. It all came flooding back—last night, Alexander on the phone to Miss Horton, smoothly telling her I’d been with him the whole time. Total lifesaver. Or… hang on. Did Alexander know this photo was coming? Did he deliberately cover for us? My brain did a little somersault, but I shook it off sharpish.

“But you kiss girls all the time,” I protested, even though I knew full well I had zero right to sound so stroppy. “Co-stars, crew members… you’re basically the office bike when it comes to women fancying you. Why’s she kicked off now?”

He gave this little half-laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe I was asking. “When you’re my age, love… you learn the difference. There’s a friendly kiss, there’s a kiss with a bit of passion, and then there’s a kiss that looks like—” He paused, smirking properly now. “Well. Like we’re about to shag on the ballroom floor.”

My face went absolutely scorching. “Oh God… so, what now? Are you sure you want to end it like this?”

“I don’t know yet…” he said lightly, fingers still stroking my hair. He let out another long breath, heavier this time. “Honestly… I knew this was coming the moment I felt that unstoppable urge to kiss you last night. But I chose to do it anyway.”

A weird feeling twisted in my chest when I heard him say that.

On one hand, I was over the moon that Mr Rickman had chosen me—chosen to be here with me like this. Suddenly the chance of us actually being together felt a million times more real than it ever had before. But still, tucked away at the back of my mind, behind all the dopamine and giddy euphoria, there was this nagging worry that it wouldn’t last forever.

Without thinking, I shut my eyes and must’ve drifted off.
I woke up about an hour later, blinking groggily at the room. No sign of Mr Rickman anywhere. I slid out of bed slowly, grabbed my phone and tiptoeing without really knowing why.

There was a faint sound coming from the balcony—way too freezing out there for anyone to be casually sipping tea and admiring the view.

I crept over and peeked through the gap in the curtains, trying not to make a single creak.
Through the glass I could just make him out: a man hunched against the railing in clothes far too thin for this weather, his back almost completely blanketed in snow. His breathing came in ragged gasps, mixed with these stifled little groans he was clearly trying to swallow down.

It was Mr Rickman. Collapsed. Fragile. Hiding himself from me—hiding whatever he was feeling about Miss Horton. The woman who’d been with him for over twenty years. The woman who was supposed to be his last.

My heart felt like someone had stabbed it. Guilt crawled up from my toes, slow and relentless, until it swallowed me whole. Of course I never meant any harm. But why? How could just falling in love wreck everything like this? I could’ve stopped it—maybe everything could still be fixed. But the selfish bit of me whispered to stay put. For once in my life I wanted something I desperately craved. I… I deserved it.

Sod’s law, my phone started buzzing like mad. I glanced at the screen and jabbed the reject button straight away. Dammit, Alexander, give it a rest! He hadn’t stopped ringing me since I’d left him back in the Hamptons. And honestly? Even if I scraped together every little flutter I’d felt for him—this new bloke I’d only just met—it still wouldn’t stack up enough to make me care right now, not with my heart so hopelessly tangled up in Mr Rickman.

That tiny buzz was still too loud for me to stay hidden. Mr Rickman’s head snapped round towards the curtain, our eyes locked, and he looked at me with this raw, gut-wrenching guilt written all over his face.

I took a step back as he came inside, closing the balcony door behind him. I don’t even know why I did it.

This was all too much for a girl whose biggest worry was normally a surprise physics pop quiz from Mr Evans.

Something new and horrible twisted in my chest—anger? Disappointment? Jealousy? No idea—but for the first time ever, I didn’t want to look at Mr Rickman. So I just turned and bolted out of the room, sprinting down the corridor back to my own hotel room.

I slammed the door, collapsed onto the bed, and cried my eyes out.

Wasn’t I supposed to feel happy? Like I’d won? I didn’t have to hide anymore, didn’t have to sneak around to love him.

So why did it feel like the exact opposite?

he knocked, trying to open my door, but it’s locked.

he keep knocking, calling my names.

I don’t want to answer, I just wanna be alone.

