That was the record. Most caretakers lasted exactly 72 hours inside the Graham estate before fleeing through its iron

By 5:00 AM, the rain had ceased, replaced by a pale, golden sunrise creeping over the horizon.

Three black private vans had already come and gone, silently removing all evidence of the midnight breach. The bedroom was being completely renovated by a specialized crew, and the estate was once again pristine, silent, and imposing.

Narin stood on the balcony of the library, holding a warm cup of tea. She was exhausted down to her bones, her sweater stained with dust, her hands slightly shaking as the final remnants of adrenaline left her system.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Not heavy combat boots, but the smooth, mechanical whir of Declan's chair.

Declan rolled onto the balcony beside her. He had changed into a clean white shirt, his hair dark and wet from a shower.

He looked at the rising sun, then turned his gaze to Narin.

"Rossi’s estate was raided by the FBI thirty minutes ago," Declan said quietly. "An anonymous tip gave them access to his offshore banking files and his arms smuggling manifests. He'll spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary."

Narin took a sip of her tea. "A very convenient anonymous tip."

"My legal team is exceptionally fast when motivated," Declan admitted, a faint smile playing on his lips. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, leather-bound document, setting it on the small marble table between them.

"What's that?" Narin asked.

"A contract," Declan said. "Your maid duties are officially terminated."

Narin’s heart sank slightly. She looked at him, trying to keep her voice professional. "I see. I'll pack my things."

"Read the contract, Narin," Declan said, his voice dropping into a rich, warm tone she had never heard before.

Narin opened the leather folder.

Position: Head of Estate Security and Personal Executive Adviser.

Salary: $500,000 annually, plus full health benefits, private housing on the estate grounds, and a ten percent equity share in Graham Logistics.

Narin stared at the numbers on the paper. She read them twice, then three times, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her from lack of sleep.

"Five hundred thousand..." she whispered, looking up at him in complete disbelief. "Mr. Graham... I'm a maid. I don't have a degree in security management."

"You outsmarted a syndicate commander, orchestrated a tactical night-ambush, saved my life twice, and did it all while making four thousand dollars a week," Declan said, reaching out and gently taking her hand. His fingers wrapped firmly around hers. "Degrees are useless, Narin. Instinct, loyalty, and courage are priceless."

He looked into her eyes, his icy blue gaze no longer cold, but filled with an intense, fierce warmth that made Narin’s breath catch in her throat.

"I spent three years sitting in the dark, waiting to die," Declan whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand. "You walked into my room, ignored my rage, swept up my broken glass, and turned the light back on. I am not letting you walk out of my life."

Narin looked down at their joined hands, feeling a wave of warmth spread through her chest—a feeling of safety, belonging, and something far deeper that had begun to bloom between them amidst the chaos and danger.

"Is this a order, Mr. Graham?" she asked softly, her gray eyes sparkling with a subtle, playful wit.

"It's a request, Narin," Declan replied softly. "From a man who desperately needs you by his side."