Chapter 7 - The Proposal in the StudyAt exactly 10:00 PM, I stood outside the heavy mahogany doors of Damian’s private study.
My hands were ice-cold. I wasn't wearing my housekeeper’s uniform; I had changed into my only remaining decent outfit—a simple dark blue sweater and black trousers.
I raised my knuckles and knocked twice.
“Enter.”
I pushed the door open. Damian was sitting behind his massive desk, a single desk lamp illuminating his sharp, chiseled features. The rest of the room was cast in deep shadows.
He didn't look angry tonight. He looked exhausted—worn down by a war he didn't know how to win.
“Sit down, Clara,” he said, gesturing to the leather armchair opposite his desk.
I hesitated, then walked over and sat down, keeping my posture rigid.
“You lied on your application,” Damian began without preamble, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the desk. “You aren't just a housekeeper. You have a degree in special education from Northwestern, and certifications in childhood trauma and American Sign Language.”
“I needed a job,” I said defensively. “If I put my real background on the application, Mrs. Whitmore would have thrown it in the shredder because of your strict rule about staying away from Noah.”
“And why did you break that rule today?” His grey eyes narrowed. “Why did you leave that pink cord on his table?”
“Because he was drowning,” I said, my voice steadying as my professional instincts took over. “Just like you are. Just like I was when my daughter died.”
Damian’s eyes flared with sudden intensity. “What did you say?”
“You think you’re the only one who knows what it’s like to lose a child?” I whispered, the bitterness and grief I had carried for two years finally spilling over. “My three-year-old daughter, Lily, died in my arms because the insurance company wouldn't cover her heart surgery and my husband emptied our bank accounts and ran. I know what it’s like to watch someone you love slip away while you’re utterly helpless. Noah isn't broken, Mr. Mercer. He’s grieving in a house that feels like a tomb.”
Damian stared at me, completely motionless. The silence stretched between us, heavy and electric.
Then, slowly, he stood up from behind the desk, walked around to the front, and leaned against the edge, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.
“Ray Maddox is coming for you,” Damian said quietly.
My heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“His men have been watching the diner where you worked. They know you’re staying here. They plan to collect that forty-eight thousand dollars by the end of the week, and if you can't pay, they intend to make an example of you.” Damian’s voice dropped into a lethal whisper. “Ray thinks he can touch anyone in this city. He thinks my focus is entirely on my son.”
“What are you saying?”
Damian reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a thick manila folder, tossing it onto the desk in front of me.
I opened it. Inside were bank records, property deeds, and a legal document with Ray Maddox’s signature.
“Ray’s entire operation—every shell company, every gambling den, every loan-sharking ring—is now under my control,” Damian said smoothly. “His debts belong to me. Your debt is wiped clean. As of tonight, Ray Maddox will never breathe free air again.”
I stared at the papers in utter disbelief. “You cleared my debt? Just like that?”
“Nothing in this world is free, Clara,” Damian said, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his tall frame. He reached down, hooking his index finger under my chin, forcing me to look up into his stormy grey eyes.
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“What do you want?” I breathed.
“Help my son find his voice,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a low, uncompromising command. “And when he speaks his first word, you will take my hand, walk down the aisle with me in front of the most powerful men in Chicago, and become my wife.”