****

By the time I checked the clock again, it was nearly dinner time and my stomach was throwing a full-on tantrum—like a proper drama queen. I hadn’t eaten since I’d woken up. I was absolutely Hank Marvin.
Right, plan: sneak out like a ninja. I’ve got… what, ten dollars in my pocket? In this fancy hotel that’d probably buy me half a breadstick and a judgmental look from the waiter. 

Whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers—I needed food before I started gnawing on the furniture.

I eased the door open millimetre by millimetre, poked my head out, did the full left-right-left like I was crossing the road in Year 7. Coast clear. Freedom.

One step out—and there he was. Mr Rickman, parked on the carpet right next to my door like a lost puppy who’d been there the whole bloody hour.

He jumped up so fast you’d think the floor was on fire, one hand slapping the door to stop me shutting it again. His face was pure panic. “Why did you leg it like that, my love?” He looked dead worried, eyes all big and soft.
“You know why…” I mumbled, sounding like a whingy five-year-old.

“Maybe…” He blew out this massive sigh. “But I was hoping you’d go easy on me. I’m not asking the world—I just don’t want you making this harder than it needs to be. I’m hanging on by a thread here. Please, have a bit of mercy on your old man.”

“Sorry,” I said, the word popping out tiny and sheepish. “Honestly, I feel like a complete prat who can’t read a room to save her life. I’m gutted, yeah… but I reckon I’ll park my massive ego for five minutes so the apocalypse doesn’t kick off tonight.”

He cracked this small, relieved smile and brushed his thumb across my cheek, gentle as anything. “Let’s get dinner, yeah?”

“No…” I shrugged, staring at my shoes. “Too knackered for anything posh.” Total truth.

“Okay then,” he said, that warm grin sliding back into place. “Let’s just get Maccies. American Maccies”

I was secretly chuffed I’d nicked Mr Rickman’s massive furry coat—it practically drowned me and hid half my face like a dodgy disguise. Essential, really. Imagine the meltdown if someone clocked me strolling down the street with Alan Rickman.

We had to stop every five minutes on the way so he could scribble autographs on random napkins, programmes, one girl even produced a Sharpie and her own arm. I kept my head down, trying to look like a totally unimportant blob—for the sake of my remaining dignity.
Finally we flopped into a booth with a table stickier than a cinema floor. Perfect. This was proper me—no pretending to be some immaculate posh bird who’s never had sauce on her chin.

Mr Rickman went full gremlin and ordered a mountain: double cheeseburger, large fries, the biggest Coke on the menu. Apparently he barely ever gets to do Maccies because back in London he’d be swarmed faster than you can say “Happy Meal.”

I nibbled my burger, sneaking looks at him absolutely demolishing his like it was his last meal on earth. He caught me staring, flashed this cheeky grin, and—like the total sap I am—I grinned straight back. I’ve always loved watching him eat. In moments like this, with grease on his fingers and pure bliss on his face, he looks like he’s genuinely, properly enjoying being alive.

And honestly? So was I.

****

“So what’s next? Are we heading back to England early?” I asked, all hesitant, half dreading whatever he was about to say.

“No need,” he mumbled round a massive bite of burger, totally casual. “I’ve got an interview with NBC Studios in two days anyway. Might as well shift to a hotel in LA while we’re at it.”

I blinked. Wait—what? My stomach did this weird heavy flip. Move hotels? Like, properly relocate to Los Angeles? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I didn’t want to—why would I say no? No reason at all… or… was there?
“Then after that we could pop over to Disneyland,” he added, like he was suggesting a quick stroll round the local park. “If you fancy it.”

DISNEYLAND???
I nearly choked on my chip. Are you actually serious??? Seven generations of my family and not one of us has ever set foot in Disneyland! My eyes must’ve gone massive, sparkling like I’d just downed a triple espresso shot. I could feel my face lighting up like Blackpool Illuminations.

I tried to play it cool—failed miserably—and ended up grinning like a total loon, ketchup probably smeared on my chin. “Disneyland,” I repeated, voice going all squeaky. “Like… proper Disneyland? With the castle and the rides and Mickey Mouse and everything?”

