Chapter 5
The heavy mahogany doors of the dining room closed silently behind them, cutting off the sounds of the staff beginning to clean the ruined engagement dinner. The sprawling corridors of the Westbrook mansion were bathed in the same bright, airy light, casting long shadows across the marble floors.
Harlan walked purposefully toward the grand staircase, his powerful shoulders squared. He didn't look back to ensure Anya was following; he knew she was. The soft, rhythmic click of her sensible maid shoes echoed slightly behind his heavy, polished leather footsteps.
"Are you in pain?" Harlan asked, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence without him turning his head.
"I am fine, Mr. Westbrook," Anya replied softly. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the tension of the evening was settling heavily into her slender figure.
"My private physician is waiting in the east wing," Harlan stated, a statement of fact rather than a suggestion. "Will you allow him to examine you before you retire for the evening?"
"That isn't necessary, sir," Anya protested mildly, uncomfortable with the idea of a mafia doctor treating hired help. "I did not consume enough of the wine to be in danger."
Harlan stopped at the base of the grand staircase. He turned slowly, his cold, perceptive eyes locking onto her delicate, oval face. The cinematic lighting highlighted the subtle, expressive lift of her brows and the genuine apprehension in her eyes.
"Is it?" Harlan asked softly.
He reached out with his right hand, the refined artistic tattoos standing out starkly against his fair, rosy skin. He didn't grab her; he simply held his hand out, palm up, in a silent request.
Anya hesitated for a fraction of a second. The physical proximity of the dangerous, deeply masculine boss was overwhelming. But she slowly extended her arm, placing her hand gently into his large, warm hand.
Harlan’s touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violent force she had seen him exert just minutes prior. He carefully inspected her hand, his thumb lightly brushing the edge of her crisp white cuff.
"You knew the risk," Harlan murmured, looking up from her hand to meet her eyes. "You knew the violence that would follow. Why did you speak the truth?"
Anya swallowed hard, her heart fluttering erratically under his intense scrutiny. "Because you were in danger, Mr. Westbrook. Nobody deserves to be poisoned in their own home. Especially not by family."
Harlan stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. The coldness in his perceptive eyes melted entirely, replaced by a profound, terrifying intensity. He was a man who ruled an empire built on fear and loyalty, and he had just witnessed an act of pure, unselfish courage from a woman who had absolutely nothing to gain.
"You are a remarkably brave woman, Anya," Harlan said quietly, his low voice wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. He gently released her hand. "Come. We need to secure the estate."
He turned and began climbing the stairs. Anya followed him, her heart pounding, realizing that her life had just irrevocably changed. She was no longer just a housemaid; she was the woman who had saved the king.
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The second floor of the mansion was deathly quiet, heavily soundproofed against the chaotic activity beginning to consume the lower levels. Harlan bypassed the master suite entirely and walked directly toward the heavy oak door of his private library.
He didn't knock. He pushed the door open silently.
