Chapter 2 - The Housekeeper’s Ledger
Clara tried to slip past them toward the service stairs. Her shins throbbed with a dull, sickening ache, and the cut on her forehead was weeping fresh blood down into her eyebrow. She wanted nothing more than to hide in her tiny, windowless room in the basement staff quarters, pull the scratchy wool blanket over her head, and pretend she didn't just step into the crosshairs of the most dangerous syndicate war on the eastern seaboard.
"Clara."
She froze.
Damian’s footsteps clicked softly against the marble as he closed the distance between them. Clara kept her eyes glued to the polished toes of his leather shoes, acutely aware of how large she looked standing next to him, how her cheap, stretched uniform pulled tight across her broad back, and how out of place she was in a mansion built for cold, untouchable elegance.
"Mr. Vance," she murmured, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "I... I should check on the laundry. The dinner service..."
"Your uniform is ruined," Damian said quietly.
Clara blinked, caught off guard. She looked down at the dark crimson stain spreading across the grey apron where she had cradled Maya’s head.
"I have a spare," she whispered.
"Sit down at the island," he ordered.
It wasn't a request. It was an absolute command. Clara hesitated, then slowly pulled out a high leather barstool, climbing onto it with clumsy, painful movements. Her body felt bruised all over from where Eleanor had shoved her against the iron vault door.
Damian walked past her toward the butling pantry. When he returned, he wasn't holding a weapon or a ledger. He was carrying a pristine white medical kit—the heavy-duty trauma pack Julian kept near the security hub.
He pulled up a stool right beside her, popped the latch, and opened it.
"Give me your hand," he said.
"Mr. Vance, I can—"
"Give me your hand, Clara."
She swallowed hard and extended her right hand. Her fingers were swollen purple where Eleanor had slammed the heavy iron door on them. Damian took her hand with a gentleness that completely defied his terrifying reputation. His calloused fingers were warm as he unwrapped a sterile antiseptic wipe and began cleaning the dirt and dried blood from her knuckles.
Clara winced, her breath hitching.
"Sorry," he muttered, though his touch didn't lighten. "Does anything else hurt?"
"My head," she admitted softly, staring down at the dark sweep of his hair. "And my pride, a little bit."
May you like
A faint, ghostly shadow of a smile touched the corner of Damian's mouth. It was the first time she had ever seen him look like a human being instead of an executioner in a tailored suit.
"Your pride," Damian said, wrapping her knuckles in white gauze with expert precision, "is worth more than this entire estate. You saved my daughter's life today, Clara. Remember that when you think you don't belong in this house."