He chuckled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The very one. Unless you’d rather sit in the hotel watching telly.”

I kicked him lightly under the table. “Are you mental? Of course I want to go!” Then, because my brain finally caught up, I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Hang on. Is this your way of bribing me so I stop sulking?”
He gave me that slow, smug smirk. “Is it working?”

I shoved a handful of fries in my mouth to hide the massive smile threatening to split my face in two. “Maybe,” I mumbled through the chips. “Ask me again after the rollercoasters.”

God, my life was ridiculous. One minute I’m crying my eyes out over massive grown-up drama, the next I’m practically vibrating because a man twice my age is casually offering to take me to Disneyland like it’s no big deal.

I was so gone for him it wasn’t even funny.

Actually, scratch that—it was a little bit funny.

Chapter Text

The Manhattan streets were still buzzing even though it was pushing midnight—not Times Square at rush hour mental, but busy enough that nobody gave us a second glance. We strolled back to the hotel licking ice cream cones like a pair of proper tourists, chatting and messing about without a care.

If I really thought about it, this was the first time we’d ever been this… chill. No massive drama, no ducking into shadows, not even any bedroom Olympics. Just two daft humans trying to actually get to know each other.

After nearly a year of working part-time for him—fetching coffees, mopping floors, polishing his silverware, generally being his shadow—Mr Rickman was finally hearing the full saga of Cassie and Vicky. I was banging on about the time Cassie accidentally dyed her hair bright green the night before first day of school, how Vicky once tried to flirt with the head boy by quoting Shakespeare and ended up calling him a “saucy knave” to his face, and don’t get me started on Mr Evans and his evil physics pop quizzes.

And for the first time ever, he was properly opening up too. Not just the polished actor stuff—the real bits.

“So Emma Thompson,” he said, licking a drip of vanilla off his thumb, “she’s the only person who can ring me at three in the morning, tell me my last film was rubbish, and I’ll still thank her for it.”

I snorted. “Three in the morning? What does she do, critique your dreams as well?”
“Pretty much. Last week she left a voicemail saying my eyebrow acting in the new trailer was ‘borderline camp.’ I haven’t decided if I’m offended or proud.”

I nearly dropped my cone laughing. “Please tell me you rang her back doing full panto villain eyebrows.”

He raised one—slow, deliberate, pure Villain—and I lost it completely.

Then he got this little smirk. “Hugh Grant, on the other hand… lovely chap, truly. But working with him is like sharing the screen with a golden retriever that’s been told it’s very handsome.”

I cackled. “So you’re saying he just… flops about being charming and everyone forgives him?”

“Exactly.”

I wiped tears from my eyes. “You said that just because I have a crush on him!” I said with a proper laugh.

He shot me a mock glare. “Cheeky mare.”

We walked in comfortable silence for a bit, then I nudged him. “So what’s this new film offer you’re mulling over? Is it another one where you play the sexy villain who dies tragically?”

He rolled his eyes. “Close. Sexy anti-hero who might die tragically. There’s a difference.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the difference?”

“About twenty million at the box office.”

I burst out laughing again, and he grinned like he’d won a prize.

It felt magical, properly magical. For the first time I didn’t feel like the secret side piece, the kept girl who was only around for fun and fancy hotels. I felt like we were actually building something real—two idiots with ice cream on their noses, wandering New York at midnight, swapping stupid stories like normal people.

Without thinking, I drifted closer—proper close, closer than we’d ever been on a public street. My ice cream cone slipped from my fingers and splatted tragically on the pavement (RIP, vanilla swirl), but I didn’t even care. Next thing I knew, I’d launched myself at him like I was some NBA star going for the buzzer-beater dunk.

Reality check: I’m tragically short, so it was less “slam dunk” and more “desperate hobbit leap.”

He caught me on pure reflex, hands under my thighs, and—because he’s apparently part secret circus performer—gave me a little spin for the drama. We twirled right there on the Manhattan pavement, snow flurries catching the streetlights like glitter, and I swear the whole city went quiet for a second.

