The house

You trail after her into the suite, bouquet still clutched like an idiot prop. The second the door shuts, you’re swallowed by the place—polished marble floors, gleaming fixtures, wide glass panes spilling sunlight across everything. It’s the kind of place where the water probably costs fifty bucks a bottle, way above your pay grade. You whistle low under your breath, trying not to look like some small-town kid wandering into a palace.

“You stay here alone?” you ask, genuine curiosity creeping into your voice.

She lets out a light chuckle, padding across the living room, tank top riding up to expose just a hint of soft lower back. “Nope. Amanda and Megan are in the other rooms. But they’re gone until tonight—something about a fitting and a press thing. So…” she stretches her arms, the tank shifting on her chest, “I’ve got the house to myself until then.”

The names click almost immediately. Amanda Seyfried. Megan Ferguson. Your brain short-circuits for a second as you connect the dots: The Housemaid. That’s the film she’d mentioned. Which meant the whole damn cast was here, holed up in luxury suites upstairs while you were standing in the middle of it like you’d just stumbled through the wrong wardrobe into Narnia.

She caught you staring blankly, one corner of her mouth curling up. “Don’t worry, the rest of them are upstairs. You won’t bump into anyone on your way to the bathroom.”

You manage a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. The thing that really unsettled you, though, was how normal she was acting. She wasn’t posing, wasn’t performing. If you hadn’t known her face from screens, from headlines, from every red carpet photo spread on the internet, you’d swear she was just some college girl renting a crazy Airbnb for the weekend. Barefoot, tank top, hair messy from lounging—completely at ease.

And then she moved toward the sliding glass doors, hips rolling naturally, her ass swaying side to side in those loose pajama pants. Your eyes couldn’t not follow, locked onto the lazy rhythm, your throat going dry.

“I remember this,” you say, voice low but teasing, jerking your chin toward the pool beyond the glass. “Looks familiar from the pic yesterday.”

She glances back over her shoulder, smirking like she caught you red-handed. “Mmhm. Why don’t you get comfortable? I’m just gonna change and join you.”

The words hang between you, casual but electric. She disappears toward one of the side rooms, the tank riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare skin before she slips out of view, leaving you standing there alone in the kind of suite you’d never imagined you’d set foot in, pulse pounding, every nerve braced for what comes next.