Chapter 4 - The Price of ProtectionThe warmth of his calloused thumb against my bruised cheek sent an electric shock down my spine. I jerked my head back, breaking his touch, and stared up at him with wide, defiant eyes.
“That’s none of your business, Mr. Mercer,” I breathed, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.
A dangerous, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips. He slowly lowered his hand, though he didn't release my wrist.
“Everything that happens inside this estate—and everyone who enters my home—becomes my business, Clara,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “You walk around my halls looking like you’ve just survived a war zone, you jump at shadows, and you carry yourself like someone who owes a very heavy debt to very bad people.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” He tilted his head, his grey eyes piercing straight through my defenses. “Forty-eight thousand dollars to a loan shark named Ray Maddox. Am I close?”
My blood ran cold. The color drained completely from my face.
“How—how do you know that?”
“I own this city,” Damian replied simply, as if stating the weather. “Nothing moves in Chicago without my knowledge. A desperate woman with a special education background, a forged recommendation letter, and a mountain of inherited debt walks through my front gates three days after I make my announcement. Do you take me for a fool, Clara? Did you come here for the reward? Did Ray send you to infiltrate my house?”
“No!” I gasped, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. The sheer unfairness of it—after everything I had lost, after Lily died, after fighting tooth and nail just to survive—made my voice crack. “I didn't even know about your stupid announcement! I needed a job where I wouldn't get dragged into an alley and beaten within an inch of my life! I don't care about your empire, I don't care about your money, and I certainly don't care about your goddamn reward!”
I wrenched my wrist out of his grip with a sudden, desperate surge of strength. He didn't stop me. He simply stood there, watching me with an unreadable expression, his chest still heaving slightly.
“Get out,” he said quietly.
I didn't wait to be told twice. I turned and bolted down the dark corridor, not stopping until I reached the safety of my basement room, slamming the door and sliding down to the floor, sobbing into my knees.
I thought I would be fired by morning. I expected Mrs. Whitmore to storm down the stairs at dawn with my duffel bag and a one-way ticket out of Chicago.
Instead, morning came and went. No one came for me.
At noon, Mrs. Whitmore marched down to the basement, her face carved from stone.
“Mr. Mercer has modified your duties,” she announced stiffly, handing me a small, heavy silver key on a velvet ribbon.
“What is this?” I asked, staring at it in confusion.
May you like
“The East Wing playroom. Master Noah’s domain,” she said, her voice dripping with undisguised venom. “You are to clean it every day between 1:00 PM and 2:00 PM while he is having his tutor session. Do not speak to him. Do not touch his toys. Do your job and get out.”
I clutched the silver key in my palm. It felt heavy, cold, and entirely inescapable.