He looked up at me (yes, up, because for once I was taller) with this utterly baffled but delighted expression—like he couldn’t quite decode the chaotic wiring in my teenage brain but was absolutely here for the ride.

And then I kissed him.

Properly. No hiding, no glancing around for paparazzi, no guilt gnawing at the edges. Just me, him, the faint taste of chocolate ice cream on his lips, and the mad, sparkling magic of New York at midnight.

It was messy and ridiculous and perfect—like a rom-com scene directed by someone who’d had three puffs of cracks and a dream.

When we finally broke apart, both a bit breathless, he rested his forehead against mine and murmured, “You’ve just sacrificed a perfectly good ice cream for that.”

“Worth it,” I whispered, grinning like an idiot.
He laughed—that low, warm rumble that always turned my knees to jelly—and set me gently back on the ground.

“Careful, little girl,” he teased, brushing a snowflake from my nose. “Keep jumping on your old man like that and I’ll start expecting Olympic medals.”

I rolled my eyes, still buzzing. “Shut up and buy me another cone, you tall git.”

He saluted like a proper gentleman. “Yes, princess.”

And off we went, hand in sticky hand, leaving a melted vanilla crime scene on the pavement and what felt like the start of something properly, wonderfully real.

****

We were still holding hands when we pushed through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby. It was dead quiet—hardly surprising at this hour, just the faint hum of the lifts and the occasional clink from the night porter polishing something in the corner.

Without meaning to, my eyes flicked over to the massive reception desk. Some daft part of my brain was half-hoping to spot that albino lad in his posh Ralph Lauren sweater, lounging behind the counter like he owned the place. (ps: he practically did) But I knew full well he was back in the Hamptons, tucked up with his family, having the proper warm Christmas he deserved.

Instead, a mop of ginger hair suddenly popped up from behind the marble like a jack-in-the-box. Zachary Saint-Calix—papers in hand, looking as scruffy and chaotic as ever.
His eyes went comically wide the second he clocked me strolling in hand-in-hand with Mr Rickman. Shock doesn’t even cover it—more like someone had just told him Father Christmas wasn’t real and also owed him money.

His mouth dropped open, clearly gearing up to blurt something catastrophic.
I started shaking my head at him frantically—no, no, no—like one of those bobble-head dolls on a dashboard, willing him with every fibre of my being to keep his gob shut and not blow the whole thing sky-high.

Mr Rickman, bless him, hadn’t noticed yet; he was busy fishing the room key from his coat pocket with his free hand. Zachary’s gaze bounced between us like he was watching a tennis match he definitely hadn’t bought tickets for.

I widened my eyes at him in pure desperation: Please, for the love of God, do NOT say anything stupid.

Zachary’s mouth snapped shut. He blinked twice, then gave this tiny, exaggerated nod—like he’d just been handed top-secret MI6 instructions. He slowly sank back down behind the counter until only the top of his ginger head was visible, papers rustling suspiciously as he pretended to be suddenly fascinated by whatever paperwork was down there.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Crisis averted. Probably.

Mr Rickman glanced over at me, eyebrow raised. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I squeaked, dragging him towards the lifts a bit faster than necessary. “Just… thought I saw a ghost. Ancient hotel, you know. Very… haunted.”

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it for a second, but thankfully didn’t press. The lift doors pinged open, and I bundled us both inside before Zachary could resurface with any bright ideas.

As the doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of a ginger fringe peeking over the counter like a curious meerkat.

****

“You wanna get something from room service before we sleep?” Mr Rickman murmured, cupping my face with both hands like I was some priceless artefact he was polishing. His palms were proper toasty—absolute heaven against my cheeks.

“Hmmm…” I giggled, nuzzling into his hands like a cat on catnip. “But we literally just scoffed Maccies. I’ll end up proper chubby.”

