To thank the former prisoner for saving his daughter, the millionaire hired her as a housemaid.

Lyuba woke up from the freezing cold. Her old jacket, long since reduced to rags, no longer kept her warm. Autumn was approaching fast: the nights were getting longer, the wind stronger, and even under the roof of the abandoned attic, the cold was unbearable. In winter, surviving there would be impossible… but Lyuba had no other option. The shelter was closed to her; her criminal record barred her. No one would hire her. As soon as they found out she had “served time,” their faces changed instantly, and the conversation ended. As if she had a sign written on her forehead: “Not one of us.”

Right in front of the small window of her temporary shelter shone a huge billboard: bright images, flashy banners, musical jingles — everything reminded her of another life, full of noise, light, and warmth. A life that seemed so close yet utterly unreachable. In one corner of the screen, the time was displayed; Lyuba had chosen that attic for exactly that reason. At least she could keep track of the hours. It was 8:20.

Searching through her pockets, she found some wrinkled coins. Probably enough for a roll and some kefir — at least something for breakfast. She poured a little water from a bottle onto her face and washed up quickly. Her short hair stuck out wildly; she tried to flatten it. She always tried to stay clean: washing her clothes whenever she could, wiping her shoes with a cloth or a stick. She wanted to maintain at least the appearance of a normal life, of human dignity.

Near the store, by the garbage bins, a group of homeless people gathered. They rummaged through boxes, sorting through things. Lyuba shuddered: would she soon have to become one of them? Not yet. She was still fighting, looking for odd jobs. But who would hire an ex-convict, as they called her with contempt? Only her meager income kept her from complete poverty.

After buying kefir and a bun, Lyuba sat on a bench and began to eat slowly. The warm bun felt almost like a holiday. And a thought crossed her mind: maybe today she would take a risk and ask the janitor Kuzmich for help? So many leaves had fallen overnight, surely he couldn’t handle it all alone. “I’ll ask. Maybe he’ll help,” she decided, and headed toward the crosswalk.

But she hadn’t even reached the zebra crossing when her heart stopped: a girl of about ten was speeding on a scooter, heading straight for a red light. From the opposite side, a truck was barreling toward the intersection, honking wildly. The girl had headphones in; she didn’t even hear it.

“Hey!” Lyuba shouted, but the girl didn’t react.

Without thinking, Lyuba lunged forward, grabbed the girl by her jacket, and yanked her back. The girl fell at her feet, and at that very moment, the scooter vanished under the truck’s wheels. There was a screech, a crunch, and plastic flew everywhere.

“Where do you think you’re going? Didn’t you hear the horn?” Lyuba exclaimed, scolding her.

“No… I was listening to music…” the girl whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Don’t cry. It’s understandable that you were scared. Are you upset about the scooter?”

“Uh-huh… But my dad could buy me a hundred more like it. That’s not the point…”

“Let’s get to know each other. I’m Lyubov, and you?”

“Nadya…”

“Well, Nadya, we’re halfway there — we already know each other. Now let me walk you home. We don’t want you running into traffic again.”

Nadya turned out to live nearby, just three blocks away. They walked in silence; the girl was still in shock. They arrived at a large mansion with a tall fence and an intercom. A stern, uniformed guard stood at the gate.

Nadya pressed the button, and the gate opened. She went in, but the guard blocked Lyuba’s way.

“She’s with me, Roman,” Nadya said firmly, and the guard let her through reluctantly.

“Is Dad home?” Nadya asked. After getting an answer, she turned to Lyuba: “Wait here, okay? I’ll be quick.”

Lyuba wanted to leave, but Nadya’s determined look made her stay. She stood next to the fence, twisting her jacket sleeve, feeling like a stranger. The guard grumbled something disapproving about “ragged people,” watching her with a critical eye. His gaze reflected a mix of disgust and contempt. He was clearly trying to guess her age: twenty-five? Thirty? Years and hardship were deeply etched on her face.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Viktor Nikolaevich — a majestic middle-aged man with an authoritative air — sat in his office, carefully reading documents. He had a furrowed brow and a fixed stare, clearly displeased by what he was reading. Nadya burst into the room.

“Dad, you’re not going to believe what happened!” she exclaimed.

She told him everything: about the scooter, the truck, and the woman who saved her.

Viktor turned pale. He hugged his daughter tightly.

“You’re not going anywhere alone from now on!” he declared firmly.

“Dad, I’m already eleven! I’ll be more careful, I promise!”

“No, Nadya. The cost of one mistake is too high. This decision is final.”

He called the guard:

“Bring in the woman who came with Nadya.”

One minute later, Lyuba entered the office. She stood modestly and uncertainly.

