𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗠𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨 | 𝗕𝗪𝗪𝗠 | 𝟭𝟴+

𝟳. 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴

Rich people often take everything for granted.

Two days ago, I moved into Alexander's opulent mansion, which now I suppose is mine as well. I spent an entire day reorganizing my room, though it's more akin to a loft in terms of size.

I've genuinely enjoyed making my corner of Alexander's residence my own, and it's kept me occupied for two days. My clothes are neatly folded, my shoes stowed away, my vanity meticulously arranged with my personal items, and my bed adorned with pillows and comforters.

I've also successfully managed to avoid Alexander over these past two days. I had him change the locks to my room and adjoining bathroom, essentially locking myself in. Of course, I emerge when he's away at work, but as soon as I hear the garage door open and the rumble of his all-black Lamborghini, I take it as my cue to retreat.

However, I am not alone. I am never alone.

Alexander has a chef, a maid, a butler, a doorman, and a gardener. I'm sure if he needed someone to wipe his ass for him, he wouldn't hesitate to hire someone for that role.

I truly wonder when the last time he's touched a sponge and cleaned a dish. He's so ... spoiled.

A small part of me wonders if I'm envious of Alexander, considering I once lived a similar life. That's the reality of being an immigrant in this country. In my homeland, I lived like royalty, with nannies, maids, chefs, and chauffeurs at my beck and call.

This country sells you a dream, promising something better than you can imagine, luring you away from your paradise, thinking that the grass is greener on the other side. And while it does offer some improvements, it also comes with its own set of flaws. You soon discover that your palace is now in the past, and you must endure injustices and a lower quality of life because of a lie.

Sometimes, it sickens me.

"Miss Magnolia," a voice interrupts my thoughts from outside, and I can't help but dislike the title. It elevates me to a status I'm uncomfortable with.

"It's just Magnolia," I correct as I open my room's door.

Fiona, Alexander's cook, greets me warmly. She's a sweet older woman, and I already like her.

"Miss Magnolia, your presence is requested in the ballroom."

I stifle a laugh. A ballroom?

I meant it when I said that I stayed to myself the last few days, not really exploring my new, temporary home, but a ballroom? Who does Alexander think he is?

I glance at my attire—a white top, pink leggings, and pink sandals. It's adequate; I'm not trying to impress anyone.

After a quick application of lip gloss, I follow Fiona to the ballroom, finally taking in the grandeur of this place. It's like a castle where kings and queens would raise their children.