Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Second Floor
The room assigned to Clara on the third floor of the east wing was larger than her entire rented apartment. It featured a plush queen bed, high ceilings, a private bathroom with hot running water, and French doors that opened onto a stone balcony overlooking the misty gardens.
On the nightstand sat a thick leather envelope. Inside was three thousand dollars in clean cash—her first week’s advance—along with a simple, printed schedule.
Her duties were unexpectedly light: attend to Titan in the morning, walk him through the enclosed inner gardens, and bring Dante his evening tea at precisely 9:00 PM in his second-floor study.
For three days, Clara lived in a quiet, luxurious fog. Titan became her constant shadow. The terrifying mastiff, who had spent years cowering in fear, followed Clara everywhere she walked. He leaned his immense body against her legs while she read on the lawn, resting his massive head in her lap like an oversized puppy whenever she stroked his velvet ears.
Agnes treated Clara with a strange mixture of awe and nervous distance, while the guards standing post along the perimeter walls looked at her as if she possessed some form of witchcraft.
On the fourth night, at 8:55 PM, Clara stood in the vast, stainless-steel kitchen holding a silver tray. On it sat a porcelain pot of dark black tea, a single cup, and no sugar.
"Be careful up there, child," Agnes whispered as Clara reached for the tray, her voice tight with caution. "The second floor... that's where he keeps his work. No one goes up there unless invited. And never look at the papers on his desk."
Clara nodded softly, carrying the tray up the sweeping marble staircase.
The second floor was wrapped in dim, amber shadow. Dark mahogany paneling lined the walls, hung with oil paintings of stormy seas and old European estates. At the end of the long corridor, a sliver of warm light bled beneath a pair of heavy double doors.
Clara raised her knuckles and knocked twice.
"Enter."
She pushed the door open. The study was immense, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the night air. At the far end sat Dante Vance behind a massive desk of dark walnut. He was wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, corded muscle and dark tattoos that crept up from his wrists—mysterious symbols and Latin phrases woven together in black ink.
He was reading a thick stack of financial ledgers, a crystal glass of amber bourbon sitting beside a silver fountain pen.
Clara walked in quietly, her soft-soled shoes making no noise on the Oriental rug. She set the tea tray down on the small side table near his desk.
"Your tea, Mr. Vance," she said softly.
Dante didn't look up immediately. He finished signing a document with a crisp stroke of his pen before setting it aside. Then he leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes fixing on her face.
"How is the dog?" he asked.
"He's doing very well, sir," Clara replied, keeping her hands folded politely. "His appetite is back. And he let me wash the rest of the soap out of his coat yesterday with warm towels. He isn't afraid of the water when it's warm."
Dante stared at her for a long, quiet moment. "Warm towels," he repeated flatly. "I spent forty thousand dollars on an animal psychologist from Zurich who told me the dog needed to be put down."
"He didn't need to be put down," Clara said softly, a small flash of quiet bravery surfacing in her voice before she could stop it. "He just needed someone to stop yelling at him when he was scared."
A heavy silence descended upon the room.
Dante didn't grow angry. Instead, a faint, dark curve touched the corner of his lips. He stood up slowly, his towering six-foot-three frame casting a long shadow across the rug as he stepped around the desk.
"You have a soft heart, Clara Doyle," he said, stopping just two feet away from her. The proximity made her breath hitch in her throat. "In my world, a soft heart is a terminal disease."
"I don't belong in your world, sir," Clara whispered, looking up into his dark, intense eyes. "I'm just a maid."
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Dante reached out. His large, calloused hand hesitated in the air for a fraction of a second before his thumb gently brushed against her jawline, catching a stray lock of brown hair and tucking it behind her ear. His touch was surprisingly warm, sending a shivering jolt straight down her spine.
"You were a maid four days ago," Dante whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Now you are under my roof. And what is mine stays mine."
