Chapter 3 - Midnight Confessions in the LibraryFour days passed without another incident.
I kept my head down, scrubbed floors, washed windows, and avoided the upper wings whenever possible. But Mercer House was a living entity, and secrets had a way of leaking through its floorboards.
On the fifth night, around 1:00 AM, a sudden, violent cough woke me up. My throat was bone-dry. The basement water cooler was empty, so I crept quietly up the service stairs toward the main kitchen on the ground floor, wearing my soft slippers so as not to wake the security patrols.
The house was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight streaming through the towering arched windows.
As I passed the grand library—a two-story room lined with leather-bound first editions—I noticed a narrow strip of golden light spilling out from beneath the heavy mahogany doors.
The door was cracked open about an inch.
I should have kept walking. I should have filled my glass and run back to the safety of my basement. But an irresistible curiosity—or perhaps some reckless, self-destructive impulse—drew my feet toward the gap.
I peered inside.
Damian Mercer sat at an enormous mahogany desk. His suit jacket was discarded over the back of his chair, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded, muscular forearms covered in faint, faded scars.
He wasn't looking at business ledgers or shipment manifests.
Spread out across the massive desk were dozens of photographs.
My breath caught in my throat. They were pictures of a woman with warm, laughing brown eyes and a bright smile—Rebecca Mercer. And beside her, in every single frame, was a younger, smiling Noah.
Damian was holding a small, silver-framed photo close to his chest, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bulged. In the dead silence of the massive library, I heard something that terrified me far more than his cold demeanor in the foyer.
A sound.
A ragged, shuddering gasp.
The most feared underworld king in Chicago was crying in the dark.
I stepped back instinctively, my slipper brushing against the edge of a Persian rug with a soft scuff.
Instantly, the ambient sound of the room changed.
The chair scraped sharply against the hardwood floor. Heavy, lethal footsteps crossed the room in a fraction of a second. Before I could turn to run, the library door swung wide open with a deafening crash.
A hand like a steel vise clamped around my wrist, yanking me forward into the blinding light of the room and slamming my back against the heavy wooden door.
“Who’s there?” Damian’s voice was a low, lethal growl, vibrating with raw fury and humiliation.
His face was inches from mine. His storm-gray eyes were bloodshot, blazing with an unholy fire, and his chest heaved against mine. The scent of scotch and danger was overwhelming.
“Mr. Mercer,” I choked out, fighting the wave of dizziness washing over me. “I—I was just getting water. I didn't mean to—”
His gaze dropped from my eyes down to my wrist, then flicked to my face, scanning every inch of my features with terrifying intensity.
“You’re the new housekeeper,” he said slowly, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously quiet. “Clara.”
“Yes. Please, I’m sorry. I’m leaving right now—”
“You heard me,” he whispered, his grip tightening just enough to send a sharp pinch of pain through my bones. “You stood out there and watched me.”
“I didn't mean to watch anything! The door was open, I heard—I just wanted water—”
“Shut up,” he commanded softly.
He didn't let go. Instead, his free hand came up, his long, calloused fingers brushing lightly—almost agonizingly slow—against the bruised skin of my cheek where Ray Maddox’s thug had hit me.
I froze, every breath trapped in my lungs.
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“Who did this to you?” Damian asked.
His voice didn't sound like a boss questioning an employee. It sounded like a man issuing a death sentence.