“I’m very grateful,” Viktor Nikolaevich said warmly. “You saved my daughter. This wasn’t just a good deed—it was true heroism. I’m a businessman, and I always try to show appreciation. Tell me how much you’d like to receive.”

“Oh no… that’s not necessary… I just happened to be there at the right time,” Lyuba blushed and lowered her eyes.

But the man wasn’t deterred. He began asking her name, where she worked, and where she lived. After hesitating briefly, she told him her story in short: about the attic she lived in, the odd jobs, and the hardships she faced after her release.

She was embarrassed, but she didn’t hide anything.

There’s a good saying: it’s better to give someone a fishing rod than a fish. So… it just so happens I have a vacancy for a housemaid. I’d like to offer it to you. Nothing complicated—just keeping the house clean and in order. You’ll have your own room on the first floor, and meals will be provided by the owner. And here’s an advance payment.” He carefully laid the bills out on the table. “The rest depends on your work. What do you say?”

Lyuba was frozen in place as she stared at the neatly arranged banknotes. The amount seemed enormous to her—especially compared to the coins she was used to living on. She couldn’t find the words; she just nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the money, as if afraid it would vanish.

“Angela Petrovna!” the owner called out. “Show the new maid her room, explain her duties, and introduce her to the staff.”

Angela Petrovna, a tall woman with a straight back and a cold gaze, carried out the task. She led Lyuba through the house, explaining everything dryly and precisely. The room was small but cozy: a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a window facing the garden. The bathroom was shared. Lyuba was given a uniform and warned:

“There must be order here. I do not tolerate messiness. I hope that won’t be a problem for you.”

In the kitchen, she was greeted by Natalia Nikolaevna, the cook, a kindly-faced woman with perpetually rosy cheeks. Upon seeing the newcomer, she immediately served her a cup of coffee and a plate of sandwiches.

“Now that you’re one of us, you have to be welcomed properly! Eat, don’t be shy,” she said with a wink.

And so, unexpectedly, Lyuba entered a new stage of her life. Viktor Nikolaevich didn’t tell anyone where the new maid had come from. But when they were alone, he decided to learn more:

“It’s important for me to know who’s living in my house. Tell me a bit about yourself.”

Lyuba didn’t hide anything. Calmly and honestly, she told him how she grew up in an orphanage, graduated from nursing school, and dreamed of working as a nurse. One night, on her way home from class, she was attacked by two drunk men. She defended herself, pushing one of them, who hit his head on a stone. The next day, he died. She was found guilty of his death.

“There was an investigator—Maxim Maksimovich,” Lyuba said quietly. “He was, I’d say, the only one who treated me with any humanity. He proved it was self-defense. But even so, the court sentenced me to four years. And now… I’m free. No family, no home to return to. Finding work is another story. The moment they hear ‘criminal record,’ their faces change instantly.”

She spoke without complaining, simply listing the facts. Viktor Nikolaevich listened intently, nodding thoughtfully. Apparently, he appreciated her honesty.

The household welcomed Lyuba more warmly than she ever expected. The owner’s driver, a burly man with a thick mustache and always dressed in a formal suit, turned out to be a cheerful joker. When he greeted her, he gave an exaggerated bow:

“—Accept my respects, mademoiselle!” he winked at her like a hero from an old movie.

Margarita, Nadya’s mother, brought her a bag of clothes:

“Here, take this. Dresses, sweaters… they were just lying around.”

Natalia Nikolaevna, the cook, even started calling her “daughter.” Every time she offered her something delicious — a warm pastry or a freshly baked apple pie.

Even the strict Angela Petrovna didn’t bother her without reason. If she ever made a comment, it was always fair and without malice.

One day, Nadya proudly showed off her doll collection:

“Look, an army of Barbies! Did you have any?”

“Yes,” Lyuba replied with a smile. “Only I sewed their clothes myself, from scraps of fabric. Back then, they didn’t buy us anything.”

“Really? Will you teach me?” the girl asked with a beaming smile.

And soon they were sewing doll clothes together. Nadya sang cheerfully, trying on all the dresses and learning how to cut patterns.

The only one who still treated Lyuba with suspicion was the guard Roman. He barely spoke to her, looked at her coldly, squinting as if he was waiting for something.

Meanwhile, Viktor Nikolaevich understood perfectly why it was so important that Nadya not go out alone. The reason wasn’t just the incident with the truck. His construction company was generating large profits, and Dmitry Molchanov — known in certain circles as “The Moth” — had long been eyeing it. Once a common thug, he had managed to rise by building his criminal empire.

He had repeatedly offered to buy Viktor’s business, and when Viktor refused, he began to hint:

“If you don’t want to do this the easy way, it’ll happen the hard way,” he said with veiled but clear threats.

