Chapter 1
Very slowly, I lifted my head.
Victor Hayes was awake.
He was staring at the ceiling, one hand resting stiffly against the arm of the sofa while the other remained trapped beneath my shoulder.
The pistol I had once seen at his belt lay on the side table several feet away.
He did not look furious.
Somehow, that frightened me more.
His eyes moved toward mine.
“Good morning,” he said.
My face burned.
I scrambled upright so quickly that the room tilted.
“I’m sorry.”
Victor winced when he shifted his injured shoulder, and I immediately stepped back.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. You were having a nightmare, and then you—”
“I know what happened.”
His voice was quiet.
That stopped me.
“You know?”
“I woke up before you did.”
There was something strange in his expression.
Not anger.
Not amusement.
Something closer to disbelief.
I looked toward the door.
“I should finish cleaning.”
“The rug is clean.”
I followed his gaze.
The broken crystal had been collected. The bourbon stain was barely visible beneath the low morning light leaking through the curtains.
I had finished most of it before falling asleep.
Victor studied me.
“What time did your shift start yesterday?”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Eight in the morning.”
His eyes moved toward the clock.
It was nearly six.
“You worked twenty-two hours?”
“Not exactly.”
“Explain the difference.”
“I clocked out at eleven.”
“And continued working.”
I said nothing.
His expression hardened, though not at me.
“Who told you to?”
“No one.”
That was technically true.
At the Hayes estate, employees learned quickly that unfinished work did not disappear merely because a shift ended.
Victor leaned back against the sofa.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You look at the floor whenever you decide the truth would cause trouble.”
My eyes immediately lifted.
A faint, tired smile appeared at one corner of his mouth.
“Thank you for proving my point.”
Under different circumstances, I might have smiled.
Instead, I remembered why I was there.
Liam.
The debt.
The balance that seemed to shrink at the speed of melting ice.
“I should get back downstairs.”
Victor’s voice stopped me.
“How much do you still owe?”
I turned.
He was no longer smiling.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It changes.”
“Debt doesn’t change by itself.”
I pressed my lips together.
He watched me for several seconds before reaching for his phone.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
His eyebrows rose.
It was probably the first time anyone working in that house had declined an instruction from him.
“I wasn’t ordering you.”
That surprised me enough to sit in the chair opposite him.
Victor made a brief call.
“Paul. Bring me the Kavanagh account.”
My stomach tightened.
The Kavanagh account.
My brother’s name.
Victor ended the call.
“You’ve been working here three months,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How much did Liam originally owe?”
“Thirty-two thousand.”
“And how much have you paid?”
“Almost twelve.”
His expression changed.
“Almost twelve?”
I nodded.
“That’s what Mrs. Doyle told me last week.”
Mrs. Doyle managed the household payroll.
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“And how much did she say remained?”
“Twenty-nine thousand six hundred.”
Silence filled the room.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
Finally he said, “That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“Did you ask why?”
“Twice.”
“And?”
“She said the arrangement included interest and administrative fees.”
Victor’s face became unreadable.
“That arrangement did not include interest.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The clock continued ticking.
Somewhere beyond the study, the house had begun waking. Doors opened. Footsteps crossed distant hallways. The ordinary sounds seemed oddly loud.
I tried to process what he had said.
“No interest?”
“None.”
“But Liam told me—”
“Your brother was told the same thing.”
A knock interrupted us.
Paul entered carrying a thin black folder.
He paused when he saw me sitting opposite Victor.
His eyes traveled from me to the sofa and then quickly back to Victor.
“Account file.”
Victor held out his hand.
Paul passed it over.
“Who has been managing deductions from Miss Kavanagh’s wages?”
Paul frowned.
“Household office, I assume.”
“You assume?”
“Normally those arrangements go through Mrs. Doyle.”
Victor opened the folder.
The first page stopped him.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he turned another page.
And another.
“What?” I asked.
He ignored me for a moment.
“Paul, close the door.”
Paul did.
Victor placed the file on the desk.
“Your brother borrowed thirty-two thousand.”
“I know.”
“He repaid eight thousand before you ever came here.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s written here.”
“Liam said he hadn’t paid anything.”
Victor glanced up.
“Apparently Liam didn’t tell you everything.”
A familiar ache settled inside my chest.
That sounded painfully believable.
Liam had been hiding things since the gambling began.
At first it was small.
A missed utility payment.
A borrowed hundred dollars.
Then five hundred.
Then excuses.
Then apologies.
Then another promise that this was the last time.
I loved my brother.
But loving someone did not make believing them easier.
Victor continued.
“The remaining balance should have been twenty-four thousand. You’ve personally paid eleven thousand eight hundred.”
My hands went cold.
“So I should owe twelve thousand two hundred.”
“Yes.”
“But the office says twenty-nine six.”
“I heard you.”
He turned the ledger around.
Someone had added service charges every two weeks.
Transport charges.
Processing charges.
Security charges.
Several categories I had never even heard of.
Paul stepped closer.
“I’ve never seen those.”
“Neither have I,” Victor said.
That statement frightened me in a completely different way.
Not because Victor sounded dangerous.
Because he sounded genuinely confused.
He closed the folder.
“Go home.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You’re exhausted.”
“I still have work.”
“No.”
“I need the hours.”
“You’ve worked enough hours to cover two weeks.”
My throat tightened.
“I can’t afford to lose—”
“You won’t.”
His voice softened.
“Your pay stays.”
I stared at him.
Victor Hayes did not have a reputation for generosity.
Then again, I had begun to realize his reputation might not be entirely accurate.
“Why?”
He looked at the folder.
“Because something happened under my roof that shouldn’t have happened.”
I stood.
“Is Liam in trouble?”
Victor looked up.
“For once, this isn’t about your brother.”
That should have been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
Paul escorted me through the hallway.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Doyle appeared.
She was a tall woman in her late fifties with silver-streaked hair and the posture of someone who considered slouching a moral failure.
Her gaze moved over my wrinkled uniform.
“Where have you been?”
“The study.”
Her expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Why?”
“Mr. Hayes asked me to clean.”
Paul stopped beside me.
“Miss Kavanagh is going home.”
Mrs. Doyle’s lips tightened.
“Her work isn’t complete.”
“Victor’s instructions.”
That ended the conversation.
But as I collected my coat from the staff room, I felt Mrs. Doyle watching me.
May you like
Not angrily.
Worriedly.
