Chapter 4 - The Morning After the Storm
The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the East Wing suite, casting warm, golden slats across the Persian rug.
When I woke up, the armchair felt stiff, but the frantic terror of the night before had vanished. I looked down at the king-sized bed where Eli was sleeping soundly, his breathing clear and deep, his fever entirely gone.
On the mahogany nightstand sat a fresh cup of black coffee, a glass of ice water, and a handwritten note on heavy cardstock bearing the Vale family crest:
“Breakfast is served in the main dining room at 9:00 AM. Do not feed the baby heavy solids until Dr. Sterling clears him. — A.”
I stared at the note, half-convinced I had dreamed the entire night.
At 9:15 AM, dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a sweater I had retrieved from my duffel bag in the laundry wing, I carried Eli down the sweeping grand staircase into the heart of the mansion.
The house was eerily quiet. The domestic staff—usually bustling around with dusters and polishing rags at this hour—were nowhere to be seen.
As I approached the double doors of the formal dining room, I heard voices floating out into the corridor.
“You can’t be serious, Adrian,” Celeste Marrow’s voice snapped, sharp and dripping with venom. “You turned your house upside down for a maid’s bastard child? Half the social circle is already whispering about the scandal! My mother heard from your head housekeeper that there’s a crib in the East Wing!”
I stopped dead in my tracks outside the open door.
“Let them whisper, Celeste,” Adrian’s voice replied, smooth and entirely devoid of emotion.
“She’s a servant, Adrian! A nobody! She snuck a brat into your home and lied to your face for six months, and you’re treating her like royalty while you throw me out of your dinner party like common trash?” Celeste’s voice rose, vibrating with hysterical fury. “What is she to you? Is there something you’re not telling us? Because people in our position don't just harbor peasant babies out of the goodness of their cold, ruthless hearts!”
I held Eli tighter against my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned to walk away, not wanting to hear any more, not wanting to be the subject of a high-society war of words.
“Get out, Celeste,” Adrian said.
“Adrian—!”
“I said, get out of my house. And if I hear that you’ve spoken a single word about what happened here last night to the press, or to anyone in my business circle, your father’s shipping contracts with my freight firm will be terminated by noon today.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed across the dining room.
A moment later, high heels clicked furiously against the marble floor. Celeste stormed around the corner, her face twisted in an ugly mask of rage. She stopped when she saw me standing in the hallway, holding Eli.
Her eyes swept over me with pure, unadulterated hatred.
“Enjoy your little game while it lasts, cleaning girl,” Celeste hissed as she brushed past me, her perfume smelling like expensive poison. “Men like Adrian Vale don't rescue strays. They just wait until the right moment to put them down.”
She marched toward the front foyer, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind her with a concussive boom.
I stood frozen in the hallway, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. Celeste was a vicious, entitled socialite, but her words carried a dark, cynical truth. Men like Adrian Vale didn't do things for free. There was always a ledger. There was always a cost.
“She’s gone,” Adrian’s voice said from the doorway of the dining room.
I looked up. Adrian was standing there in a charcoal-grey cashmere sweater, holding a white teacup in his hand. He looked calm, collected, entirely unbothered by the domestic explosion that had just occurred ten feet away.
“You didn't have to do that,” I said stiffly. “Risking your business relationships over us.”
“Celeste is a distraction,” Adrian said dismissively, stepping into the hallway. He looked down at Eli, who was now awake, blinking sleepily and chewing on his thumb. A faint, genuine warmth softened the hard lines of Adrian’s face. “How’s the patient?”
“He’s fine. His fever broke. Dr. Sterling’s treatment worked.” I hesitated, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Vale... I need to pack our things. I can’t stay here after what happened. Your reputation—”
“My reputation,” Adrian interrupted, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute register that commanded total silence, “is entirely my concern. You are not leaving.”
“I’m your maid, Mr. Vale. I can’t just live in the East Wing.”
“Then consider yourself promoted,” Adrian said smoothly. “Effective today, your title is private estate manager. Your salary is quadrupled, and your primary responsibility is ensuring that this house is run to my standards—which includes keeping my residence properly supplied and my godson healthy.”
I stopped breathing.
“Your... what?”
Adrian didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing against Eli’s tiny hand. Eli didn't pull away; instead, with the innocent fearlessness of an infant, he wrapped his tiny fist around Adrian’s index finger.
May you like
Adrian looked down at their joined hands, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Come inside, Maeve,” Adrian said, turning back toward the dining room. “There’s something I need to show you. Something in the family archives that explains why you were never going to be allowed to just walk out of this house.”
