At 2:13 in the morning, Victor Russo walked into his bedroom and found a woman sleeping in his bed.

“Because you looked like you were dying,” Victor said evenly. His voice was deep, smooth, and stripped of any heat, yet it carried an authority that made the room feel instantly smaller. “And dying on my sheets creates a level of paperwork I have no desire to navigate at two in the morning.”

Chloe swallowed, her throat feeling like sandpaper. She gripped the crystal glass of water with both hands, her knuckles pale against the glass. “I’m sorry, Mr. Russo. I swear I didn’t mean to—I was changing the linens, and I felt dizzy, and I just needed to sit down for a second—”

“You’ve been asleep for nearly six hours,” Victor interrupted, leaning back against the edge of his dark mahogany dresser. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. Up close, without his suit jacket, he was intimidating in a different way. The thin fabric of his white dress shirt clung to broad shoulders, and the rolled-up sleeves exposed forearm muscles patterned with faint, pale scars. “If your intention was a brief rest, Bennett, your execution was pathetic.”

Chloe’s cheeks burned hotter, though she knew half of it was the fever still racing through her veins. She tried to step around him toward the door, her knees trembling beneath her starch-cleaned maid’s uniform. “I’ll pack my things. I know the rules. Mrs. Gable explained them very clearly.”

“Mrs. Gable explains a lot of things,” Victor said quietly. “Most of which I ignore when it suits me.”

He didn’t move to block her path, but his gaze pinned her to the spot just as effectively as a iron hand. He pulled a sleek black smartphone from his pocket, tapped the screen twice, and held it to his ear.

“Dr. Evans,” Victor said into the receiver, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s face. “I need you at the estate. Master bedroom. Bring whatever you use for a severe fever and exhaustion. Ten minutes.”

Chloe’s eyes widened in panic. “Mr. Russo, no! I can’t afford a private doctor! Please, I just need to go home—”

Victor lowered the phone, his expression unreadable. “Did I ask you to pay for it?”

“No, but—”

“Then sit down before you hit my floor and crack your skull,” he commanded softly. It wasn’t a yell. He didn’t yell. Men like Victor Russo didn’t need to raise their voices to command a room.

Chloe stood frozen for a beat, torn between her instinct to run and the heavy, crushing fatigue dragging her limbs toward the ground. Her body made the decision for her. Her knees buckled slightly, and she sat abruptly on the edge of the plush armchair near the cold fireplace.

Before she could speak again, the heavy oak door opened. Mrs. Gable stood on the threshold, her gray hair pulled into a knot so tight it looked painful. She held a ring of brass keys in one hand, her severe eyes scanning the room. When her gaze landed on Chloe sitting in Mr. Russo’s private chair, disheveled and flush-cheeked, Mrs. Gable’s jaw tightened into a hard, unforgiving line.

“Mr. Russo,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin tone. “I apologize profusely. I was conducting the final floor sweep when I realized girl was missing from the night staff roster. I will have her removed immediately and her final wages forfeited for gross misconduct—”

“Gable,” Victor cut in smoothly.

The head housekeeper paused, blinking in surprise.

“Call off the night sweep,” Victor said, his tone casual, almost detached. “And tell the kitchen to prepare a bowl of clear broth and dry toast. Have it brought up here.”

Mrs. Gable looked between Victor and Chloe, her strict discipline struggling against pure bewilderment. “Up here, sir? To your quarters?”

“Did I stutter, Gable?”

“No, Mr. Russo.”

“Then see to it. And if anyone on staff speaks a single word about Bennett being in this wing tonight, you will ensure they leave my employment without a reference. Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Mrs. Gable said, bowing her head slightly. She cast one long, cold look at Chloe before stepping backward and shutting the heavy door without a sound.

The silence that returned to the bedroom was heavy, almost suffocating. Chloe clutched her glass of water, staring at the intricate patterns on the oriental rug beneath her shoes.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the freezing rain outside. “I’m just a maid. You don’t even know my name.”

“I know your name,” Victor replied, walking over to the decanter on his desk. He poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy crystal glass. “Chloe Bennett. Age twenty-four. Formerly employed at the Drake Hotel. No criminal record. Hired three weeks ago.” He took a slow sip, his dark eyes watching her over the rim. “I know everything about the people who walk under my roof, Bennett. It’s how I stay alive.”

“Then you know I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I decide who is supposed to be here,” Victor said softly. He walked over and stood near her chair, towering over her, his shadow enveloping her small frame. “You gave me five hours of sleep tonight, Chloe. Do you have any idea what that is worth to a man like me?”