Chapter 5 - Dawn on Beacon HillChristmas morning broke over Boston with a pale, bruised sunrise cutting through heavy snow clouds.
Upstairs in the guest suite, Maeve woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and roasted rosemary. For a moment, her mind spun—she was supposed to be downstairs lighting the ovens, prepping the silver platters, making sure the household ran without a hitch.
She scrambled out of bed, wincing as her fractured wrist throbbed, and threw on a loose linen sweater.
When she hurried down the stairs into the grand kitchen, expecting chaos or emptiness, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Callum Vale stood by the marble island wearing a dark cashmere sweater, his sleeves rolled up, expertly flipping a golden-brown pancake on a cast-iron skillet. On the counter beside him sat a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and a steaming pot of Earl Grey tea.
"You... you're cooking?" Maeve breathed, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Callum didn't look up from the skillet, though a faint, ghost-like smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "The staff is off, Maeve. And the dining room flowers are already changed. I did it myself at six."
Maeve walked slowly into the kitchen, her heart doing a strange, terrifying flip in her chest. "You changed the flowers? But those are white lilies—they need fresh spring water every morning or the petals drop."
"I used spring water. And I cut the stems at a forty-five-degree angle, just like I watched you do last week," Callum said, sliding the pancake onto a china plate and turning to face her.
He walked over, placing the plate gently in front of her at the small kitchen nook. He stood close enough that she could smell the clean scent of cedarwood and soap on his skin.
"The men who hurt you won't be bothering anyone in Boston ever again," Callum said quietly, his dark eyes searching her face. "Falcone sent a messenger an hour ago surrendering the Southie docks. You won't have to look over your shoulder anymore, Maeve."
Tears welled up in Maeve's eyes—not of pain this time, but of an overwhelming, terrifying safety she hadn't felt in three long years.
"Why did you do all this, Mr. Vale?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm just your maid."
May you like
Callum reached out, his warm thumb gently brushing a stray tear from her cheek, his touch surprisingly tender for a man who ruled the criminal underworld.
"You haven't been just a maid here for a long time, Maeve," he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers. "Now sit down and eat your breakfast. It's Christmas, and we have a lot of years to catch up on."