“Oh, what the hell,” he said, giving my cheeks a playful pinch—hard enough to make me squeak, but not actually hurt. “We’re on holiday. Live a little!” Then he waggled his eyebrows like a proper villain. “How about a decent red wine and some snacks? I’ll even let you have more than one measly glass. Just for tonight. Don’t tell your mother.”

I gasped dramatically, clutching imaginary pearls. “More than one glass? Mr Rickman, are you trying to corrupt me?”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to that low, velvety rumble that always turned my insides to soup. “Absolutely. Consider it educational.”
I pretended to think about it for all of two seconds before cracking. “Fine. Twist my arm. But if I wake up with a hangover and a plate of cold chips staring at me, I’m blaming you.”

He grinned, already reaching for the room-service menu on the bedside table. “Deal. Now—red wine, cheese board, and those little chocolate truffle things that look fancy but taste like pure sin?”

I flopped back onto the pillows, kicking my legs in the air like a total kid. “Yes, yes, and hell yes. You’re officially my favourite bad influence.”

He shot me a mock-offended look. “Favourite? I’m wounded. I was aiming for only bad influence.”

I grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at his head. He caught it one-handed, laughing that deep, proper laugh that made the whole room feel warmer.

Ten minutes later we were sprawled across the massive bed in our posh hotel robes, waiting for the knock at the door, arguing over whether it’s acceptable to drink red wine with salt-and-vinegar crisps (he says no, I say fight me).

****

Some dodgy 90s boy band was blasting from the VCD player—definitely not his usual brooding classical vibes, I’d put money on it—but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked dead chuffed lounging on the sofa, watching me prance about on the hotel carpet like a total loon. Wine glass in one hand, massive chunk of salami in the other—like some posh toddler at a wedding.

My body was moving on autopilot, hips swaying to the cheesy chorus while my head started doing that pleasant spinny thing. Let’s be real: I’m a lightweight. Two glasses of red and I’m anybody’s. Hah.

“Come here, love…” he whispered, all low and husky, crooking a finger at me from his spot on the sofa like he was summoning a naughty kitten.

I tried to saunter over all sexy-like, but before I’d taken three steps his hands shot out and yanked me straight into his lap. Smooth criminal.

Next thing I know, he’s peppering kisses along my cheek, then down my neck, inhaling me like I’m one of those fancy perfume samples you rip out of magazines. Deep, dramatic sniffs between kisses—like he’s trying to memorise the scent for a police lineup later.

“Why don’t you dance with me?” I giggled, squirming because it tickled like mad.

“You’re already doing enough moving for the both of us,” he murmured against my skin, not stopping for a second. His voice had gone all gravelly—yep, the wine had definitely hit him too.

My cheeks went nuclear—again. Even though I’d been trying to make peace with how completely unsophisticated I was next to him, moments like this still made me want to hide under the duvet forever. Hehe.
His fingers slid into my hair, threading through it slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. The feeling made my eyes flutter shut and roll back a bit—God, it was unfair how easily he could do that to me.

“My God… you look so adorable like that,” he whispered right against my ear, breath warm and a little wine-rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”

I could only giggle, all high and breathless, because what else was there to say when a man like him looked at me like that? Then I felt his hand moving again—slow, confident—slipping under the loose fold of the hotel robe.
The robe was his, obviously. Everything soft and oversized on me was his. It hung off my shoulders like a tent, the sleeves swallowing my hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh. And he filled it out properly—broad shoulders, long arms, the kind of solid that made me feel tiny even when I wasn’t sitting in his lap.

Now, with me straddling him, the difference was impossible to ignore. His thighs were thick under mine, his chest a wall I had to tip my head back to look up at. One of his hands could nearly span my whole waist. When he pulled me closer, I felt small in the best, dizziest way—like I was something precious he could move exactly where he wanted.

The robe parted easily under his fingers. Cool air hit my skin, then the heat of his palm sliding over my ribs, slow and possessive. I shivered, gripping his shoulders for balance. He made this low sound—half laugh, half growl—that vibrated through me.

