CHAPTER 3

FIONA ASHFORD POV

The ride to Gideon Mercer’s private estate was silent, save for the hum of the Maybach’s engine and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. I sat as far away from him as the spacious leather seat allowed, clutching my arms around my chest to stop my violent shivering. The car's heater was blasting, but the cold felt like it had settled deep inside my bones.

Beside me, Gideon was a quiet, imposing shadow. He didn't look at me once. He was on his phone, his thumbs moving across the screen with calm, terrifying efficiency. He was probably moving millions of dollars with a single tap, while I was sitting here wondering if my next meal would come from a prison cafeteria.

When the car finally stopped, the driver opened my door, shielding me with a massive umbrella as he guided me into the house.

To call Gideon's home a mansion was an understatement. It was a sprawling, modern architectural masterpiece of glass, dark steel, and warm wood. The foyer was vast, smelling of expensive polished floors and fresh lilies.

"Take Ms. Ashford to the study," Gideon ordered his housekeeper, his voice cutting through the quiet house. "And bring her a dry change of clothes."

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a massive leather armchair in Gideon’s private library, wrapped in a plush, oversized black bathrobe that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. A fire crackled in the hearth, finally thawing the numbness in my fingers.

The heavy double doors of the library pushed open, and Gideon walked in.

He had changed out of his wet overcoat. Now, he wore a simple black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing strong, vein-mapped wrists. He carried a crystal glass with amber liquid and a thick manila folder.

He didn't sit behind his massive mahogany desk. Instead, he walked over and stood right in front of my chair, looking down at me.

"You look less like a drowned street stray now," he observed, his voice entirely devoid of warmth.

I swallowed hard, pulling the robe tighter around myself. "Thank you for the clothes, Mr. Mercer."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, tossing the folder onto the small coffee table between us. It landed with a heavy thud. "In that folder is an employment contract. You will read it, and you will sign it."

I leaned forward, my damp hair falling over my shoulders as I opened the folder. My eyes scanned the legal jargon. "Personal Art Curator and Private Assistant to the Patriarch of the Mercer Group," I read aloud, my brow furrowing. "I don't understand. You think I destroyed your gallery's most valuable painting, yet you want to hire me to manage your private collection?"

"I know you didn't destroy it," Gideon said. He took a slow sip of his drink. "Julian is arrogant, but he is incredibly stupid. He thought he could mask his embezzlement by staging a vandalism and pinning it on his heartbroken fiancée. He didn't realize that I audit the gallery’s accounts personally every quarter. I knew he was stealing before he even set foot in that gallery tonight."

My jaw tightened. Anger, hot and fierce, flared up in my chest. "If you knew he was stealing, why did you let him frame me? Why let the police hunt me down?"

"Because I needed him to commit a crime so undeniable that his mother—my sister—could no longer beg me to bail him out," Gideon replied, his gray eyes darkening. "Julian has been a parasite on this family for too long. He needs to be cut off. Completely."

"And what am I to you? A pawn?"

"A witness," Gideon corrected, leaning down slightly, resting his hands on the armrests of my chair. He caged me in, his massive frame blocking out the light of the fireplace. "And my employee. The police are looking for you, Fiona. The moment you step outside my gates, you will be arrested. But under this roof, you are untouchable. I will have my lawyers stall the investigation, and in return, you will work for me."

My breath hitched. The sheer proximity of him was overwhelming. He was Julian’s uncle, but he didn't look or act like any uncle I had ever known. He was a predator in a high-end sweater, and I was entirely at his mercy.

"Why do you need me as an assistant?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Julian wants my seat at the head of the Mercer Group. He thinks he’s clever enough to take it," Gideon whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. "I want you by my side when I dismantle his ambition. I want him to see the woman he discarded holding the keys to the empire he desires."

It was a cold, ruthless plan. And it was exactly what Julian deserved.

"What are the terms?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Gideon didn't answer right away. He reached out, his long, blunt fingers brushing against my collarbone. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He caught a wet, stray lock of my hair that was plastered against the side of my neck and gently tucked it behind my ear. His fingers were warm against my cold skin, and the touch sent a shiver through me that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather outside.

"Rule number one," Gideon murmured, his thumb lightly grazing my jawline. "You belong to this house now. You do not leave without my permission. You do not speak to anyone outside this estate. And you certainly do not speak to my nephew."

"And rule number two?" I breathed, my eyes locked onto his.

He slowly pulled his hand back, his face hardening back into a mask of stone. "Remember who I am to you, Fiona. I am your boss. I am Julian’s uncle. Do not mistake my protection for weakness, and do not expect gentleness from me."

The boundary was clear, yet the heavy, thick tension lingering in the air between us screamed otherwise.

I looked down at the contract. If I signed this, I was tying myself to a dangerous man. But if I didn't, my life was over anyway. At least with Gideon, I had a chance to fight back.

I reached for the sleek silver pen resting on top of the folder. My hand shook slightly, but I gripped it firmly, pressing the tip to the signature line at the bottom of the page.

I signed my name in clear, elegant cursive, then slid the folder back across the table toward him.