Every single day.
But Kesha couldn't say that, couldn't let him see the dreams she'd buried so deep they barely breathed anymore. "I should go, sir. Dinner will be served soon."
Oliver watched her retreat, something flickering in his expression. "What's your name?"
She paused at the doorway, not turning around. "Kesha Washington, sir."
"Kesha." He said it like he was tasting something sweet. "That's a beautiful name."
And then she was gone, fleeing down the servants' corridor while her heart raced and her mind screamed warnings. Rich boys didn't see maids as people; they saw them as conveniences, diversions, mistakes waiting to happen. But as she reached her small room in the basement, Kesha caught herself humming a waltz melody she hadn't heard in seven years.
Three hours later, the Waterford crystal caught the candlelight as Kesha moved silently between the chairs, refilling wine glasses with practiced precision. The dining room hummed with the kind of conversation that came with old money: stock portfolios, charity galas, summer homes in the Hamptons. She was furniture to these people—invisible hands that made their evening perfect.
At the head of the mahogany table sat Reginald Peyton, 63 years of ruthless business dealings carved into his angular face. His silver hair was slicked back, his charcoal eyes cold as winter stone. Even seated, he commanded the room with the presence of a man who crushed competitors for breakfast and served their remains for dinner.
"Catherine, you simply must tell Oliver about your equestrian achievements," Mrs. Vanderbilt gushed, her diamond necklace catching the light as she gestured toward her daughter.
Catherine Vanderbilt was everything Reginald wanted in a daughter-in-law: blonde, beautiful, and bred for this world. Her pink silk dress probably cost more than Kesha's annual salary. She smiled at Oliver with perfectly practiced charm, her blue eyes calculating his net worth with every glance.
"I took first place at the Devon Horse Show last autumn," Catherine said, her voice carrying that particular blend of confidence and entitlement that came with never being told no. "Daddy bought me a new mare to celebrate—a gorgeous Hanoverian named Duchess."
Oliver nodded politely, cutting his steak into precise squares. He didn't eat. "That's wonderful, Catherine."
Kesha noticed how he avoided the woman's gaze, how his jaw tightened when Catherine leaned closer. She'd seen that look before on her own face in mirrors when she was pretending to be someone she wasn't.
He's drowning, just like I am.
"Oliver has always been too modest about his own accomplishments," Reginald's voice boomed across the table. "Harvard Business School, summa cum laude, youngest VP in Peyton Industries history. Any woman would be lucky to call him husband."
The words hit the room like stones dropped in still water. Catherine's smile brightened, Oliver's fork clattered against his plate, and Kesha, reaching for an empty wine bottle near Oliver's elbow, felt her stomach twist with something that had no business existing.
Stop it. He's not yours to want.
"Speaking of marriage," Mrs. Vanderbilt practically purred, "Catherine was just telling me how much she's looking forward to settling down. She has such wonderful ideas for redecorating whatever estate her future husband provides."
"The Beacon Hill property could use a woman's touch," Reginald agreed, his cold gaze moving between Catherine and Oliver like a chess master planning his next victory. "Forty-seven rooms should provide adequate space for entertaining and raising children."
Oliver's hand tightened around his wine glass. "Father, perhaps we should discuss this privately."
"Nonsense. The Vanderbilts are practically family already." Reginald's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "In fact, I have a proposal that will make this evening memorable for everyone."
The room fell silent except for the crackling fireplace. Kesha felt the tension shift the way air pressure changed before a storm. She should leave, disappear into the kitchen, but something kept her frozen in place.
"As you all know, I'm a man who appreciates tradition," Reginald continued, rising from his chair. "Elegance, breeding, the lost arts that separate civilization from chaos." He walked to the fireplace, his movements deliberate and theatrical. "Take the waltz, for instance—a dance that requires grace, partnership, refinement. Not something everyone can master."
Where is he going with this?
"I propose a little challenge." Reginald's eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "A test of worthiness, if you will."
"Father." Oliver's voice carried a warning, but Reginald was just getting started.
He turned to face the room, his gaze sweeping past Catherine, past the Vanderbilts, past Oliver, and landing squarely on Kesha.
"You there, girl. Come here."
Every head in the room turned toward her. Kesha's blood turned to ice water in her veins. She'd survived seven years by being invisible, and now she stood spotlighted in the middle of her worst nightmare.
"Sir?" Her voice barely carried across the room.
"What's your name again?"
"Kesha Washington, sir." Each word felt like glass in her throat.
"Kesha Washington." Reginald repeated it like he was testing how it tasted. "Tell me, Kesha Washington, do you believe in fairy tales?"
The question was a trap. She could feel it, could see the cruel satisfaction building in his eyes. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."
"Of course you don't." His laugh was harsh. "Let me explain. My son is a catch, wouldn't you agree? Handsome, wealthy, intelligent. Any woman would be fortunate to marry him."
Kesha's chest constricted. Around the table, she could see the Vanderbilts' confusion, Catherine's growing alarm, and Oliver's dawning horror as he realized what his father was building toward.
"But worthiness must be earned," Reginald continued. "Demonstrated. So here's my proposition, and I want everyone in this room to witness it." He moved closer to Kesha, his presence like a shadow falling across her. "If you can waltz with my son for three minutes without making a fool of yourself—if you can prove that breeding and class don't matter—then I'll personally pay for your wedding to Oliver."
The room exploded.