“Still with me, little girl?” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

I nodded, too wound up to trust my voice. My hands fumbled with the tie of his own robe, clumsy because everything felt too big, too much, too good. When I finally got it open, my palms landed on his chest—warm skin, the faint scratch of hair, the steady thump of his heart under his chunky chest that made mine race twice as fast.

He let me explore for a moment, patient in that maddening grown-up way of his, then took over again. One arm banded around my lower back, lifting me like I weighed nothing, shifting us so I was properly pressed against him. The size of him everywhere—his hands, his chest, the hard line of him under the thin fabric between us—made my head spin worse than the wine ever could.

I whimpered when his mouth found my neck again, not tickling now, just slow, open kisses that felt like they were branding me. His other hand slid lower, cupping me, teasing until my hips rocked on their own. Everything felt huge and careful at the same time—like he knew exactly how easily he could overwhelm me and was enjoying drawing it out.

“Good girl,” he said, voice rougher now, pulling back just enough to watch my face. “Making your old man really happy. So bloody perfect.”

I buried my face in his shoulder, embarrassed and turned on in equal measure, breathing him in—wine and hotel soap and something that was just him. He chuckled, low and dark, and guided my hips in a slow roll that made us both groan.

When he finally slid inside me, it was deliberate, unhurried, giving me time to adjust to how he filled me—big and deep and overwhelming in a way that made my toes curl. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, feeling tiny and safe and completely taken apart all at once.

He held me close, one massive hand splayed across my back, the other tangled in my hair, murmuring soft, filthy praise against my skin as we moved together—slow at first, then faster, until the whole world narrowed to the heat of him, the strength of him, and the dizzy, perfect way he made me feel utterly, wonderfully his.

His palm settled on my throat—slow, deliberate, fingers curling just enough to hold me there without real pressure. He tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to his. No escape.
I was a complete mess: sweat beading on my forehead, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, mouth half-open as I panted like I’d run a marathon. My face was on fire, cheeks scorching, every breath shaky and far too loud in the quiet room.

But he… God, he was the picture of control. Not a hair out of place, breathing steady, that faint, amused smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he watched me unravel. His eyes—dark, sharp, decades wiser—pinned me in place, drinking in every helpless twitch and whimper like it was the most entertaining show he’d seen in years.

I felt so small under his gaze. Not just because his hand could easily circle most of my neck, or because his shoulders filled my entire field of vision, or because the weight of him above me made me feel delicate, breakable. It was more than that. It was the way he looked at me—like a grown man indulging a desperate, overeager girl who’d begged her way into his bed and now didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

A child playing at being grown-up.
And the worst part? He knew it. He bloody loved it.

That tiny smirk said everything: Poor little thing, trying so hard to keep up. Look how easily I can take her apart.

Heat rushed through me—shame and want all tangled together. I hated how young I must look to him right now, flushed and trembling and completely out of my depth. Hated that he had all the power here: the experience, the patience, the sheer size and strength to hold me exactly where he wanted. He could read every flicker across my face like an open book, while I was still fumbling through the prologue of whatever this was.

But that same imbalance lit something fierce inside me. I wanted to prove him wrong. Wanted to wipe that calm, superior amusement off his face and make him lose control the way he made me lose mine. I wanted him to see me as more than the wide-eyed girl he could wind up with a few words and a steady hand. I wanted to be his equal—even if I had to fight twice as hard for it.
I swallowed against his palm, lifted my chin a fraction higher, and met his stare as boldly as I could manage.

His eyebrow arched, slow and knowing, like he’d just watched the exact thought flash across my mind.

All those clever plans, all the little tactics I’d been frantically plotting in my head—how to move, how to match him, how to prove I could keep up—vanished in a puff of smoke the second he stood up from the sofa without a single wobble. Still buried deep inside me. The sudden shift slammed him even deeper, and I let out this embarrassingly high-pitched gasp that echoed round the room.

One of his massive hands splayed across my bum, holding me up like I weighed nothing at all. The other reached casually for my abandoned wine glass on the table, brought it to his lips, and drained the lot in one slow swallow. Like he wasn’t currently impaling me mid-air.

