Chapter 7
The warm golden light of the dining room felt intimately quiet now, the vast, luxurious space acting as a sanctuary rather than a stage. Benedict slowly stood up, keeping one powerful arm wrapped securely around Nolan, lifting the seven-year-old effortlessly against his hip. The boy rested his head on his father’s broad shoulder, his tears subsiding into exhausted, quiet hiccups.
Benedict turned his full, perceptive attention to the housemaid. Vera stood perfectly still in her sophisticated black maid dress. Her beautiful, heart-shaped face was pale, and her expressive brows were drawn together in a mixture of lingering fear and profound relief. She held her right hand delicately against her neatly tied white apron. The stark white medical bandage was a glaring anomaly against the polished, elegant uniform.
"May I see your hand, Vera?" Benedict asked, his deep voice carrying a rare, gentle cadence.
Vera hesitated, her fair, rosy skin flushing slightly under his intense scrutiny. She was acutely aware of the vast chasm in their social standing. He was a feared mafia boss; she was a servant who cleaned his marble columns and dusted his gilded mirrors. Yet, the way he looked at her held no arrogance, only a quiet, commanding respect.
"It's nothing, Mr. Hale. Just a bruise," Vera whispered, her American accent soft and melodic.
"Do you expect me to believe that a solid mahogany piano lid leaves only a bruise?" Benedict asked, taking a slow step toward her.
He didn't wait for her permission. With a shockingly gentle touch, he reached out with his left hand, the refined artistic tattoos with their generous negative space contrasting sharply against her pristine white cuffs. He carefully took her right wrist, supporting the weight of her injured hand.
Vera’s breath caught in her throat. His hands were incredibly warm, rough with callouses but profoundly steady.
"Did she lock the hinge before she slammed it?" Benedict asked, examining the thick layers of gauze wrapped around her knuckles.
"Yes, sir," Vera breathed, looking up into his incredibly handsome, angular face. "I saw her reach for the locking mechanism. That's why I knew it would fall free."
Benedict’s sharply defined jawline clenched, the extremely short stubble bristling as a fresh wave of cold fury washed over him at the thought of what Rosalind had intended to do to his son.
"Why did you not call for the guards, Vera?" Benedict asked, his eyes lifting from her bandaged hand to meet her gaze directly.
"There wasn't time, sir," Vera answered honestly, her expressive eyes wide and sincere. "If I had shouted, she still would have dropped it. I just had to put my hand in the way."
"Did you know it would break your fingers?" Benedict asked quietly.
"Yes," Vera whispered, a single, stray tear escaping her eye. "But his hands are so small. He needs them to play his music."
A profound silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken gratitude and a shifting dynamic that transcended employer and employee. Benedict stared at the beautiful woman who had sacrificed her own body to protect his child from a monster he had almost married.
"Shall we have the doctor look at this properly?" Benedict asked, releasing her wrist gently.
He reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. He didn't dial; he simply pressed a single button that connected directly to his head of security.
"Is Dr. Evans on the premises?" Benedict asked into the phone.
May you like
"He is in the west wing infirmary, Boss," the voice crackled back instantly.
"Will you send him to my private study immediately?" Benedict asked. He ended the call without waiting for an answer and looked back at Vera. "Will you follow me?"
