Chapter 7 - Dawn at the Castillion EstateThe rain had finally stopped by the time Clara walked out of the main study and into the sprawling, glass-enclosed atrium of the Castillion estate. The first pale streaks of dawn were bleeding across the eastern horizon, painting the city skyline in shades of bruised purple and gold.
She stopped by the marble fountain to catch her breath.
Her life had changed irrevocably in less than twelve hours. Vincent Marlowe was gone—stripped of his power, his wealth, and his freedom, dumped somewhere in the cold rain of the eastern boroughs with nothing more than eighty-seven dollars in his pocket. Her mother’s medical fund had already been permanently secured by direct order from the head of the Castillion Foundation, with a personal note from Dr. Mercer confirming that all future treatments were fully covered for life.
And Clara Bennett was no longer just a temporary maid hiding a broken wrist beneath a black sleeve.
"Can't sleep?"
A deep, familiar voice broke the quiet rustle of the indoor palm trees.
Clara turned to see Leo walking down the glass-lined corridor. He had removed his suit jacket entirely, his crisp white shirt open at the collar, holding two porcelain cups of steaming black coffee. He extended one toward her.
"I keep waiting to wake up in my cramped apartment and realize I missed my six a.m. alarm," Clara admitted honestly, taking the cup with her right hand while keeping her left arm carefully braced against her side.
Leo smiled—a rare, genuine expression that transformed his severe features into something strikingly handsome. "You won't have to worry about alarms anymore. Daniel tells me the head housekeeper position for the west wing is vacant. The salary is five times what you were making as a temp, and it comes with private quarters on the second floor."
Clara stared at him, her coffee cup trembling slightly. "Mr. Castillion... I'm a maid. I don't know how to run a wing of an estate this size."
"You survived eleven months under Vincent Marlowe without breaking your spirit," Leo replied, stepping closer until he was standing right beside her against the stone railing. "Managing a few hallways and a staff of twenty will be effortless for you."
He paused, his dark eyes fixing on hers with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin.
"And for the record," Leo added quietly, "my friends call me Leo."
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Clara felt a warm flush rise up her neck. She looked away, staring down at the sprawling city below them as the first rays of sunlight hit the iron gates of the estate.
Little did she know, out in the city below, a storm was already brewing—one that Vincent Marlowe’s allies were orchestrating in the shadows, unaware that Leo Castillion had already anticipated every move on the board.
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