Chapter 1 · I Broke Into A Rich Woman's House, She Made Me Her Maid

Chapter 1

I, Simon Blackwood, was known in the trade as "The Locksmith."

My lockpicking skills were almost supernatural.

Right at that moment, I was standing in the middle of a penthouse living room.

I was not looking at the painting, said to be worth millions, and the safe.

I was staring at a crumpled Chanel jacket on the sofa, with a half-eaten bag of chips underneath it.

Next to it were three mismatched socks. One of them was hanging from the floor lamp.

Was this a place for humans? This was a nest for trash creatures.

My clean-freak soul was burning.

Did I rob the place?

No. I was here to restore a clean environment.

*****

I took a deep breath, the air heavy with a bizarre blend of takeout and perfume.

My stomach churned.

Held it together, Simon. You were here for money.

I reminded myself: the target was that antique vase in the study, rumored to be worth six figures. It was enough to wipe out that damn debt.

My feet moved on their own, as if they were magnetized, dragging me straight into the heart of this disaster: the living room.

This wasn't a simple mess. It was a slap in the face to everything clean and orderly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. Nope, the chaos was still there.

This was physically revolting to me.

I'd rather do time in prison than spend another second in this dump.

No. I had a third option.

I reached into my trusty tool bag and slipped on a pair of pristine white gloves.

Then I pulled out a folded trash bag, a microfiber cloth, and a travel-size disinfectant spray.

This was what being a pro thief was all about. I couldn't risk leaving fingerprints.

I was a neat freak thief, not a moron.

It was time to get to work.

My first step was sorting the trash, recyclables, non-recyclables, and food waste.

Next, I gathered up the high heels scattered across the floor, lining them up in the shoe cabinet by brand, color, and heel height.

Then I folded the clothes from the couch, grouping them by fabric and season before stacking them neatly in a pile.

I stared at the Chanel jacket, with chip crumbs scattered all over it. My blood pressure shot through the roof.

I gingerly pinched it between two fingers, handling it as if it were a biohazard.

My next step was to sweep, vacuum, and mop.

I unleashed the legendary cross-mopping technique I'd mastered back in my housekeeping days, making sure every inch of the floor was spotless.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, but honestly, I didn't feel tired at all.

All I felt was this twisted, soul-cleansing rush.

I cleaned from two in the afternoon until seven at night, almost five solid hours.

When I finally straightened up and looked around, the living room was so spotless it could pass for a hotel suite. The sense of accomplishment hit me like never before.

That was how a place should look.

I was practically a miracle worker.

As for that antique vase, I didn't care about it anymore.

My real masterpiece was that clean living room. It was way more impressive than any old vase. But I wasn't about to work for free.

I grabbed a few tissues from my pocket, used them as a barrier, and slid open the coffee table drawer.

Inside, cash was scattered everywhere. I counted it carefully and took exactly 600 dollars.

With an eight-hour workday, I put in five hours. At the top-tier housekeeping rate of 100 dollars an hour, that was 500 dollars. The extra 100 dollars was for supplies and mental anguish.

That was fair and square.

I pulled out a pen and paper from my pocket and scribbled a note: [Your place is damn dirty. Take out the trash every day and stop leaving your socks everywhere. This is your cleaning fee. No need to thank me.]

I left the note and the change on the spotless coffee table.

It was perfect with the job done. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I headed out. I also took her trash downstairs and tossed it for her.

I found a roadside food stall and ordered a plate of pasta.

Damn, that hit the spot. As I was happily slurping my pasta, two looming shadows fell over me.

One of the men barked, "Police. Don't move."

I jerked my head up, startled.

Two uniformed officers stood in front of me, faces deadly serious.

One of them was holding a sketch of my face.

The pasta in my mouth plopped back into the plate with a wet splat.

Already? That was quick. Man, I didn't get a chance to clean up.

Chapter 1

I, Simon Blackwood, was known in the trade as "The Locksmith."

My lockpicking skills were almost supernatural.

Right at that moment, I was standing in the middle of a penthouse living room.

I was not looking at the painting, said to be worth millions, and the safe.

I was staring at a crumpled Chanel jacket on the sofa, with a half-eaten bag of chips underneath it.

Next to it were three mismatched socks. One of them was hanging from the floor lamp.

Was this a place for humans? This was a nest for trash creatures.

My clean-freak soul was burning.

Did I rob the place?

No. I was here to restore a clean environment.

*****

I took a deep breath, the air heavy with a bizarre blend of takeout and perfume.

My stomach churned.

Held it together, Simon. You were here for money.

I reminded myself: the target was that antique vase in the study, rumored to be worth six figures. It was enough to wipe out that damn debt.

My feet moved on their own, as if they were magnetized, dragging me straight into the heart of this disaster: the living room.

This wasn't a simple mess. It was a slap in the face to everything clean and orderly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. Nope, the chaos was still there.

This was physically revolting to me.

I'd rather do time in prison than spend another second in this dump.

No. I had a third option.

I reached into my trusty tool bag and slipped on a pair of pristine white gloves.

Then I pulled out a folded trash bag, a microfiber cloth, and a travel-size disinfectant spray.

This was what being a pro thief was all about. I couldn't risk leaving fingerprints.

I was a neat freak thief, not a moron.

It was time to get to work.

My first step was sorting the trash, recyclables, non-recyclables, and food waste.

Next, I gathered up the high heels scattered across the floor, lining them up in the shoe cabinet by brand, color, and heel height.

Then I folded the clothes from the couch, grouping them by fabric and season before stacking them neatly in a pile.

I stared at the Chanel jacket, with chip crumbs scattered all over it. My blood pressure shot through the roof.

I gingerly pinched it between two fingers, handling it as if it were a biohazard.

My next step was to sweep, vacuum, and mop.

I unleashed the legendary cross-mopping technique I'd mastered back in my housekeeping days, making sure every inch of the floor was spotless.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, but honestly, I didn't feel tired at all.

All I felt was this twisted, soul-cleansing rush.

I cleaned from two in the afternoon until seven at night, almost five solid hours.

When I finally straightened up and looked around, the living room was so spotless it could pass for a hotel suite. The sense of accomplishment hit me like never before.

That was how a place should look.

I was practically a miracle worker.

As for that antique vase, I didn't care about it anymore.

My real masterpiece was that clean living room. It was way more impressive than any old vase. But I wasn't about to work for free.

I grabbed a few tissues from my pocket, used them as a barrier, and slid open the coffee table drawer.

Inside, cash was scattered everywhere. I counted it carefully and took exactly 600 dollars.

With an eight-hour workday, I put in five hours. At the top-tier housekeeping rate of 100 dollars an hour, that was 500 dollars. The extra 100 dollars was for supplies and mental anguish.

That was fair and square.

I left the note and the change on the spotless coffee table.

It was perfect with the job done. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I headed out. I also took her trash downstairs and tossed it for her.

I found a roadside food stall and ordered a plate of pasta.

Damn, that hit the spot. As I was happily slurping my pasta, two looming shadows fell over me.

One of the men barked, "Police. Don't move."

I jerked my head up, startled.

Two uniformed officers stood in front of me, faces deadly serious.

One of them was holding a sketch of my face.

The pasta in my mouth plopped back into the plate with a wet splat.

Already? That was quick. Man, I didn't get a chance to clean up.