Chapter 1: Waking Up in a Cliché

I’m a housekeeper—but not just any housekeeper. I’m a housekeeper in one of those wild billionaire boss romance novels.

I woke up.

Sunlight streamed through the oversized windows—the kind you only see in TV mansions. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and fresh linen, and for a split second, I forgot I was supposed to be the help in this story, not the princess. But old habits die hard. I rolled out of bed, tied up my hair, and got to work before the rest of the house even stirred, clutching a Swiffer and trying not to catch my own dumbfounded face in the polished hardwood floor of this mansion.

I’ve woken up.

No kidding, I’m awake, all right.

Somehow, being aware that I’m living in one of those wild billionaire romances gives me this overwhelming urge to monologue—like I suddenly feel like narrating my entire life. It’s weirdly liberating, honestly.

I barely finished waxing the floor when the CEO came striding in—stepped right onto it, slipped, and landed flat on his butt.

I mean, he went down like a cartoon character, arms flailing, an undignified yelp echoing through the house. His designer suit jacket bunched up under him, and for a moment, he just lay there, blinking up at the chandelier like he was questioning every life choice that led him here.

Wait. He woke up from the fall, too?

The impact must’ve rattled his brain, because he sat up with a dazed look, rubbing his lower back and mumbling something about OSHA regulations. I tried not to laugh. Tried.

So when the CEO brought someone home, I’ll admit, I got a little nervous.

It wasn’t the first time he’d surprised the staff, but this felt different. There was a certain electricity in the air, the kind that makes you straighten your uniform and check your reflection in the hallway mirror, just in case.

Because, you see, there’s this one scene—the big one—where I’m supposed to say, while cleaning the staircase...

“You’re the first woman Mr. Morgan has ever brought home.”

My voice echoed up the staircase, just loud enough for everyone to hear, and I swear the walls held their breath. It’s the line that kicks off every cliché in these stories, and for once, I was the one delivering it.

Seriously. I’ve rehearsed this line a million times.

In front of the bathroom mirror, in the pantry, even while folding laundry. I’d practiced the right blend of awe and envy, making sure my tone was just ambiguous enough to keep everyone guessing.

Thirty percent envy, seventy percent kindness, and, somehow, ninety percent malice.

I always imagined I’d nail it, maybe even win an imaginary Oscar for Best Supporting Housekeeper. But in real life, it just sounded like I’d swallowed a lemon.

That’s right—according to the plot, I’m the catty supporting character who dreams of climbing the social ladder and becoming the next Mrs. Walker.

It’s the kind of line that belongs in a soap opera. The kind that lets everyone know I’m Trouble—with a capital T.

I worked hard as a live-in nanny. But I always dreamed of being the lady of the house.

Yeah, I even circled a Pottery Barn couch in a catalog. Like that would make my dreams come true.

The first day I realized all this, I sold off those designer handbags.

The resale app kept pinging all day. I watched the money pile up, feeling like I’d just outsmarted the IRS for the first time in my life.

A live-in nanny making six figures a year, and I actually dared to have a crush on my boss? I really needed a wake-up call!

I shook my head at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror—feeling both sheepish, and, weirdly, kind of free.

Just as I was feeling pretty good about waking up early—thinking maybe I could keep this job and make some decent money—

The CEO slipped and tumbled down from the second floor.

The sound was so dramatic, I half expected a laugh track. I dropped my cleaning cloth, peering over the banister as his limbs splayed out at odd angles. The air hung heavy with the scent of lemon polish and disaster.

Looking at the CEO sprawled out like a giant toad, hearing the heroine’s sharp scream—my hand, holding the wax bottle, trembled a little…