“You want some more wine, darling?” he whispered, lips brushing my ear, voice all velvet and amusement.

My head was already spinning like a carousel at full tilt, his steady breaths the soundtrack to the ride. More wine? Absolutely not. I could barely remember my own name.

He didn’t wait for an answer anyway. With one effortless move he tossed me onto the bed—properly tossed, like I was a ragdoll he’d decided to reposition. Before I could even bounce, he flipped me over onto my stomach, one hand pressing firmly between my shoulder blades, pinning my cheek to the mattress. The other hooked under my hips and yanked them up until I was exactly where he wanted me—on my knees, face down, completely exposed.

I felt tiny. Helpless. Not in a scary way—more like I’d been reduced to his favourite toy, the one he could bend and move and use however he fancied. He was so much bigger, so much stronger; his hands swallowed half my waist, his body caged mine without even trying. There was no pretending we were equals in this—he had all the control, all the experience, and he wielded it like he’d been doing this for decades. Because, well… he had.

And the humiliating, thrilling truth? I loved it. Loved feeling small under him, loved the way he handled me like something delicate and breakable yet entirely his to play with. Every rough, confident touch reminded me how young and out of my depth I was… and how much he enjoyed that fact.

With one sharp thrust, he was buried deep inside me again—stretching me in that overwhelming way that made my toes curl and my breath hitch. From the corner of my eye, I caught him glancing down at me, quick and careful, like he was double-checking I was still in one piece before carrying on. Always the gentleman, even when he was railing me like his life depended on it.
The rhythm kicked up a notch—firmer, more insistent, each slam deeper than the last. Blimey, Mr Rickman, are you trying to shish kebab me to death? I mean, seriously—his size was no joke, filling me so completely it bordered on ridiculous, like my body was some tiny puzzle he was determined to solve with sheer force. He loomed over me, all broad shoulders and steady hands, holding me in place while I squirmed and gasped underneath him, feeling every inch the wide-eyed girl trying (and failing) to match his grown-up pace.

My whole body was wound tighter than a spring, every thrust pushing me closer to the edge—deeper, harder, like he was carving himself into me. I gripped the sheets, knuckles white, trying to hold on, but it was no use. The pressure built and built, coiling low in my belly, electric sparks shooting through every nerve until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, just feel.
Then it hit—like a wave crashing over me, but a thousand times more intense than anything I’d ever known. My vision blurred, toes curling hard enough to cramp, and this raw, uncontrollable scream tore out of my throat. Not a cute little gasp or a whimper—no, a proper, full-on yell that echoed off the hotel walls, my body shaking like I’d been plugged into the mains.
It was my first time feeling anything this wild, this all-consuming; waves rolling through me one after another, leaving me trembling and boneless in his massive hands. He held me through it all, his grip firm on my hips, that low chuckle rumbling against my back like he knew exactly what he’d done—reduced me to a quivering mess with his size, his control, his everything.

He must’ve read my mind—or more likely, my body—because right then he shifted gears, speeding up like he’d flipped a switch from “tease the living daylights out of her” to “finish the job.” His thrusts went faster, harder, more urgent, each one slamming home with that ridiculous depth that made me see stars.

His massive hands gripped my hips tighter, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks I’d probably poke at in the mirror tomorrow with a stupid grin. I could feel every inch of him, stretching me, overwhelming me, his chest heaving against my back as his control finally started to crack. That smug, steady rhythm faltered—just a bit—and his breaths came rougher, hotter against my neck. For once, he wasn’t the unflappable grown-up towering over me; he was losing it too, grunting low in his throat like the effort of holding back was killing him.

Then it crashed over him: he buried himself deep one last time with a guttural groan that vibrated through both of us, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring finally snapping. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and claiming, his arms wrapping around me tight as he collapsed half on top, half beside me—still so bloody huge he practically smothered me in the best way.

We lay there panting, tangled in sheets and sweat, his hand lazily stroking my hair like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, voice all husky and spent. “You all right down there, little one?”

