Chapter 4

Silas

I went through Beatrice's file last night and ran a standard background check. No red flags. No criminal record. Nothing scandalous tucked away. Just a few dead-end jobs, a local high school diploma, and a nearly invisible digital footprint. That alone made her stand out. No I*******m. No F******k. No selfies or filters. Just silence.

I didn't know what to expect when she stepped out of the car. But I damn sure wasn't expecting her.

She's simple, understated, but stunning. No designer handbag swinging off her shoulder. No false lashes or injected lips. She's just... real. And in a world of silicone curves and branded arrogance, that kind of authenticity hits harder than it should.

She thought I was judging her the moment I looked at her. I could see it in the way she shrank into herself, smoothing her clothes like they offended me. But if she only knew the truth, how refreshing it is to see a woman not built on labels and dollar signs. I wasn't put off by her tank top or her leggings. I was impressed she showed up with her chin held high, despite knowing she'd walk into a house like mine.

She's not the kind of woman I usually meet. Hell, not the kind of woman that ever ends up in front of me. When I took her hand, I meant to be polite. Maybe even a little charming. I'll admit, I flirt by default. But her skin was soft. Her hand was small and it fit into mine like it belonged there.

I wasn't prepared for it. Not the way her cheeks flushed. Not the way her eyes drifted down and away like she wasn't used to being looked at the way I was looking at her. She had my full attention and that, in itself, is rare.

As I lead her through the mansion, I catch myself doing something I rarely do. Slowing my pace.

I'm a fast walker, long strides, no patience. But with her beside me, I adjust without thinking. She's tiny. Five foot and maybe an inch or two more, if that. She barely reaches my chest, and every time I glance down, I'm reminded just how delicate she looks next to me.

My hand rests on the small of her back but I don't move it. I tell myself I'm just being polite. Guiding her. But that's a lie, and I know it. The truth is I just want my hands on her.

I'm not normally like this. I may be a flirt, but I keep a level of detachment, especially when it comes to work. But there's something about Beatrice that makes it hard to keep my distance. And the way she keeps fidgeting, trying not to show how overwhelmed she is by all of this. The house, me... it's endearing.

And then there's a scent. Soft. Vanilla. It clings to her skin, floats in the air every time she shifts beside me. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make my pulse race a little. Makes me want to lean in, just to breathe her in a second longer.

This interview is going to be a fucking nightmare. Not because she's underqualified but because I won't be able to focus. Not with her in front of me, all wide-eyed and nervous glances. Not with that mouth of hers that looks soft when she's biting into it trying to hide it. I should be thinking like a boss. But instead, I'm thinking like a man. One that's already too intrigued for his own good.

We step into my office. A space that's as much mine as my own skin. Sleek. Masculine. Designed with intention. Floor to ceiling windows let in long beams of light, washing over the deep wood tones and floors. The walls are lined with books I've actually read, shelves curated more by habit than show. At the center of it all sits my desk, massive, dark, and solid like the decisions made behind it. I spend too much of my time in here, but this is where business lives, and business never sleeps.

I gesture toward the leather chair across from mine and she moves toward it. I guide her gently, the same way you might guide a skittish doe into unfamiliar terrain. She perches on the edge of the seat, shoulders tight, hands resting in her lap.

I circle behind my desk, my eyes finding her before I've even settled into my chair. She's doing her best to look composed but the tension in her spine gives her away. Nervous. But she's brave enough to meet my stare and hold it.

I shouldn't, but my eyes drift downward.

C cup. Maybe a little more. Natural. The kind of curve you notice even when you're trying not to. I've been with too many women, because I can gauge that at a glance. I clench my jaw. I'm not about to let my instincts take the wheel during a fucking job interview. Even if my mouth waters just thinking about what's hidden under that thin tank top.

She doesn't notice. Or if she does, she hides it well. Still sitting straight, trying to look calm. I can see the storm brewing in her eyes. Doubt. Anxiety. It's cute. No... she's cute. And I need to remember why she's here. If I don't keep myself in check, this interview might go a very different direction than I intended.

I decide to start with easy questions, the ones meant to relax her, give her false sense of footing before I pull the rug from under her feet. I do enjoy making people uncomfortable, but I also need to see how she handles pressure. Working for me isn't just about scrubbing floors. It's about discretion, loyalty, and knowing how to keep your mouth shut when it matters most.

My last housekeeper knew how to smile sweet and lie smoother. She had one foot in this house and the other in someone else's pocket. Thought she could make extra money by feeding bits of intel. Names, meetings, routines, to people who had no business knowing anything about the Morgans.

Atticus handled it. He always does. She's no longer anyone's problem. Beatrice doesn't seem like that. She doesn't have that gleam in her eyes. No hunger for power, just hunger for something solid. She's desperate, but it's the kind that makes someone loyal, not dangerous. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

I clear my throat, refocusing. "So," I begin, leaning back slightly in my chair, arms folding loosely. "I see you don't have much experience with housekeeping."