Lyuba, of course, knew nothing about any of this. She simply did her duties honestly: cleaning, laundry, keeping the house tidy. On her day off, she decided to relax a bit — take a walk, visit a shop, buy something for herself.

After shopping, she entered a café, ordered a coffee, and sat by the window, enjoying the hustle and bustle of the street. Suddenly, her gaze fixed on two men at a nearby corner. One of them had a familiar face. The same man who had attacked her many years ago. The second was his brother — the one who had died that night. They were the Molchanovs.

Her heart pounded. The man was sitting just ten meters away, gesturing, talking about something. His companion had his back turned. She needed to leave before they saw her.

“He definitely hasn’t forgiven me… He thinks I’m guilty,” she thought. Though in truth, he was the one to blame: drunk, unstable — he attacked first. She had only defended herself…

Lyuba was already rising to leave unnoticed when the second man turned — and her purse nearly fell from her hands. It was Roman. Their own security guard.

At home, Lyuba immediately went to see Viktor Nikolaevich. What she had seen deeply disturbed her.

“I went into the café, not doing anything — and there he was, that scoundrel Molchanov. And with him, Roman. They were sitting at the same table, talking like best friends.”

“Molchanov?” Viktor frowned. “Dmitry — the one trying to take over my business?”

“The very same.”

Now it all made sense — how Molchanov was getting information, how he knew about deals, plans, and meetings. The leak came from inside the house. And it was being fed by the person they trusted the most: the guard.

“We must act immediately,” Viktor said firmly, rising from the table.

The next morning, he sent his wife and daughter on vacation to a warm country. Natalia Nikolaevna and Angela Petrovna were given time off. He himself went to the police.

Investigator Denis Maksimovich listened attentively to the businessman’s story and sighed:

“We’ve heard about Molchanov more than once. But no cases have been opened: no evidence, no witnesses, no hard facts.”

“So, I’m supposed to wait until my house explodes?” Viktor asked bitterly.

“There is a way,” the investigator suggested. “Install hidden cameras. That way, no one will suspect a thing.”

The cameras were installed discreetly. Viktor didn’t tell Lyuba; the less she knew, the better.

Several days passed. Life went on. Viktor worked, reviewed documents, but from time to time, he checked the footage. One clip showed the winter garden: Lyuba watering the flowers. Everything looked normal.

And then… Viktor saw Roman. He entered the office, looked around, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out… a grenade.

“Damn it…” Viktor whispered, watching the guard carefully place the device, hiding the wires.

Lyuba’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Viktor Nikolaevich was calling.

“Lyuba, listen carefully. Roman just planted a grenade in my office. The police are on their way. Try to stall him. But be careful — don’t put yourself at risk.”

Lyuba took a deep breath, hid the phone, grabbed a rag, and headed into the hallway. Hearing footsteps, she began to act.

“Roman, help me, please! Something’s stuck — I can’t fix it,” she said, blocking his path.

“I don’t have time,” he replied curtly.

“Just wait a second!” she insisted. “I’m here all alone — no one to help me…”

Roman began to get angry, tried to push past her — but just then, a voice boomed from the intercom:

“Freeze, scumbag!”

Without hesitation, Lyuba struck him on the head with the mop. Hard — until her arms ached. The guard collapsed to the floor.

Seconds later, the police stormed the house. They handcuffed Roman, found the grenade, the wires, and his fingerprints. Lyuba sat on the floor, panting, holding the mop as the investigator began taking statements.

There was enough evidence — video footage, material proof, and Roman’s own confession. He broke down immediately and told everything: who gave the order, how much was paid, what was promised.

Dmitry Molchanov ended up behind bars. This time, neither money nor connections could save him.

Some time later, Denis Maksimovich called Lyuba:

“Maybe we should meet? Just like that. Not as investigator and witness, but as two people. I want to thank you. You’re very brave, Lyuba.”

They met at a café. The conversation was pleasant and sincere. Over time, their relationship grew closer, and one day, Denis proposed:

“Lyuba, will you marry me?”

“Of course I will,” she replied with a smile.

After packing her things, Lyuba said a warm goodbye to the house where her new life had begun. Nadya hugged her tightly:

“Promise me you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” Lyuba said.

Viktor Nikolaevich shook her hand:

“I’m happy for you, Lyuba. It’s hard to find people like you. Thank you for everything.”

Lyuba and Denis left together. The car slowly made its way down the street where Lyuba had once watched the billboard clock from her attic, dreaming of another life.

She looked out the window and thought:

Somewhere, someone else is also watching that clock. And may they be lucky too. I truly want to believe that.