Chapter 5 - The Maid He Could No Longer FireNicholas stayed in the hospital three more days.
He hated all three.
Iris spent most of them keeping him from pretending he was healthy.
On the fourth morning, Dr. Hale agreed to discharge him under conditions Nicholas described as “borderline imprisonment.”
No alcohol.
No driving.
No strenuous activity.
Continuous cardiac monitoring.
Medication only from approved hospital pharmacy channels.
Twenty-four-hour medical supervision nearby.
Nicholas accepted everything except the last condition.
“I already have someone.”
Dr. Hale looked at Iris.
“She is not a nurse.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“So have I,” Iris muttered.
Nicholas ignored her.
In the end, a private cardiac nurse moved into a guest suite while Iris remained responsible for nothing more medical than making sure Nicholas ate and did not attempt to chair three board meetings before breakfast.
They returned to the mansion under increased security.
The house looked identical.
Iris felt differently entering it.
Every lock appeared suspicious.
Every shadow looked like memory.
The pantry door had been fingerprinted.
Security cameras had been replaced.
Access codes reset.
Nicholas’s office drawer now required biometric authorization.
Still, Iris could not stop thinking about Margaret Whitmore.
Police had found no body.
No witnesses.
Traffic cameras showed Margaret driving alone toward the harbor, but another vehicle had followed approximately two minutes behind.
Its plates were unreadable.
Nicholas hired investigators.
Nothing.
On the second evening home, Iris entered his office with tea.
Nicholas was reading Margaret’s old personnel file.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’m sitting.”
“That is technically not the same thing.”
He closed the file.
“Come here.”
Iris hesitated.
Nicholas pointed toward the chair opposite his desk.
“That phrase sounds alarming when you say it.”
“I’m not proposing marriage.”
Her heart performed a completely unreasonable movement.
“I would hope not.”
Nicholas looked at her for one beat too long.
Then he placed an envelope on the desk.
“What is this?”
“Your employment contract.”
Iris frowned.
“What about it?”
“I’m terminating it.”
For one second she did not understand.
Then anger struck.
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes.”
“Because I stayed?”
“No.”
“Because I refused to leave?”
“No.”
“Because I took away your laptop?”
“That was unforgivable, but no.”
“Nicholas.”
He slid a second document toward her.
Iris did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“A new contract.”
“I don’t want a new contract.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“You just fired me.”
“As a maid.”
The anger stopped.
Nicholas folded his hands.
“I want you employed as executive household manager and personal liaison.”
“That sounds like a title invented by a man who has too much money.”
“It probably is.”
“What does it mean?”
“You coordinate the house. You can tell staff what to do instead of doing all of it yourself.”
“I like doing things myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m tired of watching you clean rooms no one uses when you’re capable of running the entire operation.”
Iris looked at the contract.
The salary nearly made her drop it.
“This is triple.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No?”
“No.”
“People generally negotiate upward.”
“I’m not accepting three times my salary because you almost died and became emotional.”
Nicholas stared.
“I did not become emotional.”
“You cried.”
His face hardened.
“Classified information.”
Despite herself, Iris smiled.
Then she pushed the contract back.
“Why now?”
Nicholas’s expression changed.
“Because for five years I pretended not to notice what you were capable of.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is.”
“You trusted me with everything in this house.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
He looked down.
“But I liked knowing where you would be.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
Nicholas continued before she could respond.
“If I promoted you, you might leave the household. If I encouraged you to finish the degree you mentioned once, you might find work somewhere else.”
Iris stared.
“You remember that?”
“You wanted to study hospitality management.”
“I told you that four years ago.”
“I remember everything you tell me.”
The room became too quiet.
Nicholas looked away.
“I was selfish.”
Iris suddenly understood hundreds of small moments.
The raises.
The schedule changes whenever she took evening classes.
The anonymous payment of one semester’s tuition she had always assumed was a scholarship.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Did you pay my tuition?”
Nicholas became extremely interested in a document on his desk.
“Nicholas.”
“The institution received a charitable grant.”
“You paid my tuition.”
“I funded a program.”
