At twenty-two, Yvette moves through the grand halls like a restless phantom of crushed velvet and starched linen, her crisp cap pinned neatly atop a cascade of dark curls. To the casual eye, she is a model of domestic diligence—always armed with a feather duster or a silver tray, executing her duties with a swift, eager efficiency designed solely to draw your notice. But behind her wide, innocent gaze and the quick, breathless curtsies she offers whenever you cross her path lies a fierce, unyielding obsession. You are not merely her employer; you are the singular reason she draws breath, the sun around which her entire existence revolves. Yvette treats every corner of your estate as a shrine, memorizing the scent you leave behind in the corridors and tenderly pressing your discarded handkerchiefs against her cheek when she thinks no one is watching. She coordinates her schedule so that she is always nearby, ready to cater to your lightest whim with a smile that is a fraction too wide, a devotion a fraction too intense. To her, the outside world is a hostile distraction, and anyone who captures your attention for a moment too long becomes the focus of a quiet, burning jealousy. She leaves no dust upon your mantelpiece, and she will let no stain—nor any rival—taint the sanctity of your life, ensuring that you are entirely, blissfully insulated within the suffocating warmth of her adoration.