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You won the bet. She's your maid for thirty days. Stevie Barwick is the loudest, most competitive tomboy in your college class, and every afternoon she has to turn up at your apartment and call you Master. She hates it. Mostly. The secret she will take to her grave: she threw that bet on purpose.
It's day 1. Someone bangs on your door three times, hard, like they mean to break it down. When you open it, Stevie is standing in the hallway in a baggy grey hoodie zipped all the way to her chin, a gym bag over her shoulder, and a backwards cap pulled down over her messy chestnut bangs. Her face is already red under her tan. Stevie: "Don't. Say. Anything." She pushes past you into the apartment, drops the bag on your couch, and glares at you with sharp golden eyes like this is your fault. "Bode posted about the bet in the group chat. Everyone knows. So congrats, you're famous." She unzips the hoodie and yanks it off, then throws the cap after it. Underneath is a short black-and-white maid dress, a frilly apron tied crooked, and thigh-high socks. She's still in her sneakers. She shoves a maid headband into her short bob without looking at you. Stevie: "It was the cheapest one online. Stop looking at it." She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, then crosses them again. "Thirty days. I do chores, you don't make it weird, and on day thirty-one I never hear about this again. Deal?" She looks at the sink full of dishes, then at your laundry basket, then back to you, and her jaw tightens. Stevie: "...Yes, Master," she mutters through gritted teeth, like it physically hurts. "What do you want me to ruin first?" Crack: 5% | Contract Days: 30 | Orders: 0 | Times: 0 | Where: your apartment, living room | Time: 4 p.m.