“For one student.”
“Highly targeted philanthropy.”
She stared at him.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would have refused.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
She should have been furious.
Part of her was.
Another part saw what he had never said.
Three years.
The investigation.
Remembering her plans.
Keeping her close.
Leaving her the house.
Iris sat down.
“Nicholas, what exactly are we doing?”
He went still.
It was the question neither had dared ask.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a very billionaire answer.”
“I can create a five-year corporate strategy in twenty minutes.”
“But?”
“You are significantly more complicated.”
“I am not complicated.”
“You argued with a cardiologist on my behalf.”
“He was wrong.”
“He went to medical school.”
“He was still wrong.”
Nicholas smiled.
Then his gaze softened.
“Iris.”
She looked at him.
“If I survive this, I need things to change.”
Her pulse increased.
“What things?”
“My life.”
“That’s vague.”
“Because I don’t know what it looks like yet.”
He rose slowly and came around the desk.
“I built everything around the assumption that wanting people was weakness.”
Iris remained seated.
“My father taught me that money was the only relationship that remained predictable. Employees stayed because they were paid. Partners stayed because deals were useful. Women stayed until the novelty ended.”
His mouth twisted.
“I made sure I never needed anyone long enough to be disappointed.”
“And now?”
Nicholas stopped in front of her.
“Now someone tried to kill me, and the only person I trusted enough to close my eyes beside was the woman who has spent five years pretending she doesn’t care who visits my bedroom.”
Iris’s face burned.
“You noticed that too?”
“I notice everything about you.”
She could barely breathe.
Before either could say more, the office doors opened.
Marcus stood there.
“Sir.”
Nicholas immediately straightened.
“What?”
“We found Mrs. Whitmore.”
Iris stood.
“Is she alive?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Yes.”
Relief slammed through her.
“Where?”
“St. Matthew’s Medical Center.”
Nicholas moved toward the door.
Marcus raised a hand.
“There’s more.”
Nicholas stopped.
“She wasn’t kidnapped.”
“What?”
“Police found her after she collapsed in a motel outside Evanston.”
Iris frowned.
“Why was she hiding?”
Marcus handed Nicholas a clear evidence bag containing an old brass key.
“She had this.”
Nicholas stared at it.
Recognition crossed his face.
“That key belonged to my mother.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a locked cabinet in her bedroom.”
Iris looked toward the staircase.
“The bedroom where she died?”
Nicholas nodded.
“The room was sealed after her funeral.”
“What’s inside the cabinet?”
His face became unreadable.
“I don’t know.”
Twenty minutes later they stood on the third floor in front of a door Iris had never opened.
Nicholas carried the brass key.
His hand shook.
Not from illness.
Memory.
“I haven’t been inside since I was nine.”
Iris touched his sleeve.
“You don’t have to do this tonight.”
“Yes.”
His voice was quiet.
“I do.”
The key unlocked the bedroom.
Dust floated through pale light.
Everything had been preserved.
A dressing table.
A silk robe hanging behind the door.
Books beside the bed.
A clock that had stopped at 3:17.
Nicholas stood motionless.
Iris said nothing.
Finally he crossed toward a narrow walnut cabinet.
The brass key fit.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
Medical documents.
A cassette recorder.
And a black notebook.
Nicholas opened it.
The handwriting belonged to Elena Valmont.
The final entry was dated two days before her death.
Nicholas read aloud.
“Arthur insists the tablets are safe. Conrad says I’m imagining the weakness. Margaret wants me to contact another doctor.”
His voice stopped.
Iris felt sick.
There was one final sentence.
Written shakily.
“If anything happens to me, protect Nicholas from them.”
Nicholas lowered the notebook.
Twenty years of grief transformed inside his face.
His mother had not simply died.
She had known.
And the same two names now surrounded Nicholas.
Arthur Mercer.
Conrad Valmont.
Iris looked at him.
Nicholas closed the notebook.
When he spoke, the weakness was gone.
“If they did this to her…”
His eyes turned cold.
“…they made one mistake.”
May you like
“What?”
“They left me alive.”
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