She inhales slowly. "No sir," she says, voice soft but not shaky. "I mean, I've cleaned plenty... just not in a professional setting."

Sir.

Goddamn. She says it like it belongs in her mouth. Just a sweet, automatic response. There's something disarming about it, the way it rolls off her tongue. Innocent, untouched by the usual smirk or sass I'm used to.

I like shy and innocent. You don't get that in my world. My world is full of sharp-tongued women in sharp heels, who play games as if they're trying to win wars. But her? She's quiet. Unaware of the chaos she could cause if she tried.

I keep my tone measured. "How do you handle a cleaning schedule? Do you prefer structure, or flexibility?"

"I'd prefer if you told me what you'd like done, at least at first. But once I get the hang of things, I'll be fine. I work quickly and quietly. You won't even realize I'm here."

I raise a brow. Won't realize she's here? That's cute. Impossible, but cute.

I'll notice her. I'll notice the scent she carries when she walks past. The way her hips move when she thinks no one's looking. The faint curve of a smile when she's proud of herself. I'll notice it all. She's not the type to fade into the background, she just doesn't understand that. That could make her dangerous, or worse, distracting. And I don't need distractions. Not in this house. Not in my life.

After I've finished asking about the basic responsibilities, tasks, and structures, I shift gears.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk, fingers laced. "I host gatherings here. Meetings. Some formal, some... not so much. Are you able to keep what you see and hear to yourself?"

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "What people do behind closed doors is none of my business."

That earns her my first real smirk.

Every question I ask, she seems to grow more relaxed. Her voice gets steadier. There's no sugar coating. No fake charm. She's not trying to impress me. She's trying to survive.

And I know that look. I've seen it on the streets, in the eyes of people clawing their way up from nothing. It's the look of someone who doesn't expect to have anything handed to them but still shows up and tries anyway. There's a kind of quiet dignity in her, and I can't decide if that makes me respect her or want to ruin her. Maybe both.

She starts to shrink the moment I shift the questions toward her. Not the job, her. I can tell she hates talking about herself, probably not out of secrecy, but due to the fact that she doesn't think anyone's cared enough to ask.

That's just too damn bad, I need to know.

"Tell me about yourself."

She stumbles through it, giving me fragments, nothing concrete. She mainly talks about work. She's shy and uncertain, she doesn't think she has anything worth mentioning. But it's the way she says it, like she's apologizing for existing, that grabs me by the throat. No one has ever taught her how to brag about herself, or even believe she's worth more.

"What about family?"

I already know the answer. I've read the report. There's no father listed anywhere. Just her and her mother, barely scraping by. No siblings. But I'm not asking because I need her to inform me, I want to see if she lies. Even over something simple. Simple lies grow into intricate problems.

She hesitates for half a second, then answers, eyes down. "It's just my mom and me."

Not a lie. But not a story either.

She doesn't elaborate but I don't push. The emotion behind her words says enough. Something heavy is buried there. She carries herself like she's got the weight of the world on those small shoulders. It just confirms what I already knew. She's been fighting for a long time.

I tilt my head. "You're quiet."

She lets out a soft laugh. "I am," she says. "I usually talk when spoken to."

Polite. Reserved. Raised to stay small in a world that never gave her permission to take up space. I hum low in my throat, appreciating the honesty. "Would you open up once you're comfortable?"

She shrugs. "Most likely. I've never really had the chance to do that though."

Interesting.

That tells me more than a resume ever could. She doesn't just keep quiet, she's been conditioned to. Probably learned early that no one listened when she did talk. It makes something in me stir. Protective? Intrigued? I'm not used to women like her.

"Will you be okay with living somewhere isolated?"

She nods. "That'd be great, actually." A quick, sheepish smile flickers across her lips. "As you can probably tell, I'm not the biggest people person."

"You do seem shy. Is that your nerves or just how you are?"

She presses her lips together. "Maybe a little bit of both, honestly."

Fuck, she's sweet. But I want to know if there's a backbone beneath all that softness. It's not enough to just be obedient in this house. I need to know if she'll speak up when it counts.

"If someone made you uncomfortable... would you say something? Or stay quiet?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her brows knit together, considering. Good, she's not the type to just spit out what she thinks I want to hear.

"Well," she starts slowly. "I guess it would depend on what they do or say. At the end of the day, I know who I am and what I stand for."

That impresses me. It's not loud or defiant but there is steel beneath the softness. I give a small nod, lips pressed tight in approval. Still, the urge to protect rises up in me.

"If this works out," I say. "And anything, or anyone, makes you even slightly uncomfortable, you come to me. Understood?"

Her eyes meet mine. She smiles, small and polite. "Yes, sir."