Maid by Mistake - Miley Maine

Chapter One

Ava

A secret underground group that controlled the elite society in Chicago?

It sounded crazy right? It should have been laughable, because it sure sounded like a tabloid headline.

But nobody was laughing.

Mostly the citizens of Chicago just went for extreme denial.

For most of my life, I’d heard the rumor that a good portion of the money in upper-crust Chicago was gained through illegal means. The rumors were whispers, first at school, then online. I’d learned early on that no one in my world wanted to believe it.

I’d asked my mother when she was still alive. She’d smiled at me, and said, “Honey. That’s silly.”

I’d tried my dad next. “People are jealous. They can’t handle their own lack of success, so they have to disparage others,” he’d said.

It wasn’t the mafia, although it sure sounded close enough.

Now I was twenty-four, and the rumors had not been put to rest. In fact, they had only gained more attention.

This group didn’t specialize in prostitution or drugs, like other criminals. People claimed that all the illegal business was mainly conducted through a gambling ring.

But no matter what I Googled, or who I asked, I just couldn’t get any clear answers.

A chime sounded down the hallway, and I brought my focus back to my current reality.

My job.

The smell of burned coffee wafted by and I wrinkled my nose. It was so bad I was tempted to cover my face with my shirt. Mixed with the scent of my coworkers’ overpowering perfume, the smell was positively acrid.

I leaned over, trying to see the source of the problem. It was rare for anyone to make coffee in my office; most people ordered it and had it delivered from upscale cafes.

I pressed my fingers to my eyes. I should be concentrating on my work, but as usual, my heart wasn’t in it. I dropped my head back to rest against my stiff office chair. I blinked at my surroundings. White walls. White rug. White desk, all in a shiny highrise building. I was a junior staff writer at one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in America, headquarters in Chicago.

Great job? Right?

No. Not really. It fucking sucked.

After an hour of writing about the newest floral prints from a hot new designer, boredom had sunk in. I should be thrilled, I was well-aware. I’d gotten to interview that hot new celebrity designer, in person, in a swanky rooftop bar.

Against my better judgment, I got up from my desk and went to my friend's desk. I leaned over and whispered, “I wish I were writing about something interesting.”

Her eyes widened. “They’ll fire you if they hear you say that. I don’t care who your father is.” She bit her lip. “They’re probably recording you right now.”

“I know. I’m ungrateful.” The sad thing was, I didn’t care if they heard me. I didn’t care if I got fired. I also didn’t care if my father got mad that I lost the job he’d handed to me on a silver platter.

“You may not need the paycheck, but I do,” she hissed.

Fair enough. I hadn’t wanted this job. My goal from day one of college was to be an investigative reporter. Actually, my desire started before that. I’d gone on many fact-finding missions in high school, and even gotten myself into trouble with the administration at my private school.

I wanted to tell the truth.

A lot of people didn’t like that, especially not in the gilded world I came from.

I sighed. “I thought I’d be doing real reporting by now.”

She rolled her eyes at me and went back to her keyboard. “That’s what we all thought we’d be doing.”

I got closer to her ear. “You know there’s a gambling ring in Chicago.”

She snapped her gum. “People have been saying that for decades. I think it’s an urban legend.”

“I doubt it. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“It sounds really boring,” she said.

Boring? How was writing about a crime ring boring?

I couldn't take much more of the monotony. I knew I was being obnoxious, and taking my lifestyle for granted, but I didn’t care anymore. I wanted more. I wanted to write about something that mattered. And fashion did matter -- but not to me.

I pulled open the link on my phone. I’d been looking for other jobs. And tomorrow I had an interview with an online publication that only printed news-worthy stories.

On the last day of June, I found out I got the job.

I stared at the phone. My new boss had called me.

Fucking finally. I was going