Page 32 of For You, Sir

I was halfway down the hall to make Sir’s drink before I remembered we didn’t have any tea. He’d only given me a task to make me go inside. I slumped against the wall.

“Well? Beat it,” Sir’s voice drifted from the door. “And stop harassing my butler.”

“Mm. Might think twice about him,” Marshall rumbled.

Sir’s voice was icy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I did some digging. Mr. Kim only ever dates the super-rich. Lived with Francene Olsen until she cut him into her will. And now you…”

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

“Have a good—”

Sir slammed the door, drowning out the rest.

I should have left the hall so Sir wouldn’t catch me eavesdropping, but I was not thinking straight. I could barely think at all. Like a computer trying to run too many processes at once, my brain had seized up.

Mrs. Olsen’s family hated me, even suspected me of murder. They could keep the money; it was my penance. This was what I got for judging Mrs. Olsen’s kids for being avoidant when I did the same selfish things. Sir’s disgust at the Olsen family’s negligence may as well have been directed toward me.

I deserve this, all of it.

Karma was punishing me for not knowing my place. How could I deny sexual impropriety after what I’d just done with Sir? I’d known it was wrong, but indulged myself anyway. It would be perfectly fair if Sir didn’t trust me after Marshall’s warning about my dating history. Besides the part about Madam, it was true. I was shallow and selfish, negligent, and cruel. I deserved to have good things snatched from my hands.

Including Mr. Cuddles. When I got home, I’d have to gather up his kitty carrier, sweaters, and eye wipes to send along with him to his next home. I’d have to double-check he had his plush kicker toy shaped like a honeybee. He loved that little thing. My eyes filled at the thought of how much I’d miss him.

“Jun?” Sir came near—long, gold hair and kind eyes. “Hey…”

He tried to wrap his arms around me, but I braced a hand against his chest and stepped back. His concern was wasted on me, like pouring fine wine down the drain.

Sir looked hurt and hovered a few paces away, looking unsure of what to do with his hands. I wanted to apologize, but no words would come. I wished a sinkhole would appear beneath my feet and swallow me whole.

“You won’t do it, right? Give the money back?” His fingers fidgeted.

My voice came out hoarse. “Of course, I’m giving it back.”

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s yours. She wanted you to have it.”

My throat was closing up, so I just shook my head. It was the only way to make it right.

“Well, don’t decide yet,” he said. “Promise me.”

I chewed my lip, unwilling to promise anything.

“Talk to a lawyer first, okay? You can use mine! I already paid her retainer fee. Hang on, let me get her number.” Sir ran to the living room and started throwing blankets and magazines around, presumably hunting for his phone.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed. I wanted to smoke. I wanted to hurt. I wanted to sleep for days and stop disappointing everybody.

“Got it!” Sir cried exultantly, holding up his phone. “I’ll write it down for you. No, wait. I’ll text it to you.” His thumbs flew over the smartphone’s surface. I felt bad for bothering him.

I didn’t feel like calling a lawyer, but figured I ought to call Davies & Horne and disclose the allegations. Depending on how litigious the Olsen family was, the agency could be at risk. Perhaps my employers had heard the allegations, and now they doubted me, too.

My phone dinged. Clients were supposed to text me when they wanted me to do something for them, not because they were helping me. I was supposed to make my clients feel pampered and worry-free, nestled in the lap of luxury.

I tried to think of what to do next. Clean something. Buy something. Fill in the gaps. But I was as confused and unfocused as a man concussed. Even my buttling ability was compromised. “Sir?”

“Yeah?” He stood at my side, looking concerned and eager to help. The pressure in my chest intensified.

“May I—?” My voice broke. Oh, fuck. I wasn’t about to cry in front of my boss, was I? I ironed my expression into blankness and summoned the most tranquil scene I could imagine: running along the beach with my childhood dog, Inky, darting through the shallow waves.

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