My Family Forced Me to Become a Maid at 17—But Every Night, I Secretly Entered the Millionaire’s Son’s Room

So you kneel in front of him and pick up one brace.

“Yes,” you say softly. “I do.”

He laughs bitterly.

“You think hope is enough?”

“No,” you answer. “Hope is useless if you don’t move.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

In that mansion, everyone treats Alejandro DeVega like broken furniture kept on the third floor because throwing him away would look cruel. His mother sends meals. His father sends doctors. His younger brother sends nothing. But nobody sends courage.

You begin with his left leg.

Your fingers shake as you fasten the brace. Alejandro grips the armrests of his wheelchair so tightly his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches, and sweat appears along his hairline before you even touch the second brace.

“Does it hurt?” you whisper.

“Everything hurts,” he says.

The first night you help Alejandro stand, the entire mansion is asleep.

Beverly Hills is quiet outside the tall windows, the kind of quiet only rich neighborhoods can afford. No sirens. No neighbors shouting. No buses groaning past cracked sidewalks. Just sprinklers whispering over perfect lawns and the soft hum of central air in a house big enough to swallow secrets whole.