Chapter 8
The maid had removed her rumpled white apron, folding it neatly over her lap. Her black dress was still creased, but her delicate features radiated a fierce, protective warmth. As Damon entered, Clara immediately stood up, smoothing her skirt, her bright, expressive eyes darting to his face to read the outcome of the confrontation downstairs.
"Daddy!" Oliver cried, jumping out of the bed and running across the room.
Damon dropped to one knee, catching his son perfectly as the boy threw his small arms around his broad shoulders. He buried his face in Oliver's hair, closing his eyes tightly, inhaling the innocent scent of his child amidst a world of violence.
"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here," Damon murmured, his deep voice thick with emotion.
"Are you going to let Auntie Celeste come back, Daddy?" Oliver whispered, his voice trembling with the residual tension of the evening's chaos.
"Never," Damon said fiercely, pulling back to look directly into his son's eyes. "You are my entire world, Oliver. No one will ever hurt you or the people you love. The woman who lied to us is gone. She will never, ever step foot in this house again."
Oliver sniffled, nodding slowly as he accepted his father's absolute certainty. "Clara said you wouldn't let the bad lady hurt us."
Damon looked up. Clara was standing quietly by the armchair, her hands clasped together, her graceful posture a testament to her quiet strength. She had risked her life every day under Celeste's tyrannical reign, silently absorbing the abuse to remain close to the boy.
"Clara is very smart," Damon said softly, keeping his dark eyes locked on the beautiful maid. "And incredibly brave."
Damon stood up, gently lifting Oliver and placing him back onto the center of the massive bed. He pulled the heavy duvet up to his son’s chin, pressing a lingering, fiercely protective kiss to the boy's forehead.
"Try to sleep, Oliver," Damon said, his deep voice a soothing rumble. "I will be right outside the door, and my guards are watching the hallway. Nothing can get to you."
Once Oliver’s eyes began to droop with exhaustion, Damon gestured for Clara to follow him toward the adjacent private sitting room. They stepped through the archway, the heavy silk drapes muffling the sounds of the mansion. The natural, cinematic lighting of the sitting room highlighted the sheer exhaustion in Clara's delicate features. She kept her head slightly bowed, maintaining the submissive posture expected of a maid, but Damon stepped directly into her line of sight, forcing her to look up.
"Why didn't you come to me sooner, Clara?" Damon asked, his voice a low, controlled murmur. "When she started threatening you, why didn't you alert the guards?"
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Clara met his gaze, her expressive eyes shining with unshed tears. "Because I know what the Morrow alliance means to your syndicate, Mr. Ashford. If I complained, and I was wrong... I didn't want to be the reason you went to war over a servant."
"You risked your life," Damon stated, his jaw tightening. "She would not have hesitated to silence you permanently on that ladder."