I managed a wheezy laugh, face buried in the pillow. “Yeah. But next time, warn a girl before you go full steam engine.”

He chuckled, pulling me closer into his chest—where I fit so perfectly small. “Noted.”

****

My body felt like it had gone twelve rounds in a WWE ring the next morning. Every muscle protested. I really didn’t want to get up—but I was starving, the kind of hunger that comes from being exhausted rather than sensible.

So, like the lady of the manor I absolutely was not, I reached for the hotel phone and ordered breakfast via room service.

Mr Rickman stirred at the sound of my voice but didn’t say a word. Instead, he lazily tugged at me, trying to haul me back into his arms like I was some sort of misplaced pillow.

Eventually, I escaped the grip of the human hugging bear and dragged myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth, answering messages while staring at my reflection like it had personally wronged me.

There were about twenty unread texts from Alexander.

I ignored every single one. Not today.

Mum texted to say Uncle Jerry had stopped by the house with a Christmas present for me, and my heart did a ridiculous little flip, instantly curious.
Keep it safe for me, Mum—and tell him thank you from me! I replied.

A knock echoed through the room. Room service, finally.

I glanced back at the bed—Mr Rickman hadn’t moved an inch—so I decided to get the door myself.

Big mistake.

My heart nearly launched itself out of my chest when I opened it, because standing there, holding my breakfast tray like he owned the place, was Zach.

Yes. Zach.

Fully dressed as a bellboy.

Deep purple uniform. Tiny cap. The audacity.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low so Mr Rickman wouldn’t wake up. “Why aren’t you back home?”

“Relax, I’m just delivering your food,” he said cheerfully, grinning like a menace. “Alexander’s in the Hamptons, Adrian’s busy with his fiancée, so someone’s gotta hold the fort at the hotel, right?”

That was absolutely not true. Alexander himself had told me their hotel practically ran itself. Which meant this was very clearly Zach choosing chaos.

He leaned in, peering past me into the room. “Is that your father?”

I followed his gaze to Mr Rickman, still asleep face-down on the bed.

“Is my father Alan Rickman?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Of course not, you nosy little menace.”

“Mmm… Does Lexy know about him?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Zach actually looked stunned.

He blinked once.
Then twice.

“Ohhh,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“Shoo now… Mr Rickman could wake up any second and report you, you know!” I hissed, properly annoyed, arms crossed like a grumpy prefect.

“So what’re they gonna do? Fire me?” Zach chuckled, all cocky, clearly milking that Saint-Calix surname for every last drop of untouchable privilege.

He poked his head back into the room for a quick nosy, eyes landing on our half-packed suitcases sprawled across the bed like crime-scene evidence.

“Wait… you guys are checking out already?” He sounded genuinely thrown. “Didn’t you book for at least another week?”

“Nosey much?” I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a headache. “We’re heading to LA tonight. So yeah, early check-out it is.” I shrugged like it was no big deal, even though my stomach was doing flips at the thought of actually leaving New York with him.

Zach’s face did this weird thing—his usual cheeky grin faltered for half a second, and something almost… worried? flickered in those pale eyes. It was gone so fast I might’ve imagined it, but nah, it was there.

“Right. Well. Here—” He suddenly shoved the room-service trolley at me like it was a hot potato. “Breakfast, on the house. Pancakes, fruit, the works. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Before I could even say thanks (or tell him to sod off), he’d spun on his heel and legged it down the corridor like the hounds of hell were after him. Ginger hair flapping, trainers squeaking on the marble—proper cartoon escape.

I stood there blinking at the trolley, then back at the empty hallway.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered under my breath. “What was that about?”

I wheeled the trolley inside, shutting the door quietly so I didn’t wake Mr Rickman. The smell of fresh coffee and bacon hit me like a warm hug, but my brain was still stuck on Zach’s weird exit.
One minute he’s being his usual nosy, flirty self; next he’s looking like someone just told him Christmas was cancelled and bolting like a guilty cat.

Weird.
I mean, really weird.
But whatever, boys are naturally weird anyway.