Chapter 3 - THE MAID’S SECRETFor fourteen days, the world believed Don Declan Gallagher was rotting in a mahogany casket.
Above ground, the Gallagher estate was transformed into a circus of fake mourning and ruthless corporate restructuring. Tommy Gallagher hosted lavish dinners for corrupt politicians, reallocated syndicate territories to ruthless lieutenants, and threw grand parties in the estate’s rooftop ballroom.
Below ground, inside the dark, quiet basement apartment, a silent revolution was taking place.
Every morning at 6:00 AM, Abby put on her blue cotton maid's uniform, pinned her name tag to her full chest, and went upstairs to clean the estate.
And every afternoon at 4:00 PM, she returned to her apartment carrying stolen documents, flash drives, and crumpled pieces of paper pulled directly from Tommy’s private office trash cans.
"Tommy hired a French accounting firm," Abby said, tossing a stack of printed financial ledgers onto her dining table where Declan sat surrounded by three burner phones and a encrypted military laptop she had smuggled in from his secret safe.
Declan looked up from the screen. His wound had healed into a dark, thick scar across his ribs. His stubble had grown into a full, dark beard, making his sharp jawline look even more lethal, more rugged.
He pulled the papers toward him, his eyes scanning the numbers with the speed of a master strategist.
"He's liquidating the docks," Declan said, his eyebrows furrowing. "He's selling our primary maritime routes to Viktor Sokolov—head of the Russian Bratva."
Abby sat down across from him, pouring two cups of hot black tea. "Sokolov was at the house today. I served them lunch in the conservatory."
Declan’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes narrowing to razor-sharp points. "Sokolov was in my house? Did he speak to you?"
"He tried to pat my rear when I set his coffee down," Abby said casually, taking a sip of her tea.
CRACK.
The solid oak ballpoint pen in Declan’s hand snapped completely in half. Ink spilled across his knuckles.
"What did you say?" Declan’s voice dropped into a register so dark, so terrifying, that the air in the small kitchen instantly temperature-dropped.
"I dropped a scalding hot teapot onto his lap," Abby replied with a small, wicked smirk. "Accidentally, of course. I apologized profusely while he screamed in Russian and ruined his five-thousand-dollar wool pants."
Declan stared at her for two long seconds. Then, a slow, dark, beautiful smile spread across his face—a genuine smile that made his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners.
"God, I love you," he murmured.
The words fell out of his mouth so naturally, so effortlessly, that neither of them moved for a full five seconds.
Abby’s heart stopped. "What did you just say?"
Declan didn't look away. He didn't take the words back. He reached across the small table, covering her hand with his broad, warm palm.
"You heard me," he said softly, his thumb gently caressing her knuckles. "I spent seven years sitting in those grand rooms upstairs, surrounded by beautiful, empty people who would sell their mothers for a piece of my empire. And all the while, the most incredible, courageous, breathtaking woman in the world was cleaning my study."
"Declan, I'm... I'm just a maid," Abby whispered, her voice trembling as self-doubt—built from years of society telling her she wasn't thin enough, pretty enough, or rich enough—surfaced. "I don't belong in your world. I don't look like the women you date."
Declan stood up, stepping around the table, pulling her up from her chair until she was standing flush against him. He grabbed her hand and pressed it directly against his chest, right over his beating heart.
"Those women were plastic, Abby," he growled gently, his face dropping until his nose brushed against hers. "You are blood. You are fire. You saved my life, you stitched my flesh, and you stand in front of my enemies without trembling. You are more woman than any of them could ever dream of being."
May you like
He cupped her full, soft hips, pulling her body flush against his hard frame, letting her feel every inch of his strength, his longing, his desire.
"You aren't a maid anymore, Abby," Declan whispered, his lips pressing deeply, possessively onto hers. "You are my queen. And in two weeks, I'm going to tell the whole fucking world."
