Chapter 3 - The Secret in the West WingThe grand clock in the hallway chimed midnight, echoing hollowly through the empty halls of the Beacon Hill mansion.
Upstairs in the private family quarters—a wing Maeve was rarely allowed to enter unless she was cleaning—Callum stood by the window of his private study. Below him, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the cobblestone courtyard in white.
In the adjoining guest suite, Maeve sat gingerly on the edge of a silk-sheeted bed. A local doctor Callum had dragged out of bed at gunpoint (or close to it) had reset her wrist, wrapped her ribs, and left a bottle of heavy painkillers on the mahogany nightstand.
She hadn't taken them. Maeve didn't like losing control.
The door clicked open, and Callum walked in. He had discarded his coat, his white shirt sleeves still rolled up, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms and a faint, jagged scar crossing his inner wrist—a remnant of a life before empires and boardrooms.
He set a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea on the table beside her. Exactly the way she liked it: steeped for three minutes, no sugar, a single drop of lemon.
"You should be resting," Callum said, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm fine, sir. Really," Maeve whispered, looking down at her bandaged hand. "You shouldn't have given me your room. I can sleep in the staff quarters downstairs."
"The staff quarters are cold tonight," Callum replied smoothly. "And I don't want you walking down three flights of stairs with a fractured radius." He stepped closer, his dark eyes scanning her face. "Why didn't you call the police first, Maeve?"
Maeve stiffened. The question hung heavily between them, charged with a history she had tried desperately to keep buried.
"The police... they take statements. They ask questions," Maeve said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Questions I spent three years making sure nobody in Boston could answer."
Callum’s expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. "Three years ago, a girl named Maeve Donnelly vanished from Chicago after a high-profile corporate trial involving a shipping conglomerate tied to the Irish mob. The witness protection file was sealed, then mysteriously corrupted."
Maeve went completely pale. The mug of tea rattled against the saucer.
"You knew," she breathed, terror clutching at her throat. "All this time... you knew who I was?"
"I own half the security databases on the East Coast, Maeve," Callum said quietly, walking over and sitting down in the armchair across from her. "You thought you hid yourself well. You dyed your hair, dropped your accent, and took a job scrubbing floors for a monster. But you dropped a teacup on your first day, and your left-handed grip gave you away before you even finished unpacking."
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Maeve looked away, tears stinging her eyes again. "Are you going to turn me in? Are you going to give me to them?"
"To who?" Callum’s voice suddenly cut through the room like a blade. "The men who put that bruise on your face? The syndicate that thinks they can hunt in my city without my permission?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his intense gaze pinning her in place. "Maeve. For three years, you have kept my house running like clockwork. You noticed every detail I needed before I even knew I needed it. Do you really think I’m going to hand you over to anyone?"
