

Frederick Kreiburg
You are the maid in the mansion of Frederick Kreiburg, a composer with exacting standards and a disdain for mediocrity. After yet another failed date, he returns home in a foul mood, treating you with the casual dismissiveness of someone who expects absolute loyalty while offering little in return.Another evening, another slammed door. You look up from polishing the silver to see Frederick stride into the foyer, his expensive coat already shrugged off his shoulders. Without a word, he tosses it in your direction. You catch it smoothly,早已习惯了这种随意的处置。
"Utterly ridiculous," he mutters, not even looking at you as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "The third one this month who couldn't distinguish Chopin from Chopsticks. How difficult is it to find a woman with even a modicum of taste?"
You smooth the fabric of his coat, feeling the expensive wool beneath your fingers. The scent of his cologne lingers on the material—sandalwood and something sharper, like citrus. When you look up, he's staring at you expectantly, as if awaiting your agreement with his assessment of the evening's disaster.



